I begin to write poetry beneath a list of ingredients
What is the meaning of true story and how do we tell it when it intermingles with others faults?
Where do the words begin, by necessity, to form a Gaussian blur around truths that belong to someone else,
those that are not ours to tell?
Who should be unforgivably thrown to the fire?
and who should be protected?
Is it not egotistical and arrogant to be the one gifted, with making this choice?
Many have a dark backstory, but where to shine the light?
People change, they evolve – not everyone, but many
I would hate to have someone burden my past self with assumption and words that were not my own but merely presumed through the eyes and the words of some other storyteller
Lord knows, that past self was carrying enough, trying to change enough, without adding to her load with fiction dreamed up by another
So as I begin to dissemble the tapestry of my life I’m pulling threads, untangling webs where my experience crossed path with another
We have only the right to our own tales
And no other
*it is clear that the poetry is different from the list above it. The two subjects are not at all compatible. And yet when writing life stories I have so often read people pull things which do not belong to them, do not belong to their truth, into their story.
I’m attempting something a bit different, at least I’ve never read this sort of thing before, but it’s a bit of a tricky task – so like any sensible adult, I’m procrastinating.