I Still Am

In the grey,
in the blank,
 and in the cracks between,
I am.
I still am.
And maybe right now there is no fire in my eyes,
there is no badass in my walk,  
alone on the outside,
and the in – 
there is only me.
You trimmed all the edges and frills away,
welded the will out of me, 
and polished me with your icy looks.
I closed off the doors
raised the walls and buried the tinsel and tiaras I used to decorate myself with,
before I found that joyful wasn’t proper.
And the laughing I did at my own expense to cajole you
stamped the dirt down tight,
smoothing it along with your ego,
until there was only a small mound to show the grave,
where the almost-me lies,
I am.
I still am.
No matter what words of yours I carried like concrete blocks on my shoulders,
so heavy I forgot how to walk looking forward,
how to stand straight.
I viewed the world from an orchestra pit,
while the main player cavorted on stage,
and practiced my apologies for the next scene over and over,
like praying a rosary…
Until there was nothing.
Until there was vapor when I looked in the mirror,
and you finally let go of that last string,
and let me float away…
I am.
I still am.
Despite your laughing admonition that I am nothing,
will stay nothing,
can be nothing,
without you.
Well, keep laughing motherfucker,
because no matter what you threw at me,
what you took,
what you stole,
I am still here.
I still am.
I still am and will be,
because even when you think I’m truly gone,
back into the (star)dust I came from,
my words,
my roots,
my fingerprints I left
pressed on to the glass windows of the world,
will someday stir,
and stretching up in a newborn summer,
I will unfold once again.
The wreckage you left me floating in
will become my foothold.
 Out of the cracks,
draped in tinsel and wearing a grubby tiara
I will dig my way out and throw the shovel away…
standing straight.
I am.
I am.
I still am.

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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