For those of you that don’t know, I do spoken word poetry. (slam poetry) I haven’t gotten to write in a hot minute and now I’m back at it. You don’t have to like it, but it’s who I am. I hope you do though. 💖 this piece is called “Follow Up.” It’s about the aftermath of my recent failed relationship.
It’s been about 600 hours, I think, but I was never a mathematician.
Obviously so because I thought you, plus me, equaled stained glass in a beautiful cathedral, the hymns with organ twang that made you feel like my southern baptist, fire and brimstone home. But remember, I’m not a mathematician.
Not only am i not a mathematician, but I am not a scientist. I do not have the answers to the chemical components that make up the brain. The chemical components that made me forget how to use my fucking brain when I met you. No amounts of neurons and transmission and dopamine could ever make me forget the way you graced my face with your callouses and kept my lips in a constant quiver. But I am not a scientist.
Not only am I not a mathematician or a scientist, I am not a witch doctor. I cannot voodoo you into picking the doll fashioned to look like me again. I cannot sacrifice anymore of myself to make you believe that I am good, I am compassionate, I am serene, I am gasoline, I am combustible and believable and.. I am a fucking bonfire. I could stick needles in a doll of you, but the face changed from yours to mine in a matter of seconds and I am only stabbing my own eyes so I can no longer see those messages and picture your body giving what has, for so long, been our own ocean wave. But I am not a witch doctor.
There are so many things that I am not, but the thing I am can be summed up in this: I am too much. I am too loving, too open, too sarcastic, too soft, too big, too far, too depressed or anxious or too perfect or imperfect or too.. authentic.
So no, I am not numbers, chemicals, or spirituality. I am not a spreadsheet, a hallelujah in white pill form, not the prayer of a small child who hasn’t yet understood that religion and reality don’t sync..
But I am a poet, and these words will pour until there is none of you left in my blood.