who am i underneath it all? underneath the poems and the sex. or before or after. help me—i’m hanging so far down. i birthed the word dangle, let the lank chain of it’s letters drop precarious from my hollow womb suspended in this body swinging, three fingers barely holding on the ledge.

i search for the familiar. names. words that hold the air in accents i remember. textures. laughter in my anonymous direction. i search for myself in the places i used to haunt, but they’ve moved on, the doors keep swinging when you’re gone, open close open close open open open even without you open open open . . . maybe the dust remembers, has more than heard my name, but would stir to the sound of my voice—what good is dust to return you to yourself? dust is just the ash and muck of the past. it’s nothing alive. give me a step by step guide. tell me what to do to rise up and into myself again. ask a question. scribble a line in chalk on any sidewalk or wall you think i’ll stagger by. i’ll listen. tell me you’ve got the answers. i’ll believe. push me. i won’t begrudge you my skinned knees.

in the interim, i stumble, search for familiar names, find pictures of people moving forward—am i the only one caught in this tide? the whiplash, the backsplash, the rewind button stuck, thrusting me, sucking me away from everything i’ve ever accomplished with myself. (don’t think i don’t know i did it. i’m no fool, even now. i’ll take responsibility for my failures—to my lovers, my friends, my family, my partner, my planet, my self. i created the stagnant pool i swim in. no one caused this inertia but me.)

the woman i am is looking for the woman i used to be and the woman i know i can be and a bridge between them and boot camp to kick my ass into getting over, under, around, and through all the obstacles (real and imagined) between the near side and the far. i’m on a treasure hunt, with an outdated map to the past and not a single useful clue to lead me to the bridge.

help me—i’m hanging so far down.