Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

I Me Mine

I have been reaching for other people’s words.
Frank’s
and Anne’s
and Mary’s.
They make their way on to the page
so easily
I forget they are not mine.
When I was sixteen and dancing for three hours a day,
words used to come to me all the time
like a flood,
a damn,
busted wide open.
They would spill out on to my page,
or napkin,
or whatever I had near me.
I would hear them in my head
when I walked down the school hallways
and later when I rode home in the back of my father’s Ford.
They were always with me,
my constant companions.
Now,
when I listen I hear nothing,
just the spin of my mind
revving over and over
like a car unable to get in to the right gear.
There are too many problems now
for me to listen to.
My mother,
father,
sister,
lover,
house,
dog.
I can’t hear myself think.
Or rather
I can’t stop myself from thinking
so I can just listen
to my words.
I remember the joy
of locking myself away
with pen and paper
and not coming out
till what was inside of me
found life on the page.
It was like an orgasm.
A relief.
A cleansing better than I could ever give myself
in the tub.
That relief kept me sane.
In touch with the present moment and myself.
It kept me grounded more than God
or my parents,
or any boyfriend ever could.
My words
were my salvation,
my oxygen,
my secret way out
by going in.
Lately I have been scared
to trust them
and they
in turn,
have vanished.
I do not blame them,
for abandoning me,
I abandoned them first.