7:32 p.m. - 12/31/03
[contrary to appearances, this is not a poem.]
maybe for the first time
in secret, telling no one.
refusing to let it be real.
very much in love and often
tears. reached out enough
(eventually) to speak my
first name and my address.
let people in again. then
cried some more. missed
the same people I still miss.
called home a hundred dozen times
hung up on those who didn't know me.
hung on (endlessly) to those who did.
watched the death of a golden girl
cast shadows I'd never seen before.
decided I'd rather show my love for her
in loss, than lose myself in response.
found Sara and held fast to her.
thrown from the IOP, believed in myself.
trusted myself with my life (sort of.)
dodged a therapist in need of therapy.
backed into working with the Superdoc,
who used his magic words and his ever-so
compassionate heart to more than make up for
seeing my parents and being a
stood fast against the disintegration
of my parents' relationship & their announcement of divorce
claimed my real name & started using it.
i'm a. sexual being. at least that's. what they're saying.^
survived [email protected]#$%^. got to see the contrast
of red, orange, turquoise, purple hair dye
against green trees. and green ponds.
went on many a bikeride. secured a punching bag.
became a playwright. met a darling, hyperactive dog.
swam through something-fishy and left
before I knew I had. met people
I'll never let go of so long as I love,
met myself, lost my grandma,
hated George Bush. (in part for not
recognizing the terrorism so prominent
in my life. for not caring.)
tried to fix everything for everyone.
tried to stop trying to fix
everything for everyone. (repeat.)
moved to the city. made a nook
to look like home. kept a journal.
kept going. free of 2003.
more in 2004. still alive for 2005.
a toast. a song. a wave.
come see my home with me;
I'm Mary Brave.
-the dear-beloved formerly known as chord
p.s. you will know my whereabouts, and you'll be welcome.
^slightly altered Winter Machine lyric
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