It’s been 5 months since I picked up a pen and scribbled a line or two for a poem, or even an idea for a poem. No joke. So I made myself write something. Anything. This was the result:
Questions a poet asks herself as she changes her bedsheets
*modeled after Elena Georgiou’s “Questions In The Mind Of A Poet While She Washes Her Floors”
If I let people love me, will I learn to love?
How many more beds will I sleep on before finding one that fits?
Is home everywhere?
Is balance even possible?
How do you stop yourself from floating?
If I had lived in the Philippines and not the US, who would I be?
If I walk away now, would I hurt less?
When will I forgive myself?
If I ask the universe these questions, how many will be answered?