Tabatha Wharton


{musings of an aging millennial trope}


{as originally read at the Dayton Poetry Slam on Sept. 2, 2018}

I think I am finally
figuratively of course ignore
those boxes in the corner that
have traveled through three moves now
and hear me when I say

I am finally unpacking
things in a way that allows some room
to breathe around and think about
the reasons why we accept some truths
but not others
how we shield ourselves from having
to excavate ourselves from the
broken-glass-bottom of the things
we’d rather left behind and the stories
we’ve told and retold ourselves in order
to get by

as it’s easier to decry the pain and the parceling of others as fiction than
to hold space for experiences that differ
from our own and to see that perception is
just that, not a fact but our own personal brand of fiction

and that the point of the healing is to
hold space for that which you do not know
to hear the suffering for what it is and not
to hold it in contempt against a standard of our own devising, no
we hear the cries and we guide, we guide
we carry each other along this path of life and all the winding ways it takes us
and the only goal
is to gently guide one another


  photo courtesy of Misfit & Co. Creatives

photo courtesy of Misfit & Co. Creatives