I called in to work tonight
because I was in bed with a fever,
my throat felt raw and I was
shivering, sweating, dizzy.
But then night came and I wished
more than anything I was at work.
Sometimes, I feel so alone
in this empty house that has
never really felt like a home.
I get scared and anxious and
can't wait for the sun to rise.
Next month, I will be
thirty-five years old
and I'm still not comfortable
in my own skin sometimes.
I have good days when
I feel comfortable and loved
and secure in who I am,
and then there are days
when I need help to
get to sleep~pills don't
work fast enough and
nobody sings a grown woman
lullabyes or rocks her
when the night feels scary,
like it will never end.
Sometimes I feel as if no one
"gets" who I am inside...
and I wonder if anyone
really ever will.
I have the curse
of the lonely writer.
Nobody ever understands
those of us who have to
turn to art to feel safe,
to find our homes.
