ninety-nine cent soul

A poem by Emily Judkins

scattered little promises dart along

the fabric of this reality, sewing up

the plot holes-pot holes-black holes

that suck up what i cannot suck in.

sometimes, i don’t know what ones

i have kept and what ones i have

broken or forgotten, just that it’s a

measure for all the sacred little testaments

i’ve embellished yet could not create,

piercing what pieces never found peace.

here i am, losing them, loosening

this stitching that holds this soul together,

knowing that without a pattern to guide,

a machine will tear through the seams,

tailoring the terror until my soul walks naked,

stripped by unforgiveness, only dressed in

guilt by the skeletons locked with me

in the closet until i’ve lost the point to

pin to the grand design of all this,

the holy model of meaning.

forming out of this fabrication,

who knows if i will find myself

enough space to fit my size --

i outgrow dimensions too quickly.

until then, i’ll be restlessly wrestling

this dumpster mannequin body into

a thrifted butterfly dress,

my chrysalis cinderella gown,

because it teaches the essentials

for only ninety-nine cents:

adjust what you will not grow into;

you take in the world a few inches at a time;

and everything will be affordable eventually.

maybe it’s all just because

it's a reminder that everyday

i get to choose what to be reborn in.