Translator: Hiroko Kawano Reviewer: Elena Crescia
We don't talk about going to rehab or getting too drunk after work.
Masters of hiding beer cans behind toolboxes,
slurring words to the grocery store clerk.
We don't talk about our sexuality unless it's on the straight and narrow.
We don't talk about it
because we're afraid of being scraped on the sidewalk by strangers,
who only know us by the hands we hold.
We don't talk about our mothers
and their bodies they have sacrificed for us.
We don't talk about those monsters who have invaded our bedrooms,
who have taken things that do not belong to them,
things that we've been saving.
We don't talk about the dark nights spent bent in front of a mirror,
blood dripping from our fingertips,
hurricane eyes swirling, raining from pain,
not knowing if we're crying from the cut or the rape.
We don't talk about these things.
We say, "Hi, how are you?"
"I'm great."
We roll up our sleeves.
We say, "Want to grab a drink?"
For me, poetry is therapy.
It is the way I live my life after trauma.
I let things go by putting them on the page and keeping them there
instead of ruminating inside my mind.
And after many years, I've realized that poetry has always been my therapy.
I remember as a child of being sent to timeout
because I was a very naughty kid.
I would rhyme words together to pass the time.
I used to write love songs for the boys who broke my heart in middle school.
When my family broke up
and life as I knew it was ripped away from me,
I wrote poetry.
When I was self-harming, I wrote poetry.
When I was recovering from self-harm and my scars were healing, I wrote poetry.
When I was taking way too many sleeping pills
in the darkest most oppressive state in my life, when I was in college ...
I wrote poetry.
It was the only way.
You see, there is an interconnectedness in the economy of words in my work
that serve as a bridge
from broken person
to beautiful mosaic of colors and emotions
that make me who I am today.
And healing through poetry goes beyond just words.
It moves into the world of mindfulness and breath.
When I write, I find a quiet place in my mind and in the physical world,
and I let myself just be.
I become grateful for my trauma,
for I am now creating art through hurt.
The line breaks in my poems remind me to breathe,
to take a moment and appreciate it for what it is
and what is yet to come.
I become so vulnerable as I stand before you
and I perform my work.
But that is truly the best part.
It is my hope to not only bring healing to those who share in my experiences
but to encourage those people to share their own soul,
to revel in their darkness to find their lights,
to create their own art through their hurt.
I encourage all of you to share your soul.
I encourage you to write love letters to yourself
through poetry, art, music - what have you, whatever your form is.
Now you know that my poetry is my therapy.
What will yours be?
The last poem I'm going to perform today is called "Sleeping in the Shower."
Getting out of bed today is hard.
To lift my head from my pillow, who swallows me only to spit me out.
The sun taps on my windowsill and says, "I am here. Come out and play."
I lean back into the mattress.
I fail today.
I convince myself I am not OK and I won't make it through.
There is daylight now, but all I see is blue.
So I go back to sleep, not a deep sleep but a catnap
full of bad dreams and ugly things that make me want to sleep more,
silently, alone.
My best friend calls me - ignore.
She will understand;
she has been where I am before.
But what I don't know is she needs me too,
how the sun needs me,
how the moon needs me,
how I need her more now than ever before.
So I throw my pillow on the ground, make myself stand up, toughen up,
go to the bathroom, get my spit cup, brush my teeth - haven't in days.
Because who would kiss me anyway?
I'm ugly, a failure, I've gained weight.
I can't count my fingers, I'm crying my eyes.
Who's talking?
Is this me?
Who are you?
I get in the shower but fall down cold, wet, shivering.
I hold the shampoo bottle for comfort,
but I am through with using the shampoo bottle for comfort.
Still I do.
Though my muscles are lean and I'm wired to move,
my brain tells me, "Don't do it."
I have a paper due, haven't started yet.
I told my professor I'm sick, and ...
it's true.
I feel like I'm lying anyway.
Regret is thick like a layer of milk from my drink in the sink two weeks ago.
Dishes aren't done.
I haven't been feeling well. Don't mind it.
My dad calls me every day at 3:00.
I practice what to say.
I can't have him worried about me.
He has too much going on already.
So I say, "I'm doing good. How about you?"
He says the same, so I worry about him.
What if he feels tired and heavy like I do too?
Thank you.
(Applause)