What You Might See When I Walk into the Room

WHAT YOU MIGHT SEE WHEN I WALK INTO THE ROOM

A woman who has confidence in finding truth.

Someone who can tell you her story and

it sounds like she’s rehearsed it many times.

A woman who thinks she’s self-aware but is

blocked by her own blinders, tired of her own

narrative but not sure how to stop the same

record from spinning.

You would see me, more calm than I’ve ever been.

The ache at bay and not so big as it used to be.

A somewhat cavalier, even healthy, loose-grip

on the expectations of every day and yet a fierce

driving force like a hundred horses underneath,

churning and galloping at full speed.

You would see a performer.

Someone that feels the temperature of the room

and responds elegantly to the nuances of form and perception.

Someone who appears at ease and excited to be

in company and yet exhausted underneath.

You would notice, if you’re careful,

the bluish tone underneath her eyes,

the ache of never having been held like she’d like to be held.

You might notice she ignores death.

When I walk into the room I will dazzle you

with my accomplishments and later will regret speaking at all.  

Later I will wish I had just listened and let go of this incessant

need to fill space, to define myself, to be known, liked, loved,

even perhaps envied.

When I walk into the room you will see a tired ballerina,

a body that used to dance but no longer believes in its own capacity.

You will see a woman, of 42 years, young and old simultaneously,

secure and healthy and adrift and falling apart.

If you look very closely you will see someone who has avoided

true intimacy her entire life.

Someone who thinks without having to think:

Why on earth would I want to do that?

Why on earth would I want to be truly seen?