Michelle LaRosa | Sometimes

Sometimes I wear a crown of flowers on my head.

Sitting loosely on the top of my forehead

as I jump from cloud to cloud,

becoming a cloud myself,

allowing everything that’s filled me up like condensation to spill out at once.

A refreshing rainstorm of things I want to forget,

speeding to the ground where it collects in puddles

I can barely see

from my mountaintop of air

thousands of feet above.

And sometimes it’s great,

and I let it all fall

I hope I never see it again

and I can be content with it accumulating

somewhere

I can’t see.

People splashing in it on the ground

while I laugh from above

flying fast

but it feels slow,

which is a beautiful thing.

 

But sometimes those things don’t fall out of me like water.

 

Sometimes I wear a crown of rubber bands.

I don’t even notice at first.

They add slowly,

one

by

one

adding on and tightening.

uncomfortably tight on my head

one

by

one

unbearably tight on my head

until I can’t focus.

I think only of the skin around the bands

trying to stretch,

to accommodate the force pushing it inward

but failing.

The skin separating,

cracking open.

The pressure in my brain increasing

as the rubber bands constrict closer, inward,

the top of my head grows and

grows

it’s full to bursting

with important nonsense.

The crown I like the least, but is the hardest to take off.

 

Sometimes I wear a crown of hands.

Which I like,

and I ask for more often than not.

Each with their own opinions,

poking me with ideas,

stroking my hair when they love me

and slapping my cheek when I’m stupid.

Offering up ideas with their ready palms,

palms worn in with marks of experience

and tired from constant suggesting.

They’re all trying to squeeze out what they don’t like

through my ears

and shove in what they do.

Understandably so,

every hand does,

but their pointing fingers can burn too much

and press too far into my head

and push me to say, “Thanks, but I don’t need you right now.”

 

I wish all of that rain wouldn’t speed so fast downward,

and that maybe it would solidify just enough

just long enough

to roll down my arms like little balls of gelatin

pleasant and cool,

and gather in a bowl

so I can go back to the ground with it,

forget about it for a while, but

see it,

and save it for later.

 

And I wish those rubber bands were more like ribbons,

all different colors,

tight enough to seal in all of that important nonsense,

but relieve some pressure,

allow me to breathe,

keep my skin intact.

 

And I wish those hands would loosen their grip from my head sometimes,

and just stroke my back,

or hold my hand

just to feel our marks,

some of them the same,

pushing back on each other,

and find a little comfort in that.

And sometimes I don’t want to wear anything on my head.

Is that ok?

 

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