canyons

1.31.17 

*an early draft… many revisions to come*

Ok, so here’s the deal. I’m 16 and my body is gangly and I keep waiting to see if my breasts will swell to anything more than ant hills and I met this man, this wonderful, sweet man willing to love me up as my world was still smoking from exploding for so many years. Too many years really. So he swept in and helped put glue on the cracks he could find, but it turned out there were too many cracks, most of which were more like canyons carving their way through my young body, and we got lost in all of them. 

 

And then suddenly I’m 22 and my world is still smoking. And I find myself meeting another sweet man wanting to get so close. He says he loves me right from the beginning and oh please, can’t I just let him in? He brings promises of building bridges over those canyons, he wants to build them he swears. So we get to work, or so I think. But soon the canyons swell with rivers threatening to flood everything around me and he forgets all about the bridges and I watch as so many more pieces of me keep floating away.

 

So here we are now and I’m nearing 37. I’m trying hard, so damn hard, to really own my geography – with all the steep cliffs lining canyons, river beds parched nearly dry. They are all part of me, flow through me softly now, because I haven’t let anyone get too close for so long. So now I am tiptoeing towards 37 and I am trying to soften my leathering skin, being awed by the parched canyon floors that snake through every nook of my body, lined with dust-covered bones collected of the men who’ve come too close. I want the sharp steep edges to soften like sand tossed around the sea floor for centuries. Because it feels like my life has been exploding for so many years that I should be made of the softest, finest grains that draw you in – you sweet, sweet man …

 

© 2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

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