hideawaytgr

It's almost your birthday again, dear
It's almost mine too, but then that was where it began, wasnt it?
Two girls born in the same month
I small, shy and introspective
and you loud, raped and brilliant.

Your fuel prodded my spark to flame
Your passion ignited me to blaze
and up and around we spaced out, but always there
leading off into the unknown
for all we knew an eternity of short yellow lines
showing up just when we thought they werent there anymore.

Your tongue got pierced, your child aborted
You screamed with indignation, abandoned makeup
embraced womyn, and overt feminism.
Rallies and protests, i sat at home
Brown wooden desks varnished to a dull shine
We never went to the poetry reading
you feeding off the shouts of other women's indignation
we never went back to that mall
to buy that yellow peasant top to match
with red and blue embroidered flowers
on the neck.

The yellow lines few and far between, but every time i thought they'd gone
you'd spark back in to my life
the white cordless phone (that i chewed the entennae off of)
ringing, insistently, you calling when you knew
my mother wasnt home
to tell you i wasnt available.
I was always available, dear, i was always there.

3am and me pouring my soul out in poetry about rose colored lenses
your powder pink referring to these same lenses
our views, the shiny things in life.
And passionately you would confess what I never dared think you'd say
Atheism and overtness
no more pacifism and acceptance
no more faith in a god that stood idly by
as people, and words, sharp as daggers made a difference.

You captured attention, but did you ever change anything
Reading me self evident as i was fifteen.
I reading barrett and eliot and vonnegut
A fantasy weaving around me
Romanticism and stolen kisses and shy smiles and
what does that look mean, noara?
what does that mean?
what are you telling me as i sit here
listening to you quoting
about america's big dick in another people's desert
about abortion and bigotry and small minded
big hearted romantics
like me.

And Did i ever, small, and waist length haired bother you?
Did i ever say anything that made you stop
reciting poetry about propoganda
making yourself queen propagandist
and i smirked, and listened as long as i saw that yellow line
three hours i would watch it
and six months it was gone
as you lived a grown up-angry life
raging against the weaknesses of your own corrupt humanity

And i remember though you loved me
liquid blue eyes
and blonde no its black now hair
brushing your round, mothering shoulders
swirling around your brilliant, acclaimed scholar's skull
All the pink traded in for uniform black
and bondage pants
black boots and eyeliner
before you raged against makeup and the compulsion to wear it
before you gained thirty pounds and said love me who i am
like it was a challenge

And you didnt have to strip yourself bare for me to see you
you didnt have to strike against your beauty for me to see
the ugliness you carried inside you tight
like a barrel slammed shut and water sealed.
I remember when you lost your virginity the second time
throwing away the promise ring you had at fifteen
and a sixteen year old walked off the stage
and the curtain closed, deep red velvet, and threadbare
on a performance you never gave
not fully at least
(not fully at least)

And this is more about you than Me
My confusion apparent, nose wrinkled and face swarthy
loud voices not silencing the murmur of your disquiet
and every one saying they were glad you went home
but i dont know that you did, dont know that you do
find home without voice
Shutters blue and closed, on all the orifices of the house
no noise escapes, none goes in
everything is spaced out, evenly, and long
and there are no more yellow lines in my road.

I had a decent birthday.
But thats the end of that.
Thank you to those who wished me a happy birthday.