Meah Enya Brooks
So many journals bought, so many thrown away,
less than halfway, constantly changing purpose,
so many pages ripped out before I call it a day.
In the end it’s such a waste of paper, it’s surplus,
it’s finished before it’s even begun, it’s a way
of feigning plans, planning, busyness, business,
structure, surprise, moments, ideas, relevancy, living.
This torn up, tied up, tired paper among this mess,
among this mass of stifling air is so unforgiving,
it’s a lessening space, in which I’m now a guest
overstaying my welcome – this room doesn’t feel
like my home anymore. It feels like what it actually
is: an extension, not floating, not cut off, but real,
attached, only faux mine, a room where I habitually
remove my limbs and my torso to look at the ceiling.
Not even this room holds me anymore. I was wrong
to think this space was immune from becoming just
another place I don’t feel welcome or safe or strong.
And all these unfinished journals tickled with dust
refuse to be my sanctuary, but I guess I’m not too fussed –
I surely won’t be in this room much longer.