A tarot reader in New Orleans once said to me:
“He will come.”
And I hold onto that dying truth
Like the last shards of a broken version of myself
When I cry myself to sleep.
I am sure I have put myself back together again
But there seems to have been a missing piece
Although I have searched
Through fog and dust and tears and blood
I can’t find it
I just keep looking
And I’ll keep waiting,
Until he shows up
On my doorstep
With ice cream and coloring books.
I used to color in the psych wards
Even though it was against the rules
They let me fingerpaint
That one time when I had escaped my reality
Even though images of my death
I felt somehow more at peace than ever
When I gave the best of my pictures
To the young girl who was going to Bryce–
At least I was somehow useful
though it was so sad:
“I have no one to take care of me.”
I realized that’s all I ever wanted
But can he find me?
Does he feel as hopeless
As I feel every now and then?
At least I’m free
Cause when I was in Gen Pop that time
A girl said:
“She’s a richy-rich girl, but she ‘aight.”
Which has basically been everyone’s assessment
Of me always….
Although, as Mr. Nice Nasty pointed out:
“That’s the best compliment you could get in jail.”
At least now
I can say I have lived
most people just do what they’re suppose to
I’ve let go of the life
I’m “suppose” to have
never really setting out to get married,
I suppose I can’t complain I am still single
But I do feel a twinge of regret,
Like, well, what now?
Even though he fell off that train
He probably has more peace
Although it’s not a bad life,
It’s just that I get lonely sometimes
Waiting for the man
That tarot reader spoke of.
Note: The tarot reading was indeed accurate—I was married 10.15.17.