I’m  not sure when verbosity crept up on me. Was I always this wordy? Although I am capable of writing succinctly, it’s — shall we say — a challenge. Why use only ten words when I can use 100? Why write a 350-word article when i can flesh out my thoughts so much more effectively in 1,350? Perhaps the only place I’m good at being crisp is with these 3×5 cards, and then only because I run out of room!

[scs_alt]

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The first time I had my ears pieced, it was at the mall.

I’d convinced my mom, after months of wheedling, to let me do it now, in 6th grade, rather than waiting til I was fifteen. Everyone else was doing it! And pierced ears were so cool!

The girl put a dot in the center of each earlobe with a pen, then loaded the piercing gun with the earrings I’d picked out — tigers eye, to honor my cat.

POW! It stung like mad, but there, in the mirror, were my newly pierced ears. I was in the club.

[scs_alt]

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The bars started to angle in around 5th or 6th grade,

but it was age 13 when they slammed shut with a clang.

Worthy and Enough were the property of others.

Me, I was pitiful, a wretch, a pile of dirt.

No wonder I could barely deign to give myself a crust of bread

and a bowl of stagnant water.

It’s all the pathetic creature in the cage deserved,

I thought.

It was a long, slow climb out of the pit, but what I discovered,

as I clawed up the walls, was the better I fed her,

the more she felt she deserved it.

That’s how to feel enough.

[scs_alt]

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What went before,

what already was.

Pasted onto the past,

stapled to the walls

of your mind.

Unmovable

unchangeable.

Written on your body

in lines and scars

and aches and pains.

Or in triumph–

muscles that say

“I did that!” with pride.

Callouses on fingertips,

toes, heels.

Speed, dexterity,

born of hours of practice

already in the can.

A more flexible tongue,

piles of paintings,

a closet full of clothes,

all speaking of

what’s behind,

even while you dream

of what’s ahead.

[scs_alt]

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I used to believe

there was a right way,

and a wrong way,

a superior way,

and an inferior way

to do everything

that mattered.

Getting it right,

beng superior,

felt critically important

for reasons I can no longer

remember.

My teenaged self

would probably sneer at me

for giving up,

settling for good enough

when I could achieve

Olympic quality excellence.

What’s the point,

she’d say,

if you’re not at least

in the running

for a medal?

What can I say?

I have a lot more fun.

[scs_alt]

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