Every day I go to war, and every day
I don’t come back. If you think I am
wandering, I’m letting you know I am
only lost. Dejected. This here is the
letter I am sending home. I am in no
way asking for sympathy; this is a road
I’ve paved myself trying to find my
way to you. You think I’m insincere
but I am nothing but terrified of the
way I feel when you are not around.
Separated for you, I am frozen in a
darkened room with my worst night
mares playing on loop. I need a little
safety but I’ve given up on comfort.
I have sculpted arrows out of words
and aimed to kill. I’ve set up camp in
the middle of a land mine and dug a
hollow grave for myself behind my
tent. Here lies a lousy writer. Faithful
daughter. Sister. Friend. Emotional tease.
Still in absolute awe of everything we
couldn’t be and everything we didn’t
know we were.
Was it not you who said that everything
was an art if you paid enough attention to
it? Well, I’m still in one piece and I
dub that my finest work.
I know I told you I wanted to grow but instead
I have grown de minimis. I need you to pick me up again. Lift me
higher. I’m in a mess again and it’s beautiful.
Disclaimer: The title of this poem is a line from Laura Cronk’s piece “The President’s Companion”.
Solecisms 