No Woman is an Island

,

I would love to say my words have flowed faster than water when it’s spilled. But alas, my progress is slow, tortoise-like (not including that story about a race involving a glorified bunny) and wanting.

Here’s the newest of the new, based off a slip of the tongue, a replacement of mind for mine by a friend.

State of Mine
by yours truly

Lonely is a state of mine,
a state of mind,
a state.

And when I ponder,
wander,
wait it out.
I realize:

this state
is only temporary

like a tattoo or a boyfriend
with the potential to be
the real thing,
commitment sealed in ink
or a ring,
full-color or full-shine.

Lonely is a state of mine,
island-like,
ass slapped inappropriately
by waves.

Dignity, hiding in caves,
without confidence strong enough
to crack a coconut.

But no woman is an island,
just as no woman is a peninsula,
phallic-shaped,
and never quite
surrounded by water.

Never quite that lonely.

Just a state,
a wait,
a prequel to a date.

Lonely,
but because she wants to be.
Only,
because she wants to see
a change in herself,
a change in her health,
a new state of mind,
leaving loneliness, like her island,
behind.

To swim in confident seas,
row, row, rowing her boat
alone
but by choice.

A woman with a voice,
a state,
and an island—
lonely as hell.

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