16
16 years of age
15 dollars an hour
14 hours a week
13 blocks to the bus stop
12 steps up to the door
11 is the time on the clock
10 creaks as I slink upstairs
9 snores escape my mother's room
8 years since my father left
7 is the size of my well worn shoes
6 blisters they have bestowed today
5 hours to sleep tonight
4 little sisters to wake up to tomorrow
3 empty bottles of wine in the bin
2 elastics in my unwashed hair
1 loaf of stale bread
0 time for dreams
Counting Down to Better Days
Twelve steps to recovery, eleven of them lies.
Ten desperate days bounded by nine sleepless nights.
Eight weeks past erasing seven years of memories.
Six heated arguments, five of them reconcilable.
Four times I fell and three times I rose.
Two paths to choose from.
One to move forward.
Zero excuses.
Sleepless
In the soft, amber twilight between lucidity and slumber lay my thoughts.
Words teasing and taunting
as I desperately try to sleep.
One, two, three.
I count to silence the thoughts
I seek so desperately during the day.
If only I could invent a way to transcribe
my thoughts as I lay in bed.
Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three.
Creativity surges through my body
like an electric flash.
All day, I search for that same surge.
If only I could plug into the half lucid mind.
I think about getting out a pencil.
Forty seven, forty eight, forty nine.
The minute I grab
a pen,
a pencil,
my phone,
anything to transcribe
what is coursing through my mind
the muses will scatter off on the coattails of a shooting star with a laugh at my misfortune.
Every night the torture continues.
I've tried silencing the voices with alcohol.
Seventy five, seventy six, seventy seven.
I'm so jealous of my husband's heavy breathing.
The silence is deafening.
Why must I bear this torture?
Vivid pictures dance through my head
asking to be released.
To be let into the world.
One hundred one, one hundred two, one hundred three.
Every night I tell myself the same lie,
I'll remember these brilliant ideas
and breathe them into life tomorrow.
Knowing the myth I'm telling.
Seeking the sweet solace of sleep.
One hundred fifteen, one hundred sixteen, one hundred seventeen.
My teeth hurt as I clench my jaw in desperation.
My back aches.
I contemplate getting up and writing.
Worrying I'll wake my slumbering partner.
I turn towards him and seek his warm hand.
One hundred thirty six, one hundred thirty seven, one hundred thirty eight, one hundred thirty…
And they're gone again.
Ghosts of my imagination to taunt me again.
Countdown
Twenty things I noticed first.
Nineteen minutes waiting for a ferry, growing interest.
Eighteen others, friends, new ones, old ones.
Seventeen small things, his smile, his interest.
Sixteen more minutes to the dock
Fifteen minutes spent excitedly exchanging books, ideas.
Fourteen previous crushes, pushed away.
Thirteen hours till we went home
Twelve others, laughing, teasing.
Eleven times thinking about how excited I was at first
Ten meetings, a connection, but something feels strange.
Nine doubts - was I being charmed, or was he charming?
Eight dismissals. I’m fine, he’s fine, I don’t need to think like that.
Seven days later, still high on happy emotions, but begining to see the cracks.
Six inconsistant feelings, thoughts, comments.
Five chapters of a book about the truth of Intuition
Four others, affirming doubts, offering reminders
Three compliments that seemed too sincere
Two choices
One action - what will happen?