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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 4 months

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"On Grief " by H.L. Fitzgerald

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 5 months

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After America cleaved herself from the motherland,

Did she crave the warmth of control she tried so desperately to leave?

What is freedom when you cannot forget?

What is it like to ride the streets, a Paul Revere, crying for freedom,

screaming to not forget the good fight, to not go quietly into the night?

Do you think she ever got to her knees and begged forgiveness for her blasphemy?

How many nights did young America spend clutching her chest,

trying to fill the void she created, the death of a dynasty that left a gaping hole of grief,

the wound that would not heal?

The pain of self inflicted heartbreak is one not so easily palliated.

The clarity of death will not come, though I'll always know the bravery it took to run.

It's Independence Day and I am homesick.

It's Independence Day and god--I want to go home.

-H.L. Fitzgerald

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 8 months

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I'm in my twenties and I sit and read self-help books until they're tattooed onto my eyes but not my brain somehow. I'm in my twenties and watch videos on the internet to feel validated in my trauma. I'm in my twenties and time is measured by the distance between psychiatry appointments, by the changed medication and appetite, by the patterns of sleep and whether or not the night terrors have ceased because even in my twenties, I apparently still have chronic bad dreams.. I'm in my twenties and my friends are few but everything. Each one a funnel of love. I'm in my twenties and I have been to a club only three times. Most Friday nights are my dogs in my bed with Friends on in the background. I'm in my twenties and I know my body will likely never look better than it does now and yet I criticize it; the folds of fat that sit beneath my breasts when I put a bra on, the cellulite I've watched grow on my outer thighs, how I now have two chins when I smile. On the other hand, my cheeks are rounder and my smile actually reaches my eyes now. I'm in my twenties with forty years' worth of baggage to unpack and muscles that ache from carrying it far longer than I have needed to. I'm in my twenties and want to be wild and free and make love to strangers in foreign lands but go numb when I feel a man's hands on me. I'm in my twenties and I wonder if I am meant to love a woman. I'm in my twenties and play mancala with my pill box on Sundays, dropping each one into the slots, like day of the week panties, and I'm taken back to the clear glass marbles and wooden board and my grandmother's contagious laugh all of whom have turned into antidepressants, an ugly green plastic pill box, and sitting alone on my bed, playing a game I did not sign up for, one that I do not want to play. I'm in my twenties and for the first time in my life, there is a future beyond twenty-seven. I don't want to belong to that club anymore. I'm not excited for the future, necessarily, but more--curious. That's a good first step, isn't it? Curiosity. Maybe, when I'm in my thirties, I'll be excited and not just curious. I'm in my twenties and I'm learning a lot about first steps. I'm learning how to admit I've got a problem, that my life is unmanageable, that I am powerless, which, to a control freak, is no good, awful, and very bad. But here I am, being okay with just the first step. Like I said, I'm in my twenties, and I am learning. And for that, I am grateful.

H.L. Fitzgerald

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 11 months

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Charging into battle, weapons drawn,

thinking myself a knight,

protector of my lady fair

and yet I was the one who dealt the final blow,

cleaving myself from the love

I so desperately wanted to save;

scapegoat for the messes made,

and the only thing I had left to give,

a sacrifice I could make,

to turn my white cloak red

and lose the kingdom I called home

doomed to wander the wastelands

of the battlefield on which I bled,

penance for my failure to be,

the only thing I promised in this life,

failure to save the only thing I wanted to save.

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 1 year

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Day #5

A poem that looks like a series of crossword clues and their respective answers.

Okay so the second page has the answers to the clues on the first page. The poem can either be read from top to bottom or each number correlates with each other so it can be read 1-1, 2-2, and so on and so forth.

Not gonna lie, pretty proud of this one.

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 1 year

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Day #4 A poem about what "family" means to you

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 1 year

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Day #3, a poem where there are white spaces instead of punctuation marks

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 1 year

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Day 2 of NaPoWriMo a poem that takes place in outer space

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 1 year

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A poem where the last word of each line creates its own secret line. Day 1 of NaPoWriMo

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 2 years

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When it rains, I like to take a bath.

When I take a bath, I like to fill the tub with salt and bubbles.

When the bath is full of water and salt and bubbles, I light a candle and pour myself a large glass of water.

When I am finished making drawing a bath far more complicated than I should, I sink down into the water which I wish I could say is welcoming. I don't often get the temperature correct and then I need to fiddle with the tap.

When I finally get the water right, I like to put on jazz and slip beneath the soap. Miles Davis sounds even better through water. Under the water, the weight of the world falls away from me. Sometimes I don't want to come up. I always do.

When I am all wrinkled and my lungs are tired of hiding in the bath water, I open the drain.

When I open the drain, I flip on the shower at the same time and I lay back to watch the race. The drain pulls the pieces of me I have shed in the bath water down into the pipes and the shower rains down on me, washing away even more, eroding the edges of me. There's poetry in there somewhere.

When I sit in the shower, I think of the ending of Homeward Bound because when I think of the ending of Homeward Bound, I cry -- something I wish I did more of. When tears mix with shower water, they seem less potent, a chaser to my liquor sadness.

When I cry, my whole body cries. I shake, I sob, I choke on my own grief spilling out of me because there seems to be no easy way of chasing it out of this body without my body fighting back, fighting to keep it inside like it is an old friend it cannot stand to lose, like it is the oldest friend I've ever known.

When it rains, I like to take a bath.

I guess what I mean is: when it rains, I pour.

~H.L. Fitzgerald

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 2 years

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How close is almost?

How much space lies in those six letters?

The ellipses that come after ‘typing.’

The smell of a life never tasted,

the gossamer brush of skin never touched.

We almost made it.

I almost said yes.

She almost kissed me.

He almost loved me.

I wonder if there is a universe of almost,

where all the almosts turn into truths,

where we die wrapped in each other’s arms,

old and grey,

like the couple at the end of The Notebook.

Where they wanted to run away with me

and I climbed into the passenger seat and

we drove up the California coast,

madly in love,

windows down and hair flowing freely,

unafraid of all the almosts that chased after us, with their pitchforks high in the air,

almost catching us, almost pulling us back, almost breaking us.

Where her lips tasted like strawberries

and the smell of her shampoo

lingered on my clothes like a ghost

of all the almosts that all died when her hands

tangled themselves up in my hair.

Where, instead of watching him ride off into the sunset

with the girl of his dreams,

he jumped off his stallion and waltzed into this café,

stealing me up in his arms

and together we cast our own starlight,

suns far brighter than the brightest almost.

I almost wish that was all true.

I almost wish I didn’t have the mourn the almosts that have come and gone,

leaving just a trace, just a taste, just a tease of what could have been.

Of what I had hoped.

Of what I had almost had.

~H.L. Fitzgerald

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 2 years

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"Unsent Messages" after Alanis Morissette's song "Unsent"

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 2 years

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I forgive you.

You have been forgiven long ago

For all you have ever done

And all you could ever do.

Never had truer words been uttered,

Or at least I think that's the case.

You see, trust is an expensive thing to come by these days

And the price for even myself is so great

That often I forget to pay it

And what memories or stories I purchased

Come back to me a little less reflective of their worth,

The discount version with some pieces missing

Or twisted,

Nonsensical when pitted up against

The ink penned in the half dozen journals littering my shelves.

My words leave my mouth as a great army

But come back to me all broken and beaten

Defeated by the sword of reality

Or therapy

Or maybe a little mix of both.

And all I can do is bandage the wounded

And ignore the remembrance of red blood,

Missing limbs and burnt flesh

That haunt my dreams,

Memories of the remnants of a war

That I think was a romance

Nothing but letters seeming to separate the two.

A romance from those plaid shirt autumn days

Where we drove up the mountain,

Pointing at the changing leaves and the deer that crossed our paths.

Days of running through the rain, wet heads thrown back and laughing

While the shoppers stared at us from the safety of the store.

Days of burying secrets beneath the snow

And searching through secondhand shelves for treasure hidden within

Wine drunk nights in a beaten down house that only felt like home to one of us.

Days of laughter while I struggled to drive your car,

Cursing when I stalled, and giggling when I made it.

Remnants of the nights falling asleep on a wet pillowcase, clinging tightly to hope,

Nights of driving home by myself to a cold bed,

my fingers dancing alone to the thought of you.

Nights of bargaining with God for a clean slate, a new start, the beginning of the next chapter.

Nights sleeping far from you, yet within the same four walls,

Unable to bridge the distance that one room makes feel like a chasm.

Nights of calls sent to voicemail or unanswered texts

Because this wasn't what you asked for, it was what you ended up with.

All this ripped flesh and hurt, these remnants of something that could have been great,

I've been stitching them up for months now but I can't seem to find the source of the bleed.

I think I could truly write a saga of you.

Maybe I will.

I just don't know what to call it

Or how to end it

Or even where it starts.

So at the end of it all,

Here I am standing on the last page of a book

Not knowing if I should reread it for the thousandth time

Or close the book jacket and slide it onto my shelf.

Here's what I do know though.

I'm not sure I'll ever be able to forgive you

For the arduous occupation

Of falling in love with you.

~H.L. Fitzgerald

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 2 years

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There are pieces of you scattered about my life. Remnants of a love or a story or a heartbreak sometimes I still can’t tell the difference. How can so many words all mean the same thing? I know a hundred ways to drive home dozens of streets all leading me to the same four walls. So, I guess that means that I also know at least a hundred ways to get lost; streets and paths and roads leading a hundred different ways away from the same starting place. Each road leads me down a lane of memories, photo albums stored deep within the recesses of a house that no longer feels like home where more doors are covered with yellow crime scene tape than those that are open to the sun and the salty air. State lines mean little these days, hardly more than borders to the eras of my life The Era of Childhood, the Era of Innocence, the Era of You, and now, The Era of Me. Whatever pieces I keep running across, metastases that therapy doesn’t seem to dissipate well, at least they’ve stopped growing. So I do what a poet does best, and I sweep all of the pieces up into my arms, ignoring the sharp edges of them all the ones that feel all too pleasant for pain and I turned their jagged little sides into something soft. For what else do I know besides how to remain the very thing that lets those pieces wound me? To look the hurt in the face, bloodied arms and all, and say with an unwavering voice through gritted teeth on firmly planted feet “Despite the pain of your pieces I remain soft. Despite it all, I remain, still.”

H.L. Fitzgerald

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 2 years

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Soft sunlight filters through the grey curtains in my room The beckoning of a new day A day in my little life. I make my coffee just the way I like Not too strong Not too much milk Or foam or vanilla Put together by my two little hands One with a broken nail because Even though I like them long, I move through my little life with freedom And don't stop to consider how it affects These little things. For breakfast, I make my toast And I listen to what the little duck in my belly wants Avocados, cheese, she tells me what to make And I make sure she is full, happy, as a duck can be. I try to drink a little glass of water, Because I know it's good for me, the water, And I'm entrusted with caring for This little body I call home. My little shower is hot, maybe too hot for my skin But not my soul, Because she relishes in the steam. To make up for the heat, I lather up in a little soft smelling soap Soap that makes my little nose happy But not as happy as my legs when I slide my freshly lotioned feet Into soft little socks Where my toes do a little jig in delight. My little closet is a home for all my little clothes And as I run my fingers through pleats of fabric Of many textures but few colors I listen to their whispers, letting them decide letting them tell me which I will wear this little day. Little jewelry; a necklace, some earrings, and my rings Maybe a bracelet if I'm feeling fancy. Just a few things to add a little shine. My little bag of makeup is small, Just enough to dress up my eyes Which aren't little, but they are blue. Sometimes my skin gets little red bumps, Different from the little dusting of freckles That appeared on my nose when I was eight. I go about my job Which sometimes makes me feel little But other times makes me feel big, Big enough to make a change, Give a smile, Bring some peace To one little person in this big wide earth. Somedays I'm quite content with it all, A wife thanking me for bringing A little comfort During a time that is anything but little. Other days, I stop at the liquor store on my way home And enjoy a little buzzing bee circling my head, Enough to drown out the crying And the pleas And the helplessness That a little bit of cancer, a failing liver, or a not so little pandemic Willingly hands over To people who don't deserve it, not even a little bit. Most nights, dinner comes in a little bag Because I don't know how to make little portions Enough for just me, myself, and I. I relish in the smells and the tastes But not the dishes. I listen to a little music and dance a little Laughing at my reflection in the window Waggling her little legs about In a beat that never seems to match the music. I step outside and climb the little hill That lives just outside my door. My sky, the sky that is the most brilliant little shade of blue Has turned colors from cool to warm An orange blossom sunset With a little pink piglet on top. I say goodnight to my watermelon mountains The same watermelons that have stood guard Over my little home Even when it belonged to someone else, Centuries ago, when the river ran full, And that makes me feel oh so little, sometimes. As I settle in with a little book, and draw the curtains closed I breathe a little sigh of relief. I head to my side table. I dump out two little pills from the bottles I find there One little yellow pill One little white pill. They are chased down my throat with a little water And I say a little thanks For the bit of medication that keeps me happy, That makes the bad days less bad And most days even a little bit good. I say a little prayer just because I can't help myself And even if no one is answering There's still a little hope they might. I wash my face and apply a little lotion Because it's winter here Even if the little bit of white proof we got Is all gone and melted now. I turn the heat down a little and crawl into bed My little body heating up the blankets. I close my eyes and let sleep catch up with my brain Resting before another little day, A little day in my wild and precious life.

H.L. Fitzgerald “My Little Life”

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 2 years

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So once again

It is February 14th.

I won't write about the rain

(because there is none)

and I won't write about the snow

(most of it's melted now)

and I won't write about you.

Instead, I will write about the love given to me this Valentine's Day.

Love, that I've never known.

The love that took its time

in the shower this morning,

languid hands and fingers

mixing soap and steam.

The love that fed me food I adore

that bought me roses and a bottle of the merlot I drink.

The love that danced with me around the kitchen

laughing at the absurdity of my hips

and whatever rhythm they think they have.

The love that told me the dress I'm in is beautiful

and the body beneath the fabric is perfect

even though sometimes I don't feel at home

in the changes I've seen over these last months.

This love that traces the curves

and the scars

and the freckles

the love which whispers to me that I am beautiful

that the little bit of weight

makes my ass look fantastic

and I should never doubt the beauty I hold.

Tonight, this love will find me between the sheets

and touch me the way I want to be touched

and wrap me in warmth when I am finished and spent

and sleep soundly in the safety of my bed.

Then, tomorrow morning, I will wake to this love

and when she stares back in the mirror

her tired blue eyes and mussed brown hair,

I will smile and tell her that I love her too.

It's February 14th

and I'm still writing

but today is mostly about me

and only a little bit

about you.

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hlfitzgeraldwriting · 5 years

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Do you remember the time this summer when you came over for grilled cheese sandwiches? You were sitting at the table and watching me. We were talking and laughing and listening to Charlie Parker and you sat amongst my paints and the unfinished painting of the church stood beside you. I grew so enthralled with our conversation and so distracted by your laughter and your lips that I lost track and burnt the bacon. You teased me as I scraped the black bits into the garbage, red and hot with embarrassment. Love, a lifetime with you would be a life of burned bacon.

H.L. Fitzgerald

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