Depending on the light of the day
streaming in from my window,
I am insecure or full of doubt.
If it is Fall, right around the time
of my birthday, September nineteenth,
I come alive. I smell hope in the grass.
I feel the love in the universe; how the
leaves alone fill up my emptiness,
the sunsets turn everything gold,
the walks with my dog complete me.
Sometimes, my dog is the only one
who knows what I need. He reads me
better than any man ever could.
How silly, you think. Why don’t you ever
talk to me the way you talk to the dog?
I keep it locked up in my fancy notebooks,
my indie music, my art acquisitions,
my loyal lover. Nobody knows it’s me,
I fool everyone with dark eye-shadow
and midnight poetry rants. I can even fool
myself about the seasons and how they
strum out my life. I know it’s not me.
It’s trouble that follows me in your name.
I am worrying about all the time on my
hands. I am worrying about the stains
on my shirt that do not come off.
I am worrying that my children are
leaving me so soon. I am not ready
to let go of anyone. I have to breathe
deep and open my arms wide to
lesbians, gays, acrobats, lovers,
husbands, wives, and put up the chains
to mean girls, and men that want to
eat up my inspiration with charm.
I know it’s all you.
I finally get it.
It took me forty-eight years
but I figured it out.
It is never too late
to love yourself.
Christina Strigas blogs at You can’t break up with a soul mate