I started trying to write a novel, to capture a story longer than a couple of mismatched, chaotic stanzas,
but God, I’ve been having too hard a time making it permanent, making character’s that I do not want to run from, or give up on, or get so attached to that I can no longer handle any association.
I guess that captures it,
captures that I am flighty
chronically fidgeting and keeping suit cases packed,
terrified of commitment, of both giving and receiving it.
afraid that by staying in one place, or on one topic, or with one person for too long, I will leave a small piece of myself there,
and maybe they will keep it, or maybe they will toss it aside,
just as I have with the plot developments that made my stories seem too real, too plausible, too mirrored by my own disheveled reflection.
I cannot keep moving ahead, refusing to turn back and collect the shards of glass that I never mean to give,
there is simply not enough left me of anymore.
Maybe it is time,
time to settle down,
stop writing stanzas and start writing paragraphs,
leave a mark much larger than four oceans of words no longer than my chin length hair and much less memorable,
so many have been left on me,
so many I could leave on those I allow close enough.
I think that I should be a blank slate, instead
do not let me leave a mark on you, for I refuse to accept one in return— f.g.a