Intimacy.....

I am having one of those days. Started fine, with a 3 hour hike in the desert with some folks from my gym - we saw a snoozing rattle snake, and then it rained on us hard, and then the wind was cold and when I got home at 10am, I spent most of the day on the couch, exhausted and spent and not sure if it was from the hike, or the bouncing blood sugar...and then I try to pull my self together to get some stuff thrown out of my over crowded apartment and I come up with one small bag of crap..how can this amount of stuff only net one small bag of crap? So then I get in my car to return the bendy straws we didn't use at Science Club last week only they don't DO refunds! There is nothing at the dollar store I need, trust me, I have a house full of stuff, and only one bag of crap and I don't NEED any more stuff...but I buy some tape, and a dress bag and some food containers.....I think arguing with the sales clerk was the only time I said anything out loud since 9am this morning on my hike

For some reason, this poem has been running through my head - it was used in a play I did 20 years ago...it was supposed to be mine to perform, but at the time, I didn't have the life experience to relate to it....I could do it alot better now....

Intimacy By Marge Piercy

Why does my life so often
feel like a slither of entrails
pouring from a would in my belly?
With both my hands I grasp
my wet guts, trying to force
them back in.

Why does my life
so often feel like a wild
black lake under the midnight
thunder where I am drowning,
waves crashing over my face
as I try to breathe.

Why
does my life feel like a war
I am fighting alone? Why are
you fighting me? Why aren’t
you with me? If I die this instant
will you be more content
with the morning news?
Will your coffee taste better?

I am not your fate.
I am not your government.
I am not your FBI. I am not
even your mother, not your father
or your nightmare or your health.
I am not a fence, not a wall.
I am not the law or the actuarial tables
of your insurance broker.

I am
a woman with my guts loose
in my hands, howling and it is not
because I committed hara-kiri.

I suggest either you cook me
or sew me back up. I suggest you walk
into my pain as into the breaking
waves of an ocean of blood, and either
we will both drown or we will
climb out together and walk away.