I will now become June.

I feel as if I always backtrack and find little pieces, nuggets if you will, or myself.  Not metaphorically, or as in the cliche’…but as in, I have dropped off small parts of myself, little stories, either purposedly or unwillingly, along the road.  I have somehow forgotten these small fractions, flakes, morsels, shreds, snacks, portions ever belonged to me.  I happen back across these small secrets, folktales, rumors as I would a small, dead squirrel on the highway.  Its as if they are something I don’t remember, have no connection with, never gave a damn about before, but in this unexpected route of discovery and coming-across, I suddenly find emotion brought to my head and face so fast that I am at once dizzy and melancholy.  At the same time, there is joy as if I just found a fifty in my wool coat while going through the hall closet in November.  Only there is nothing romantic about November.  Or maybe that fits.  Except, I feel slightly romantic.

I can hear thunder. Right now.  It feels fabulous.  Its cracks and its pops.  I feel the cracks; I am cracking.  I’m chipping away at this person I’ve accidently built.  This person I never set out to meet, don’t remember exchanging pleasanties with in the market.  Where did we come across one another?  When did this aquaintance start? I don’t know where or when or who to adhere this blame.  I’ve filed it under lost for the past few years.  I feel as if I am unzipping my luggage after an extended trip, and suddenly my waredrobe no longer fits the lifestyle of my home. 

I’ve lost my friends.  I’ve been a bad friends.  I’ve been a good friend.  I’ve lost both.  Sometimes it was my fault, but sometimes not.  I cannot take the blame for everything that has happened.  I am also not guiltless.  This I know.

I’ve stopped writing.  I know who took it from me, but also, didn’t I just give it away?  Made the theft easy, almost as if I felt like I no longer need this small part of myself? He shouldn’t have had the power to remove it from me.  It should have been etched deeper into my tablet, into my slate, my register.  I handed it over like I did my Lisa Frank pencil to a classmate in kindergarten.  That kid sharpened it down to the eraser, so did this kid with my writing.  There may be nothing left by a nub and an eraser, no lovely pictures still dancing down the side, but I have found it and I will take it back.  I will use it; I will write with it.  Just like I did with that damn unicorn pencil.