Distance

I'm wandering around the bookstore, trying to forgive
and feel at home among these words.
Instead, every beautiful, beckoning shelf reminds me of
how I've been betrayed, and
I become so angry with the calm facade
that I feel nauseated.

No one up here wants a good copy editor;
I'm not sure why a few places have advertised for one.
I was told by a well-meaning relative in the know
that I need to use such action verbs as
"impacted" in my resume.
I will never use "impacted" --
it is a terrible word, and
anyone who wants a candidate who uses it
doesn't really want quality control.

I don't understand my words anymore, anyway.
They disappear on me,
come back later,
go away again.
They shuffle around me when I talk
and stare blankly at me when I read.

But everything is okay.
My blood is clean, and
my brain is beautiful.
I embellish --
it's merely unremarkable
according to the MRI.
That seems apt, now.

I can't hunger for these books
anymore,
and I knew passion,
loved harder than maybe anyone I know.
But I gave everything
and I got nowhere,
and once you're past a certain childishness in life,
there's no romance in hanging on.


I wrote this today -- but tonight got a great phone call! The company I've been freelancing for wants me to come in for supervisory editor training. Yay!

It's on a trial basis, so it isn't a done deal - but it will be great if I get the job. I've had a terrible time trying to make myself buckle down and do the work at home, and I know I'll log a lot more hours if I get to work from the office.