I miss being the self that I understood.

Here, muted in color and thought, I am often lost

in my own words, confused. Before

here, I could say things in any language

and rarely be misunderstood

because directness is imperative

when one is only present for a moment at a time.

This frustration of tongue, that

what I mean and what I say can possibly be two different things – i

feel myself slipping,

sinking backwards behind a reality of protocol and what is cool,

swimming in masques of politeness and belonging.


I was so excited for April this year – this time, I was sure, with working internet and everything, I would be able to finally participate in the blogging world’s National Poem Writing Month. 30 poems in 30 days.

Then I got sick on April 1 and have been sick since then. Since my very limited energy has been largely devoted to schoolwork, I have had little to no interest in trying to construct any sort of worthwhile writing whatsoever. (Hopefully I will get it together before the paper I have to write this weekend)

So, it is with much sadness and as much grace as I can muster, I must withhold my participation from NaPoWriMo this year.