Swing of the wand
you wish to change me.
You don’t say it,
but I know it.
You are dissatisfied
with the way I look.
The way I hope
The way I want
The way I wish
that the sky would clear
because the rain reminds me
of my tears.
You are dissatisfied
and you want to swing your wand.
New clothes.
New personality.
New me.
You say
“Let’s go to the waterfront.
Let’s go to change you.
Pencil me into your schedule,
because I know how to change you.”
You’re supposed to accept me
for who I am.
Why can’t you?
Why can’t you stop
wishing to swing your
broken wand
on me?
The past weekend, inspired by a friend’s attempt to write poetry, I was inspired to look at my own poetry. Particularly the ones that I had written in 2005. The ones that captured my wistful emotion and desperation for…love.
Particularly this one. It’s more than 7 years later and I remember who I wrote this about. He was tall, gawky, Asian, a game designer. His aura was like a video game—sound effects rampant, common phrases, colors. His favorite store was Diesel—for months, he tried to convince me why $70 for a pair of jeans worked just fine.
He once told me, “I can entertain myself while you shop.”
I don’t shop. I typically don’t care enough about my appearance to care.
But in that year, I almost cared. Each criticism, each demand dug at my soul. It was in this poem, I was starting to realize that I didn’t deserve the treatment. It took me an additional 12 months to be stronger again by someone who believed.
The last time I saw him was at the Riott Music Festival in November 2006 in the lobby. He was standing with two shorter friends. Out of courtesy, I walked up to him and said hello, exchanging pleasantries. He had purchased a condo in SOMA. I had just moved to San Francisco. How are you? Fine, thank you.
The wand, now 7 years later, has lost its magic.