The Drawer

The old Victorian house had been vacant since my Parents sold it to the Bank, and we had moved away.
Two years later, I lied.
I asked my parents if I could return to the town where I grew up, to visit a friend that I missed.

My Father drove me to my friend's house, and made plans to pick me up a few hours later. I stood at the curb and watched his green pickup until it was no longer visible.

I began walking to MY house.
Like two old friends, we both sighed at our long awaited reunion.
I boldly walked up to the front door of the now, long vacant house which forbade trespassers. Suprisingly, the knob turned. I had not expected this to be so easy. I pushed the door open, and slipped quietly inside.

Mom? Dad?
I could almost touch the past. The old house was void of furniture, but bursting with memories.

You are mine
You are mine

I am alone

I wandered through the house which coveted all of my childhood memories. I peeked around all of the corners at the best hide and seek places. I was looking for that lost part of me. The piece that remained.

I entered my bedroom. Peach walls. My Mother painted my room while I was in school one day. She began to stencil my name across the corner.
A L I C E M A R
that is where she stopped. She never finished "Marie".
I don't know why. She must have been caught up in life. It's funny. I won't leave a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle until it's finished, but she could not finish painting my name. It was only two letters. I traced my fingers over my name. I did not feel complete.

Where was the rest of me?

They had left my desk. It rested against the wall.
My parents reasoned that it was a piece of junk, and that we didn't need to take it with us. My hand slid across the desk top. (A Dreamer's base)
I began opening the drawers. They revealed only emptyness. A longing for me.

Except the top right drawer.
It held fast it's secrets. It would not budge.

I made several attempts to open the drawer,
but could not.

I decided it was time to leave, and meet my Father.

That was the last time, I stood inside my house.
The old victorian was torn down that year.
The Bank desired a parking lot.

I often wonder, about the drawer and it's contents.
I will never know.

But I think it was that piece of me.
That yearning.
That gift.
That stubborn litte girl
Who refused to budge
And grew up with poetry
inside her right pocket

Take me home, I whisper to her

and she opens her top right drawer,
Takes out a pen and her journal
and begins to write...

A L I C E M A R... I E

Life, in Moments

A few sentences to describe myself? I am a keen ball of perception.
A glass oracle.
Anticipation’s half muse.
I have kept myself away from full stream. I have chosen to set my table for one.
I am a mere moment. The flash of a woman’s full face, and a glimpse of blonde.
I am an island.

Childhood held my innocent imagination. I found animation and life in inanimate realms. I gathered in the stars at night, like fire flies.
My first love was the dark sky
Where I impaled my newborn dreams among the stars.

I learned not to need. That disappointment was abundant,
that trust was as illusive as a glass of water.
The family I had was more than dysfunctional.
The neighbors were more acceptable. I was often pawned off to them.
Within their hands, my little body was abused.
These were the same soft, aging hands that held mine.
My youthful mind immersed itself within the secret.
A great oak of sadness,
My dreams carved out for me, a boat… and into puberty I set sail,
Alone.

I no longer owned my body. It was merely a coating, a sponge.
One could have dove forever into my blue eyes without fear of spinal injury.
But, no one looked.
Not even once.

There were two of me. Not personalities. There was my body… and my Mind.
They were split in half. Often, I walked around in just my mind.
(I still do)

I wrote poetry. I wrote and wrote. I wrote and I wrote poetry. Poetry.
Everything was poetic. Every moment, surreal.
The others, they were all learning Algebra and Biology,
while poetry sat by my side, whispering it’s longings to me.
I became poetry.

My body grew defiantly. It spit up it’s rage. It howled for it’s innocence.
My body changed. It stretched it’s skin. It would not release it’s passion.
It screamed for retaliation. My body set forth on it’s own journey.
I still get postcards, from various parts of my body.
But there is never a return address.

I live in moments, now. They are all gone, all of them.
Those hands, Those stares that impaled my thoughts into the wallpaper.
How light can get lost and move across the room, with time. And my Family, as well, the Shrugging indifference.
I tell them it is ok.
I tell them that the years cast by
And the world is full of marbles, and circles.
I am merely a borrowed glass aggie.
I am no one’s child now.

Still, I seek love.
Poetical Moments, of laughter… escape.
This is my own Embrace. I am an Opal on Fire.
Love is alive, and winding.
Run to me, Run to me, Run to me. Don’t make me long for you.
I let my body join me. This becomes everything.
Everything.
Delving into me, I am living.
And hands that covet mine,
And touch, the feel of it.

You would ask, how can Moments mean anything.
They are only Hours, together. They aren’t stalwart and stone.
How can true longings
Be filled by love, in mere segments of time?

How can this ever be enough?

It was not your eyes, which harbored tears…
It was your filling cup, overdrawn

Understand until this time, I have never sailed to anyone.
And I truly sense…

I shall live in these rare moments,
more than I shall EVER live my life.