Me, Now. Me, Then.

I’m not sure I like who I am becoming.

I stare back at myself and I know that she

Wouldn’t like me now,

With my steely eyes and my strong arms and that

Rude smirk I do sometimes.

I’m like a tree with twisted branches

Contradictions singing in my leaves,
They grow golden and I let them go,

My limbs naked and raw

Pieces of me littered on the floor.

On Tuesday I sort through my wardrobe,

Most find their home in trash bags, plastic bricks in my wall

I lie in the middle. 

On Wednesday I go shopping and buy a costume for the 

Improved? Me.

Sometimes I romanticize the old me,

Who smiles doe-eyed and chubby through the screen.

Forgetting that she was slowly rotting,

Imploding

This anger flowing through the gaps in the wood.

She learns to fill the rotten hole, 

The sap, the life-blood begins to be washed away in the rain brought by winter.

The insects come and build their homes as the cold eases.

Winter creaks as she steps out of the old chair burdened and heavy,

She makes way for the innocence of spring.

My branches are reaching out.

They’re figuring it out and pushing out

Growing an excrescence which the leaves and the fruit and the flowers try to cover.

Birds come to peck at it, spreading their wings in the sunlight

Obnoxious in their own confidence.

I too am becoming obnoxious

The bees they come and tell me all that the birds are saying

And in the middle of summer,

The tree’s leaves begin not to wither in her fearsome heat,

But to burn.

Author's Note

please comment!

Reviews

[Ken e Bujold]

this is a damn good poem Olivia. Extremely polished, well laid out, and insightful. A real pleasure to read from a youngster: a great understanding of self, that includes so much more than the typical teen angst of bitter recriminations. I especially love your last verse "the bees come and tell me all that the birds are saying" is bloody marvelous.

Ken e

[mattavelli]

Hello, Olivia! :)
If these are teenaged thoughts, then you have a rough road ahead. Haha
We are absurd creatures, agents of culture, putting too much effort into making things easy. Culture is maddeningly loud, as volume brings attention, and attention gets rewarded. Culture is for simple minds. Don't feed it. Own your choices. Feed your dreams. And keep writing lovely poetry. This one really got me thinking. Thanks for sharing.