hope stillborn

I will not get the job. I am not

what they are looking for.

This is not to say I will not try: When I fall

I will fall forward

my fingers crooked to claws

trying to scrabble my away across the finish line

that always seems to be three inches

beyond my reach.

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i am not enough

my brain is broken

and i’ll just have to be okay in fractures

Fine Print:

I have become all that I ever feared:
old, and helpless, and without value in a society that believes in money, but not in Mothers.

Prate and preach about the sanctity of the hearth-fire and the home, and leave me no means to support either:
Snarl that I leech. Complain that I have nobody to blame but myself when there is no cash in coffer. Patronize when I go forth, children raised, into a world that wants thirty years of experience from a twenty-year old, Wants

the fifty-year-old to look twelve, Wants

all the experience in the world except for what you’ve paid decades of your life in learning.

 

Check Out Time

I can’t see that time right now, but I can see that time from here.

Mainly because there is no more hope, and I don’t even have the hope of hope left.

But I still can’t leave. I have to clean my life up as much as I can before I go, because nobody deserves the mess I’d leave if I left right now.

I suppose this means I need to make lists.

And find the motivation that my hope took when it left.

A Friend Like A Poem

I have a friend who is both hurricane and the calm center of the storm.

She’s the hearth-fire you want to come in and warm your hands with

and the inspiration that makes you want to catch fire, yourself

just knowing her makes it easy to believe you could shine forever, if only

you would reach out with even just one tentative motion