My childhood has been erased from the walls
And replaced with pillows just for decoration
And spotless carpets, with no sign of spilled drinks
All the "I Love You" notes are now packed in boxes
The only way out is through the closet
Where there lies an old refrigerator box
Shoved far into the back and out of sight
Funny how my time machine has lost its glow
On the back of the box, someone left me a note
"Remember, I am a Time Machine, Kara," it said
I wondered who the note was from
Until I saw it was signed with my own hand.
The child is never gone until you let it slip away
From the ever so gentle hold is has on your sweater
Reminding you to see the world in brighter colors
The colors of neon sidewalk chalk.
You are entitled, they say
I asked for too much on christmas.
I asked for time, and wished for difference.
She stands on stilts and judges outsiders
This is all for you, she claims
From behind the shattered window pain.
I gave birth to you, she says.
You are an adult.
You are a child.
You are a burden.
I am crippled without her
I am broken when she's near
She doesn't want to hear
She's too far gone.
You have left me with tears
Too many times before.
Reminding me that I am a nomad.
Pushed out of the nest to fall to the unforgiving ground,
Crushing my beak.
You have laid me on velvet
and ripped it from under me.
You have burnt my desire
and suctioned any leap of excitement from my stomach
You have crushed me with ex lovers
Draped me with winter scarves
when I am going to the tropics.
Covered me in a blanket of snow
falling all over my natural being.
I am not entitled to happiness today.
I am elected as a fool.
And stomped upon, turning my soul inside out.
My grandmother would turn in he grave,
Knowing you live the way you do.
Christmas, where is the joy?
Why can't I be in the city,
Feeding the homeless turkey and pie?
But instead I am mourning over a scarf.
Who have I become?
And who are you?
I never knew how to fit you into a poem.
Because for you, words are felt like knives or hot tubs.
We both live in fantasy, where romance exists.
But at the same time, you are logical and honest as a compass.
And I always said I preferred metaphors to similes.
I always described my ex lovers as having a face
shaped like an hour glass.
But with you, I can't see the sand falling, or the time ending.
I see your eyes genuine and filled with passion for success.
You wonder how it will all fall into place.
It will. It always does.
You are the train I was waiting to take,
out of my cyclic masochistic nature
Into a world of senseless sense,
fantasy and logic
and cartoons in real life form.
You are the ocean;
We are the ocean,
Filled with possibilities.
I have always said that the ocean
is where I belong.
Even when you need solitude
to think and write and believe.
I will always be here for you.
Too many holes, he said,
Referring to my ears.
Or perhaps my chest.
Thumping, squeezing blood faster
Raging, thump, hatred, thump
Air escapes my lips but the words
too evil to be spoken.
So my eyes are driven into the seams of the carpet.
Only one little boy knows about the airplane
That will take me to a land unknown
Where it is okay to believe in mermaids.
Where it is okay to pull the scarves
out of the hole in my chest
faster and faster I pull and pull
until all I am left with is me.
Lets get high together
off of dice and shrimp scampi
while the rain runs down the glass
and reminds us of the ocean
They say that eighty percent of the ocean
is still unexplored.
Trapped in small crevices
are mermaids who sing of love
I want to meander through its darkest
and deepest; where blue turns black
I want to see the tears of small creatures
who have never seen the sun
And then I wakeup to a heartbeat
Of a ship I know will never be abandoned
In the branches of his neck
I mend all the pieces.
You like to pretend she's me, don't you Miss December?
When you watch the dice fall from her hands like they’re broken
Or when you accidently call my name down the abandoned streets,
But realize I have fallen off the map?
Miss December, do you remember watching me cry over girls in green and white?
Do you remember me tossing my textbooks down the hallway like Frisbees,
Only to have you chase me to the nearest empty corner?
My eyes would shutter like paper, and I would ask you to turn the page.
Do you notice the scars left on your ankle after a humid day?
Miss December, do you remember the days I spend mending your wounds?
Only to realize you were too broken and shattered for one woman to heal.
As if lightning through your temporal lobe would be the only escape to sanity.
I held your hand through dying dogs and relapse.
I told you, you could do anything.
Did I push you too hard and shatter the last glass?
Is that why you turned the purple car away that day?
For once in always
Nobody is home
And I rummage deeper
Into the depths of the paper stacks
Crumpled notes smeared with blood
From broken hearts
Letters of apology stained
With lie after lie after lie
They stabbed her in the chest
Like martyrs for love
But they ever so slowly
She didn’t eat a lot.
She didn’t have the words
To say, “I’m afraid you’ll leave”
When she leaves him.
Years after he pushes her children
Poisons her soul with words foul
Enough to eliminate it
And after she scraped my teenage life
From the sidewalk she said
Know this: it was never your fault.
And she left him.
Erased from memory as if he never happened
Crumped notes in my room
Stained with Rubinoff and milky pens
Shoved in shoe boxes
For the next me to find one day
In the paper stacks
Terrified you will be another one
just another one
who doesn't call
or leaves me trapped
behind my own closed doors
just waiting for you
to open them.
They have been closed for centuries.
to stop waiting
when I was seven.
let downs are more
painful than any burn.
the flick of a match.
a scarring wound.
When he didn't show up
to my birthday party.
birthday parties are dumb, he said.
but it would have meant
if he came.
Don't be the one
who pushes me down
head to pavement
a breath I can't catch
soccer ball to stomach
leaving me with words upon words
that I can't say.
You said I should open my doors
Let me in, you said.
I told you my locks are broken.
I tried to explain to you
the depths of these doors
and the patterns of their locks.
And somehow I have let you in
just a foot.
And you scurried for the inner most treasures
caressing them, tenderly.
Most importantly, misunderstood.
Today I witnessed
The world when it rains for days.
Myself when I turn my back on others.
Never will I be good enough.
I've been caught in Charlotte's web.
Trapped between a fog covered window,
and a spider.
In an abandoned house.
Abandoned by who?
Their names written in dust.
My name sealed across their lips.
As they travel far away from here,
on an empty boat.
I never thought about geese migrating south
they always come back
to their mating ground,
never to once mate abroad.
Away from their home they fly miles
brisk winds over feathers,
death of loved ones
Before takeoff, they huddle in the sun patches
soaking up the warmth of the last days
before their adventure begins.
I never though about the trees
and their intertwining branches.
Reaching for love in each direction
Branching off of ideas
Death of leaves mid-year
Only to liven again though the seasons.
The cycle goes on, and I stand still.
Where is my cycle?
Should I migrate, take an adventure?
Should I branch out new ideas?
When I huddle for warmth,
how do I know
where the best sunspots are?
Certainly not under the branches.
They say the apple falls not far
from the tree.
Will I do it like they did?
The crease between his eyes
when he laughs. The fact that
he is the epitome
of beautiful. The other fact,
when I call him beautiful.
He is beautiful,
in the essence of the word.
Because he is ever so genuine.
Innocent like a baby bird.
Because he is a bulldozer,
pushing through the rough terrain;
he makes it look easy.
Gentle, a feather grazing a cheek
Passionate; fire unfolding and unfolding
into ferocious flames; intimate coals,
sizzling with heat as they huddle.
Because he bobs like a turtle,
draws cartoons that are real
and sparks my renewing imagination.
The fact that he withstood the bubonic plague
and kept me on the other side.
The fact that a poem is nowhere near
enough to explain
what he means to me.
He is the mountains.
The prisoner inside my rib cage thumps
against my chest and I wish I could let her
leap out of my body; pound across fields
and race through the landscapes like she wants to.
But locked away, inside myself she will stay.
She used to pound loudly like a boulder and I couldn't
ignore her. She screamed for freedom. My lungs would collapse
with pins and needles and my legs would betray my body like
jello, unable to keep me standing. I couldn't figure out what she
wanted from me. Just simply to be free from me? No. And It wasn't
until recently that I realized what she wanted. She wanted to know
she was loved. She wanted to feel free from the past. I knew she didn't want to
hurt me. She didn't want to be a prisoner to herself anymore.
Yesterday I sat next to a boy on the swings; holding hands and laughing
as we went higher and higher. His smile made her jump, and she danced
inside my chest like a ballerina, and she was happy. She was in love. And she knew it from the way she leaped across my chest as if it were a stage.
My boy's beard is red
and it feels so familiar
and it took until I was
smashed, cocked, fucked, HAMMERED
to notice. Why do I always follow the pattern
of his face like a map; why does it feel like I
have finally found my old blanket, resting in
its plastic bag, in pieces; in pieces.
I asked him if he liked pumpkins. He said
yes because he knew that's what I wanted. He
said he baked the seeds. And I remembered loving them.
I was never good at soccer and I refuse to play
in the games at school. They think I'm a fool. But I
know why. Because instead of soccer I did cartwheels.
And I picked the dandelions. And I wove my fingers
through the net like artwork and I was Picasso. I was
Picasso. And his voice echoed through my head like
a football stadium. I was never good at football. I hid behind the
trees and plucked the peddles from the daffodils
one by one like mermaids do. And my father, he never cared
for daffodils. And he never cared for pumpkins. And the echo
from the stadium was faint to him. Faint to him. But to me,
it was a symphony. A cluster of voices from within.
I never doubted it.
I told him I loved yellow roses
we danced across the campus like lovers;
I talked, he didn't.
He didn't need to.
Interwoven fingers, high hopes, and
the pages of my sketchbook mixed with tears,
stained with charcoal. The same expression used by primitive men
in the caves of the world.
Lacking words, but speaking wonders. I asked him
to say what he meant, and I saw it in his eyes. He was
never able to recite lectures about love but he knew,
because he remembered the yellow roses; and the beauty
of the weeds.
There are times when
I think that I can see each
individual atom spinning on its axis,
moving around on solid objects. It has
never rained this hard, and my heart has
never felt so secure. He told me Steven King
married a poet. He spoke naturally of spain,
and wondered if it looked the same
as the pictures.
Today my art teacher asked us to see
life in anything but symbols. "What if a face
is no longer a face", she said.
"But something you
have never seen before."
I told him
I don't dream
It has never rained this hard,
and I have never once
been happier. But this nausea
has lasted for days
and I can't get it out of my mind.
I want to bleed into sheets and
sheets of paper and place my mark as permanent.
For what is blood,
a symbol? No.
Because when I bleed
I think that I can see the atoms. floating though
the sea of whatever you call it
and I cry.
When blood mixes with tears
you have strength again.
Will it show you, that I am not a symbol?
It has never rained this hard.
I am still amazed
that the gentle white seeds
and the vibrant, alive yellow petals
are the same flower. I feel
both against my fingertips,
and realize how different they feel. I
am in love with it's gentle touch,
but filled with sorrow as the seeds
fly away with the wind. I saw a
young child, blowing away
the seeds of the dead "flower"; creating new
weeds that will blossom yet again.
I never noticed the complexity of the forest
And the difference between the branches
Some forbidden from growth
Hindered by their sisters
So they grow into different shapes
Avoiding the obstacles’ as they come
And I, I am the artist
And she is the forbidden ocean
I can’t seem to put her on paper
The winds catch my pencil
And I am left to drown in the waves
Until I remember that the tide goes down
And I can swim to the trees.
I waited for you to come along
I gently asked you to leave
But your presence is always on my mind
You're a boulder collapsing my lungs
And you're the silence as I try not to notice
You're the lurking beast of reality
That is ever so daunting
You are the epitome of disaster
You are the papers, overflowing the waste basket
That i have crumpled and stained
You are the screeching sound; heard perfectly
Over a room filled with voices
You are the pain in my stomach
When my life folds in on itself
The tender skin of my abdomen
The fire inside my throat
The numbness of my limbs
The whisper that says "You're not worth this"
The itch to run;
The second glance
Over my shoulder
That allows me to realize
You don't even exist.
Your hair was shorter than I remembered
Your figure slimmer and very different
from this past December
You're tears fused with the forrest rain
And flew off your hair as you ran through the brush
Your voice, piercing and shrieking in pain
Starring directly into the sun, your silhouette appeared
I never thought I would run from you
It was then that I knew I needed him here
He was waiting with open arms where the sun met the rain
A part of the woods I had never been
I entangled myself in his arms; ran my fingers through his mane
It was then that you realized, this time I wasn't coming back.