I woke up to the beat of
my leather-bound past, a compilation
of black ink scribbles, footnotes
in red-splash whispers.

in the beginning were
the writings of a child,
sweet doodles of little hearts
and rainbows and smiles.

i turn the page and repeat.
maybe in hopes of finding
myself, picking up the pieces
of me that i left on the pages
as i go.

i'm a grown woman now,
not necessarily mature.
there's a huge emptiness
to fill, i keep dropping my
limbs at every doorstep.

i guess the older you get
the emptier you feel.
or maybe that's just me.
i think i'm moving forward, yes,
but with my back on the future
never letting go of who once was.

where is the progression here?

still i put down my life
in writing, to have proof that i've
lived yesterday and the day before.
and i see now the handwriting of
a woman, strokes of passion,
sometimes lack thereof.
white out, cross out.
remixes of the mistakes,
omissions of some failures,
more or less.

i want hold that child again,
it's just that...

she doesn't know me anymore.

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