Poem: Return to Sender

I am going to sit
in the middle of myself.
Points belabored
noisy neighbors
people point and stare - so what?

I am going to sit on the stoop of my life,
perch and watch the people pass
smirk and hear the people laugh.
Tip toe up the stairs
to stare into my own windows
while I fold my laundry there.

The problem with composure
is that it is oftentimes misleading
and denies the self the bleeding
and while placating
leaves pleading - the soul.
Hungry, starving, compulsive
feeling clasped in hands - composed.

I'd rather riff the rage and
scat the storm.
I'd rather beat the drum and strum
the heartstrings
plucking plucking
fucking nerve it takes
to improvise.

Improvisation is
composition is
improvement is
composure.

I am going to square my shoulders and
circle myself.
Take me in and
size me up.
Why not>
Join the pity party
feeling partly like myself
feeling sorry for myself hardly
hardly, am myself.

Pretend. Perform. Perfect composure.

Expect, explain, accept.
Compost-like
bullshit, like
full of it
like pull your own shit.

I am going to roll my eyes and
suck my teeth and
give you all kinds of sass and stank.

And I might stand arms akimbo
feet pigeon-toed
rolling neck, "I told you so"s
and wagging perfect, pink-tipped finger.

I will allow myself the anger
and the confusion
the madness of angry woman
once-loving, once loved
to seep out my pores
oozing you, oozing at you.
Making you squeamish
so you can see this.
Me standing
staring
staking out my own self
trying to assess what ever is valuable inside.

All because you
made me stand outside myself
and question my plans
for my own design.
You led me through rooms of myself -
rearranged to your liking
and being a mutable sign
and an adventurer, wanderer
seeker, sister, lover -
I let you.

I let you
you hurt me
you left me
you learned me
you stopped.

BUT I LET YOU

I loosened my grip
on what I didn't want and you
began to step away.
half-heartedly I
followed you,
chasing in the end because really -
who likes to lose?

Know this:

You may have left and you may be gone
but before you walked out,
they were playing my song.
I packed up your things
and I bid you adieu
and just so we're clear
dear, it's not me
it's you.

But more importantly
I am walking proudly up the steps
to my front door
jangling my keys -
one set for me.

I am walking through
foyers, looking at furniture
needing to be put back in place
boxes unpacked
clutter undone.
Dusty windows
and burnt out bulbs
long forgotten
in the dim light of love.
Low, low light.

I am steeping tea
and playing Nina
ironically grinning at no one in particular.
Humming to myself, barefoot
in these rooms
to these walks
Ne me quitte pas
Ne me quitte pas.

I serenade myself
a song for me.
Song of myself
a welcome home ditty.

Ne me quitte pas.

And I promise me
that I won't sit outside myself
while someone rearranges me
ever again.

I will open the shutters
and pull up the shades.
I will use the china and
read the good Book.
I will feast to my own presence
smelling of jasmine
and glowing the color of honey.
I will embrace myself this day,
welcoming me home.