We all have them…some more numerous than others.

Some more tragic..

Some more like a family movie..

Some more with disguises to keep the questions away..

And some that make people question..

Sometimes the stories do not match up to the person we see standing in front of us..

And is that more of our illusions being dumped on another..

Or truth..?

Why do we bring out parts of our story out at..inconvenient times..?

And why do we tuck away in our coat pockets shredded tissues of the remnants of those stories..and why have they become lint in our pocket..

Does what happened to me as a child have any real bearing on this moment..

Or how much of it am I allowing to have bearing..

And why do some stories make you decide to never be like the story..

And why do we use the story to feed our addictions..and be just like the story before you..

Am I my story..?

Or is that what I use to keep me rigid in this description of me..

Are we all so determined to make value of our story…that it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy..

Or what..?

Am I just a mother..

Yet am I also a lover..

Am I a hard determined..balls to the walls employee..

Or am I the writer that screams at me hourly…put the damn pen to paper..

Am I a woman of a description..

Or has the events plagued upon the girl..created this girl..

So how much of my story am I..

And how do I daily..second my second..cement that in stone..

Today I look in the mirror..

One of the many days spent in reclusive introspection..

And this surge of electric anger causes me to flip off my image broadcasting itself to me..

I fight this story..

I claimed it as my own for too long..

And I did not write it..

Someone else did..

And I never signed off on it..

Kind of like my marriage I never wished to enter..

And would and did fail..

Not because of qualities non existent in me..


It was a story I was told to follow..

A plot I never agreed upon..

A relationship the farthest from real..

So now I base everything on it..

And say…I cannot succeed at relationships..

Does my story fit your description..

Or is it bleeding into other’s lines..

I am fearful..stomach clenching, pacing about the the tiger in the cage..

I am scared of this relationship failing..speaking words that are not mine..refusing my needs..and stating words that a 53 year old white woman, mother of four is supposed to say..

You know the words..

Devoid of passion..

Yet how I would love to curl this being around the definition of me that is writing these words on this page..

The one that creates..

Not the mother..not the wife..not just the lover..not the hard worker..nor the one who has waited in patience for decades and can now be in the dictionary as the definition of patience..

But the one I just flipped off in the mirror..

Because that is me..

The one hiding in the mirror..

And I just cracked the glass..



~ by HopeGlenn on March 10, 2017.

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