a little almost-person

From The Muse Jar—day 12 of turning your prompts into poetry

There is a version of me
I keep disappointing

she is braver
in my memory

prettier too

it almost makes sense

the way I survived
and still lost myself

the way the body
can keep breathing
while the soul steps quietly
out of frame

the way everyone says
you made it
and no one asks
which parts of you
were left behind

I keep expecting myself
to be who I was
as if she is only
in the next room

as if I could call her name
and hear her laugh
come back to me

whole

but I am not her anymore

I am something else now

a wisp
at the face
of a heavy wind

a little almost-person
with my edges
coming loose
as she blows into the dark

and maybe that is why
nothing quite makes sense

why the circle
keeps trying to close
but cannot

there is always a little gap
where the truth gets out
where the old pain
keeps breathing

where I keep pressing
my fingers to stop the bleeding
as if I can hold the shapes
of the past together

as if I can make
a clean story
out of my mess

why every ending
leaves one small door
unlatched

there are versions of us
we do not get back

only mourn

only thank

only leave flowers for
in the strange little graveyards
of our becoming

I am not who I was

I am not even sure
I am who I meant to be

I am unfinished
with my hands full
of all the selves
I could not save

I am not who I was
but I am learning
to hold the new me 

without asking her to explain
what happened to the old one.

This post was inspired by one of the prompts anonymously dropped into The Muse Jar. Thank you so much for the support!

The Muse Jar, a project where people submit something—a word, memory, smell, anything—and I randomly pick some to write a poem about.

If you would like to learn more about The Muse Jar, you can see the post below.

For Anyone Who Has Ever Wanted to Be Written About

If you would like to become a muse, you can submit here.

Photo by Tom Barrett on Unsplash