Randee Renzi has made 40 the new 20 – and in doing so, she is completely exhausted. For the last decade, Randee has attempted to juggle a full time career while raising her two sons, ages 8 & 11, in Malta, New York. Randee had attempted to instill her love of reading and writing onto her children, but they thrive at math, gym and science.
Randee first began writing poetry at the age of 8, however, it was not until January of 2014 that any of her pieces made it to actual audiences. Performing, with knees knocking, for the first time at Schenectady’s Poetry in Motion, Randee ripped the bandage off all her single motherhood drama and began the healing process through spoken word. That night, she also met (and promptly fell in love with) a fellow Capital District poet and the power of passion and poetry flowed quickly between the two. Randee’s former matriarchal household is now a testosterone fueled free-for-all.
Tell A Lie
Tell a lie.
It’s what I expect;
They are certainly easier to decipher than the truths of your actions.
The truth – you nursed me back to health ignoring everything else;
The truth – you added wheels to pinewood derby cars
for children you didn’t know 6 months ago;
The truth, you never once let me down until it was too late to pick me up.
Tell a lie.
Tell a lie.
I would rather not know how my mind captivated you and
made you see things differently.
How you tried, and yet just couldn’t.
How I was too much, and not enough, in all the wrong ways.
See, I am too me, too PTSD,
and too fucking old to fucking plea, so
Tell a lie.
Tell a lie.
The one where you can move on without me, as if
we never existed.
That you can toss me away,
like expired milk.
That you can just go on with your life, as if
I were not maimed,
like I had not lost a foot to you,
hobbling around trying to grow it back.
Tell a lie.
Tell a lie.
Tell me you’re taking the same shit only on a different toilet.
Make me feel like I was just one in a line of hundreds,
and not the only one for you.
Because if you could just tell me this lie,
I could move on.
I could explain that you never loved me.
I could
Tell a lie.
I Own This Flesh
I own this flesh.
Every curve and ripple,
every swell of breast with
every rise of every breath,
I own this flesh.
Every stretch marking me mother;
every scar reminding me survivor;
every drop of blood spilled
was not in vain for I have learned
I own this flesh.
Every insecurity ever felt,
Real or perceived, perished
the moment I learned –
I own this flesh.
That beneath skin and bones
lay a women so wise
that she had the sense to
not only exist, but thrive.
I cultivated a separate identity
centered in strength and
focalized on inner peace
where all other influences cease.
Where only love can caress
what I possess because
I own this flesh.
