Archive for the ‘me’ Category


Posted: November 17, 2015 in me

In that moment, under a bridge, I realized that everything hurt

And was terrifying

And I was tired

The wind whipped up smells of old and dusty things

Things you dare not touch with more than your finger tips

But I grabbed hold and closed my eyes

I didn’t want to hurt anymore

Or be afraid

I wanted to feel the depth of the cold

And every thing up until then stopped mattering

Not a thing

And in the darkness behind my eyelids I decided I was tired of letting go

So I held on

It was that easy.

“And I could see for miles miles miles.”


   I’ve never been excited to be alive and I’ve always feared being sick. Going through the motions and observing my dad get diagnosed with cancer, go through chemo and now surgery I realized something last night. My dad, on any given day, has more will to live than the sum of my entire life. Before I feel asleep it occurred to me that none of that had changed for me.
   I don’t know what it’s like to exist is an sizeable space of I WANT TO LIVE, THIS IS MY PURPOSE, THIS IS MY DRIVE. I’ve had my departure from willing myself to die, but that other part never came. Not even now. If anything, it gave me a glimpse into another worthless horror I have left to suffer through. The going of my parents. My lack doesn’t spill onto others, I’d like them to live forever. I just never felt that for myself.
  I remember this day I was all excited to go somewhere. I went to bed to make sure I got up on time, planned the next day’s moments in my head, got dressed, and waited for the bus. And I waited. And waited. And waited. And it never came because that bus didn’t run on weekends and it was a Saturday. And so I was smashed with  disappointment. It took me a long time to even walk away from the bus stop because I couldn’t accept the fact it wasn’t coming, and neither was my magical day. That’s where I’ve existed. In that small box of feelings. For as long as I can recall. Just standing there. No bus. No magical day. And taking entirely too long to walk away.
   Not everything has a lesson. Most things don’t. And the journey isn’t always that great. Not for me. Sometimes you just realize who you are. And what you want. And that things just are. And they’re exactly how you figured them to be. Long ago. Frustrating. Slow. Or just never ever happening at all. I’m a little confused and maybe disappointed I’m not one of those people who can use this experience as a catalyst for some robust psychic change that sets my heart free. But it hasn’t. I can’t even force it. I’ve tried.
  I’m still just here waiting stubbornly for that bus to get me the fuck out of here.


Posted: August 31, 2014 in me

He is my next lifetime’s love
The one I would never put clothes on for
The one who would find me
Lost in the melody of his world
I’d memorize the smell of his collar bone, when he woke up in the morning
The length of his eyelashes
And the inevitable calluses on his thumb
Everywhere he took me would be my favorite place
And when I thought things couldn’t get more wonderful
We’d kiss goodbye before we could destroy it
If he read this
He wouldn’t hesitate
To pass it by
So I’ll read it to him
Next lifetime

A few years ago I decided to decide to have relationships. Starting with my family. I would choose it. I’d stop feeling stuck. I had to. I needed them. But this time it would be an exchange. Not just my taking. And things have healed.

But now it’s not that easy. All of the strings. The semantics. The proximity. Absence makes the mind grow peaceful. And this is the antithesis of that. But I’ve also chosen to stop blaming things that are not me. All I can do is me. And sometimes that means enduring. Sometimes that means walking away. I shall endure…this.

Ah…But the “exchange.” Well, I’ve gotten my shit together. Like for reals. Without any type of denial or lying to myself and anyone else I feel I’d need to impress. Which is no longer anyone…fyi…btw. I got myself out of some deep abysmal unsunshiney holes. I did school, got licensed, avoided coupling up for an escape route, took care of some finances and some health stuff. I’m 40 and this is the most freedom I’ve ever had in my life. Sad but true. And I.AM.DONE. The exchange was enlightening in my ability to exercise boundaries, for sure. But it drained me of my ability to pursue and nurture any outside relationships. I’ve never experienced things being copacetic with my family AND a boyfriend AND my job AND my friends AND me. And my life plan. Ever. And now it seems I have that opportunity. Minus many friends and a boyfriend. And a big chunk of me…

I’m…gasping…I’m…flailing…But like in a tight knit ball. I don’t have fun. I don’t do anything other than what I’m supposed to do. And it’s my fault. I’m shaky. I’m unsure how to do that junk. And while it’s not some monumental thing for others for me to ask somebody “hey what are you doing?” or “do you want to do this?” For me it’s huge. And one no or one neglected reply sends me back into the drudge. Left right left right no eye contact please. I used to be a fool. But I was bold. And confident. And sexy. And popular. An addition. And now I’m…THIS. In a constant state of “What is the point?” And for a time, I needed that. To be safe. But in the middle, I was brave. For a little while. And now I’m…THIS. THIs. THis. This. this. (this) and i don’t know what this is

My One True Love

Posted: August 7, 2014 in me

What are you grateful for? For me, my gratitude shifts from moment to moment, inhale to exhale. Family, love, friends, safety. The one thing that has always remained is my gratitude for music. Music is the one place I can go that everyone is glad to see me. It knows my secrets. It doesn’t care what I’m wearing. Or if I showered. Or if I have been crying or laughing. It isn’t judging to see if I’m punk enough, black enough, educated enough, artistic enough, lonely enough, gangster enough, or experienced in the struggle. I love music and music loves me back. No matter what. Even and especially when it breaks my heart. Music keeps me safe and tears me apart and restructures me. Music makes me whole and is my soul. I spend most of my day there. I don’t need a plus one. And rarely have one. It’s the only place my honest. It’s the only place I don’t wonder if I’m beautiful. Music is temporal. Music is abstract. Yet I see it. I taste it. I bleed it. I know it’s texture by heart. I am clothed in it. Consumed by it. And it never ever ever spits me out.  

A Moment in a Wishing Well

Posted: June 4, 2014 in me

I stopped wondering how many times I can feel ridiculous in one day
Real has stopped feeling real
There’s only the…thereness
And the burden of breath
The weight of procrastination
And assumed failure
And invisibility
And me
Larger than life absence
Jane Doe
Unfound and unfounded in her frivolous fear
High tide never comes
Washing her further and further
Washed out
Dirtied by the ticking of the clock
No fingerprint
No hand to hold
Nothing to hold on to
Unable to drown
Or stop sucking air
Or life
Survival of the unfit


Posted: March 5, 2014 in me

I’ve always found solace in the sadness
In the solitary madness
Methods are of no virtue
Conglomerates of pain
Real and imagined
I see your face
And touch it
And think entirely too much
And figure out my answers
You see, I’m very good at intros
An expert at goodbyes
It’s the middle that kills me
That unravels me
Not Monday or Tuesday or Thursdays or Friday or Saturday
But it’s never a Sunday. Ever.
It’s Wednesday
Halfway through my morning
I roil and churn and disintegrate
Into unrequited pining insecurity and neediness
That manifests upon my skin
And lips
And trembling fingertips
I get neurotic
And wordy
And lace up my boots
And bundle up
And freeze
And burst
And undo all that I’ve learned to be true
The tears
The internal treachery
My cold black heart
My disillusion
My wanton desire
My melty little train wrecky spirit
Shows its ugly little pout
And dares you to accuse it off begging
So much motion and inertia and upheaval
Because I can never bring myself to say three simple words in a way that’s sincere
Without the mush and gush and slush of my girlish wiles
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
And that’s the reason for my nonsense

Oh to spend my life being “normal!” Even a day, a moment. There are those who would say that “normal” does not exist. The philosopher in me would then counter, then that would dictate that in that train of thought, neither does being special or unique. The difference lies in that being special or unique is not something I wish for. It may, in fact, be something I am accidentally, yet I never feel that either.

I am a very self-aware being. Yet sometimes, I feel like a stranger to myself. I look in the mirror and see right through myself. I look through myself quite a bit, actually. I see through to the scars and hurt and trials and decades of self-flagellation. I see to all the times I just needed the simplest things, yet didn’t get them. I see to all the times I should’ve felt content, happy, accomplished, loved and didn’t. I see to the bones and veins and sinuous tangle of confused memories.

A few years ago, it was suggested I surround myself with people that would provide an accurate mirror. A touchstone. A reality check. People who would say SHUT UP DUMMY YOU ARE GOOD. And I think I kinda have. Now getting to the part where I don’t retort SHUT UP FOREVER LIE TELLER may take quite a few more years. But I guess, as somebody else once told me, compliments, thanks and apologies from another person have to do with them, not me. And I should shut the fuck up, smile and say “thank you.” But such things make me very confused. I’m not trying to be that person. I am not exerting effort into standing out or doing anything where anyone would emote that as a response. I spend a lot of time confused…

I recently had a breakthrough.  In being raised to be accepting of others and gentle with differences, I was also getting a clear message that said “You are not exceptional. You excel because that’s in you. It is what is expected. You doing your best is better than other people, but you don’t have to try. Or work hard. Or do much. You are not special. This is just what you do.” For a lot of years, I  took the spoils of that for granted. Never thinking I had to try hard. Never thinking I was successful in any type of way. I just got good things. And maybe part of that was because who I “was” just deserved that shit.

My lifetime has lead me through constant evaluation and evolution. Most of it, initially, at the hand of others. It forced me to confront myself. But in the beginning, I was doing so  through the eyes of others. A few years ago, I realized how infrequently I was asked “How ARE you?” Or “WHO are you?” for that matter. And half my life was spent on answering that unasked question “Anything you want me to be baby.” That was probably the times in my life I started to be less exceptional. When I learned that I would get due credit for jumping off the path of righteousness and fucking up. Pavlov’s bell began to ring as an omen of  negative consequence. And how effective that was for me! All I had to do was do the most extreme,  irresponsible and callous shit and I would be SEEN. I would be attended too. And so the world only expected the worse. All I had to do was pretend I wasn’t destroying anyone, including myself, Pretty simple transaction. Much easier than natural and unnoticed success. Very satisfying indeed.

About three years ago, something changed. I woke up and realized that I was just not dying fast enough. I realized that in spite of all my fucking effort and self-destruction, I was stuck in this very irritating mode of optimism. It was a very very dark time. Initially, I tried harder to die. But I was so jaded by all the disappointing waking ups, that it didn’t last long, in the grand scheme of things. So one day I woke up and quit fighting the fact that I was alive. I’m not sure why. Even now.

So here I am. Resigned to life.  I truly hate when people ask me about my past. Living it was enough. And uttering such details sounds like the musings of a crazy person. A fictitious narrative. Even now, I feel as if my talking about my life comes out in a third person voice. “Jennifer Misiurewicz: Harbinger of self.” So, for a birthday gift to myself, I decided to sit down with a cup of coffee and sad music, and write my life story:

Forty years ago today, on a cold Monday morning in February, around 830am, a child was born. She was given the name “Jennifer Marie Misiurewicz.” She was neither normal nor special. And that’s how she spent her life.

90 days

Posted: February 12, 2014 in me

i used to talk myself out of it
now i’m taking myself in
i feel forced
and fraud
and less of who i was
my feet as heavy as my heart
feeling words unnecessary
wondering if you know
how i’ve hit the wall
but continue to confuse myself
in step and word and touch
deaf mute senseless and reaching
for something i never wanted
this is how you met her
this is how she’ll leave
in one quiet act of happenstance
breezy easy and gentle
smiling laughing and dropping your hand
as easily as i wound my fingers into it
and i’ll never be at peace
and i’ll never know
why i’d disappear
to a place of not you
other than it’s what i do
lacking a coward’s regret


Posted: January 25, 2014 in me

these are the days i miss him
when he would hide me from the other boys
knowing that it never really mattered
who i actually thought i loved
he’d just leave me there
among his things
in the dreamy marshmallow bed
i once called ours


Posted: December 30, 2013 in me

the minute he takes my hand
my world stops spinning
and my feet touch the ground
i breathe
no longer invisible
i am present
i leap without looking
no concern for time
and i’m almost certain
my heart beats

sateen 18

Posted: December 25, 2013 in me

it was the closest i’ve come to spinning
since as long as i could remember
words so comforting & familiar
it took my entire will not to mouth along
flickers of this & that & other things
burying me under his weight
and losing me in the breadth of my imagination
hidden in a way that is only possible in candlelight
trembling on the edge of life
i forgot if i was supposed to breathe
or hold my breath

3 small words

Posted: December 23, 2013 in me

there’s that day
when he is all you think about
there’s that day
when you replay every word
every touch
every memory

there’s that day you’re aware of your heartbeat
and how it pounds in your ears
and smothers the logic
and the reality
and the everything else

there’s that day where you realize exactly how you feel
those feelings the truest truth
and those feelings persist
and compel you
to say the 3 hardest little words


point b

Posted: December 22, 2013 in me

only comfortable in a perpetual state of good bye
i force my nails into my wrist
and my heels into the ground
fighting nature

i am never ever sure what i’m doing
but what i’m doing now
shreds my heart
and limbs

i can’t breathe or think
or run
or stay
or get angry or love

i feel frozen
in lapping waves of warmth
cold and afraid
to feel anything at all

the island

Posted: December 16, 2013 in me

remembering those nights walking home
in tears
the world so big
and me so small
wondering how i somehow remained tethered
while everything was spinning so fast
those salty salty tears
that came from the place where my deepest secrets lied
and where everything I dreamed
seemed tangible
unaware of how my cold feet managed to feel and tread the earth
walking “home”
to my address
and the bed I slept in
all of it moving so fast
afraid I looked unraveled
feeling shredded to bits
reminding myself “get used to this”
feel this
hold this moment
every tear
each step
each labored breath
i was walking
not running
and nothing was ever the same