My Romance

This is another teenage poem/spoken word piece, in which I was trying to portray
what I now know is called “intrusive thoughts,” a symptom of
PTSD, depression and anxiety, among other conditions.

Tonight I begin a new love affair.

I have prepared for the first of many encounters

Elaborately, indulging in every detail—

         while putting the nagging tape recorder

         on pause.

In my room I sit in front of a mirror.

I toss and shake my Medusa locks in my hands.

I try to desire what I see before me—

         as I turn off the VCR before it runs a

         ugly picture on the screen.

I am freshly bathed; I wear a satin robe of ebony.

It caresses me like a teasing feather.

I spin a cocoon of scents around me,

Tracing my throat and arms with fragrance.

I lace the air with a burning wand of jasmine.

I float into my fresh sheets and listen for sweet nothings,

determined to hear a lover's voice whisper in my ear:

You're beautiful. . .

I love your mind. . .

You have such a pretty face. . .

You're a oddball. . .

Hold on, I thought the tape recorder was turned off.

Now. . .

Remember the time you took a dip in the Mississippi? It was so much fun.

Remember when you first really made love? It was so intense.

Remember when the babysitter hit you in the eye with his belt? It was so
painful—

STOP the VCR, please!

With a sigh, I reach for a book on my nightstand;

I curl up with Anne Rice in my hands.

She will be my bedmate tonight—

Instead of myself.

I want to hear my voice, but the tape recorder plays

remembered derisions.

I want to see my soul, but the VCR plays

tapes of trauma across my eyes.

I am still committed to the relationship,

but loving myself is going to be such a rocky romance.