all that can't be left behind...

she's packing. in a week she'll no longer live here. boxes and belongings strewn all about in chaotic disarray.
she doesn't know what all this keeping's for. possessions held over in dusty attics all over town for some unknown future.
keeping things for the possibility she'll be needing them somewhere down the line. she'd rather give it all away. give it to people who know where they'll be. people who feel settled. rooted. have expectations beyond six months from now.

she feels the volatility of frustration racing through muscle and vein so that the body never feels still. conflict does not lie without but within. outside there is loving, hoping, smiling, striving, forgiveness, redemption. but inside, where the soul lies broken there is a whole other world... built with broken pieces that cut with their edges of unrest.

someone writes and says he wishes he could have her life... but he only sees what he wants, or perhaps needs, to see. only sees her frame. sees the keyboard. seeing the words. but not seeing her heart. the fragments...

not seeing her waking in the same state she fell asleep in, silently crying for something that she cannot have.
not the longing so strong it is physically nauseating. not the feeling of absence like a body spooning her as she fails to find rest. not the paralyzing homelessness. the searing loneliness. not the hours spent on her knees praying to find home. not the feeling of adriftness. to want to be anywhere but here. to want nothing but what she cannot have. not the emptiness felt when surrounded by people and experiencing nothing but being utterly alone. not the burden of feeling love, desire, want, need and having nowhere to put it. not the feeling apart.

she is writing. for every message of defiant, valiant hope sends there are many more that never get sent. that speak, cry, of hurt, loss, giving up. and if he does not see beyond her frame, the outside, it is because she edits. out of some kind of broken want and need to spare she writes only the good. the hope. the love. like a gift. every single word meant. but as if it cost nothing to believe.

and hidden, behind the lines, in truth, she lies amidst piles of unwanted belongings and, unedited, weeps...
for the arms she misses.
for mother she cannot ressurect.
for the child she may never birth.
for the intimacy she craves.
for the loss she bears like a wound that never gets to heal.
for the lie she wishes she could have back:
that she was safe in the arms of patience.
that she was found.

she is writing. pretending by all this giving she is anything but bereft.
she is packing. pretending by all this keeping that she believes in some kind of future. that she is anything but lost...

LB