the witness

Witnessing intimate moments
I am reminded that such small gestures feed the souls of humanity

Like so many wretched mouths
With palms upturned and eyes that plead
For a glimpse of what is in this seemingly stark room.

Washing your lover's back gently
As he lies, confined in sickness,
These four walls contain the only truth that matters
And my own heart is healed for having witnessed this.

the optimist

optimism is extremely disarming.
instead of choosing to worry and to seek negativity,
the optimist's path is more noble.

he sees hope where others see only shadows
and finds beauty all around him,
especially where others see none.

i connected with him when we both admitted that there should be no guilty pleasures:
if you like unicorns, you should wear a shirt with a unicorn on it, and hang unicorn posters
on your wall, and apologize to no one.

he tells me that i am beautiful because of my scars, not despite them.
and admonished me gently for covering my mouth when i smiled
because he loves my crooked teeth.

he loves what others label "faults"
because those are the qualities that make us who we are;
therefore, we should embrace them.

i even saw the optimist laugh when i thought there would be no more humor in his world.
he danced while baking cupcakes in his kitchen, causing the room to fill with light
and my own sadness transformed into laughter.

he believes that the only moment we have is right now
so we might as well say "i love you" to the people we love
and stop being so afraid.

the optimist wants us to reach out from our loneliness because
there is nothing to lose
except our isolation.

Anxiety

I’ve never lived anywhere cool

Like Chicago,

New York,

Or a loft in San Francisco.

I wasn’t raised in Philly

Or brought up on the wrong side of the tracks in Detroit.

I’ve never been to Iceland,

Or Art School,

Or even to a decent rave.

I don’t knit my own scarves or crochet bikinis.

I don’t know how to solder,

Or construct corrugated cardboard coffee tables.

And when I flip through the pages of trendy magazines,

I feel anxious.

Apprehensive.

Less than adequate.

I wonder if I’ll ever live the kind of life I see in glossy print:

Urban Retro,

Shabby Chic,

Feminist Marxist.

If I could tolerate the bands they write about,

Or even find that cool hoodie

With the graphics of cassette tapes

In nineties-neon colors on a white background.

And this anxiety wells up inside me

When I think about how short life is,

And how I can never fill this void with

Super cute handmade monster sock toys,

Or kitschy stencils of birds and cherry blossoms.

Until I realize that I could bring back cool

In the form of Midwestern girls

Who are comfortable being themselves,

And wearing clothes they buy off racks,

And listening to bands people have actually heard of

And simply not giving a fuck.