i've decided i'm alone in my skin.
the reclusive chord in me is ringing
E flat.

i wonder now,
as i sit slumped in my chair,
riveted in coy conversation,
whether nor not i'm truly living.
they say i am, and all is well.
they say the world is round, and all believe.
how did we get to be this way?
was it all so simple?
once, i felt that i could swim from here to china,
take a ferry, and ford my way across.
i was wrong.
i found boats don't move well in the mud,
and feet are usually weighted down
while trapped in cement.

i'm void.
not entirely so,
for my holes have been filled
with paper weights.

i want a pet rock.
i want to see it grow.
i want to hear the tales
of what it is to forever be cold,
and distant, and solid.
i want to be a building
that can withstand hurricanes.
i want so many things,
and so many things want me.

how is it then that
i've come to be the girl called raz?
rachelle. raggy.
there are so many wormtongues and
i'm still at a loss.

what is loss?
that would insinuate that we own anything,
which is futile and a blatant lie.
i can't own anything.
i can't even collar myself.

i could be a slave...
i could be a Queen, a King.
i could be an emperor and own new clothes.
but I will never be allowed out,
i'll always be under house arrest.
a captive.
a prisoner of war.
for it would take bulldozers
to break me away
from the blatant obligations
i've relented to.

09/04/2003

Author's Note: this wasn't supposed to be a poem. i don't know why it is. it's actually a letter, but... eh. too late now.

Posted on 09/04/2003
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe