You Come to My Door

You and your guitar,
You and your music,
If only they knew me.

I am a child.
I am sad and disjointed;
Small and lost
Because I don’t have someone
To guide me,
Or tell me what to do.
I cannot form real thoughts
(Just crappy sentences
Says the adult beside me.)
I have read the words on the page,
And I love them
Because I cannot form real thought,
And I am crappy.v
Strange and beautiful women*
And words and words.

And this is here and this is now
And all I want
Is one conversation.

I am a child.
My eyes are wide,
My heart is hurting,
My hands are small and my feet are cold.
There is something somewhere,
That I should learn to do
But there is no one here to guide me.

I am a phantom
Because I am static here,
And I have no intention of leaving.
I am beautiful to you,
And invisible to you,
And I am transcending.

I am Victorian,
And I think it all the time
When I see my body in the mirror.
I am a heroine and a muse for someone else.
(My breasts would fill your hands
And they are supple.)

You come to my door:
There are roses that fill the window
Right before you enter.

I am Métis
Because I am cultivating
And my love for you is natural
And I am real.

I am Métis:
I am indigenous
And I am free and spirited
And I am terrored by this culture.

I am romantic,
With fashioned, weathered hands
And naked limbs beneath me
(And I am sad).

You come to my door
And take my street away,
And you leave.

I become iconic:
Unreal, untouched, unknowing
And hounded by the things
That tie me to this place.

“Always writing these silly words
And I won’t have a thing to say
Until you go.”

You'll hand me poetry and I'll take it
Because that’s just what I wanted.

You come to my door,
And I am gone.
(You never were a real good lover),
And I am gone.


*Reference to Katherine Mansfield’s Bliss.