A poem on girlhood and womanhood

It is harder to write when I am content.

My favorite words are complaints and sorrows etched into hand-pressed paper.

Pocket journal lying on the nightstand,
which I reach for instead
to jot the fantasies my mind conjures
while my head rests on the golden linens
before they evaporate into the early morning.

Beams of white-yellow heat squeeze through the gaps in the blinds,
night-light still aglow,
out of habit and appreciation for a well-curated ambiance,
for I am no longer afraid to be alone in this house —
alone in my mind.

It feels familiar now.

This empty house is my home.

I am never really alone, after all.

The glow-in-the-dark stars on the bedroom ceiling remind me of her.
The little girl
alone
and unsure why —
she hadn’t grown accustomed to it yet.

Decades have come and gone, and she is learning to accept the alone-ness.

Isn’t it funny how sometimes alone feels scary
but other times it feels safe?

It first felt safe when she sat in the bedroom corner,
bathed in summer light
and wept over a misunderstood phrase
her grandfather had uttered.

It felt safe every time her bare feet
smacked the pavement,
grass,
wood chips,
and carried her up into the tunnel slide,
a sanctuary from the shame.

It felt safe in the basement with the boombox,
CD spinning, electrical currents pushing
vibrations from the speakers
while her eyelids pushed out tears.

It felt safe in the empty stairwell,
where the deafening roar of the cafeteria felt far away —
the bullies would not find her there.

It felt safe when she made him leave
after two long years of becoming smaller
so he could become a bigger monster.

And it feels safe now.

Sitting in the corner of my room,
looking out at
the pieces of her,
the pieces of me.

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