I think about you in the morning, when I’m washing my hair
when my fingertips feign yours and if I close my eyes, I can almost really feel you.
as I’m putting on my clothes, there you are again,
your hand resting on the small of my back.
when I’m walking to work, our hands once intertwined,
I feel your leg brush against mine.
And as I’m drifting off to sleep, I hear the words you whisper
little daggers in the night, piercing through the slumber
the fingertips start dragging, nails cutting
and your hands sliding up the nape of my neck, tightening.
when I wake up from that nightmare,
you no longer seem that delicate.
maybe round two will prove for tougher skin, not as easily bruised
and maybe the second time around, that pit won’t be as deep
that sinking feeling won’t have as far to drop
the next time my heart feels pain, scar tissue hardening, the reverberations won’t be as jarring
and while the assumption is there, that it won’t disappear completely,
I can hope for numbing overtime, like winter slowly closing in on my toes
you can barely feel the cold anymore
He was just a year older,
but I, at least three wiser.
The Gatekeeper, silently watching Dirty Dancing,
assuming us at ease, slowly dozed off.
Plastic floors, feigning multi-colored concrete,
built a vivid castle around us.
And there, I found my primary-colored sanctuary,
a dungeon to others, with rubber walls.
The Giant, just a year older
and at least seven inches taller,
tore down the castle doors,
and away my Damsel flew.
No time to react,
I watched as the sly-deviled Giant ripped her from limb to limb.
My mouth wide in horror,
her tiny shoes fell to the ground,
her blonde locks not far behind them.
And I, the lonely maiden, just one year younger,
but wild beyond my years,
Let rage turn me to a vicious knight,
determined to slay the Giant-turned-Dragon.
With scales dragging between my teeth, I found his flesh
and tasted sweet victory, a tinge of iron.
The Dragon recoiled, agony escaping from his jagged teeth,
The Damsel falling from his clutch, to the cold plastic cement.
Tears reclaimed the Giant from his vicious reptilian form,
and those seven inches meant less as his wailing continued.
And I, the valiant maiden-knight, had slain the mighty Giant;
who was just one year older, seven inches taller,
and knew never to touch my Barbie dolls again.
My cat’s interest is peaked by anything resembling the
slick plastic crinkle
of the treat bag.
It’s the only time she will approach me.
Besides when I actually have the treat bag.
Then she is a tiger
prowling around the corners of the kitchen.
The depths of her eyes are eerie green pearls
with shiny granite centers
slowly meet mine
that blue ball tinkling around her neck
as she turns her gaze towards me.
She can tell that I’m high.
At the computer
my mother is checking her mail
she is hunting
Mrs. Palese, my third grade teacher
would have been displeased
because we always kept
all our fingers on the keys
I think I’m one off
Now she’d be staring at me sternly.
A stern look.
Her eyes are just pools that my memory
can not fill
but I remember her hair
and I remember the time her husband died
and we each made a casserole everyday
as if lasagna would hold her at night
and tell her she looked beautiful in the morning
before she brushed her hair
or washed her face.
I remember she gave me my first communion.
I would get another stern look for my
Lack Of Capitalization.
But I would care just as much
as I did when that wafer
hit my lips.
I’ll give you a guess.
My mother is still checking her e-mail.
It almost seems impossible that she
is concocting real words
with that slow ebb and flow of fingers.
the sun is almost up,
she is done
See you tomorrow, sweetie
like she could wake anyone up
because it’s already tomorrow
and she’s getting confused.
The quick rattle of pill bottles
and she’s gone.
And maybe I
there are still five hours
The oceans continued to ebb and flow,
Gravity was unaffected.
Scientists claimed we were no longer in orbit,
but that the pettiness of humanity would
continue to propel us through space,
at a speed incalculable,
because who can count every tooth for a tooth?
Especially when we have all been blinded
by jealousy and spite.
But I refused to believe that was true.
I ran tests, questioned the stars, and found,
it was the constant heartbeat of the human race
that kept the Earth turning,
and every time someone fell in love,
the tide washed in further on the shore.
For every set of butterflies in the pit
of a young lover’s stomach,
another wave crashed.
And after every heartbreak,
the sun rose, the tide washed out,
and as the Earth kept turning,
we learned that we could love again.
I would rather have a seizure than stare at your face again.
Because at least, if I’m having a seizure, I’ll probably be unconscious and unaware that you’ve actually walked out the room
I’ll wake up alone on the kitchen floor
But I won’t have to wake up with the bottom of my stomach dragging behind my feet
I wrote a hundred poems about heartache
in my head
but I could never
really write the words
,then it’s permanent
,then it’s real.
So I just wrote this one.
only a part of the whole
but then again that’s all you were
just a part of the whole.
your words are met with anger, your eyes full of distrust.
i feel myself cling to you, feeling that i must.
but the we i used to know is slowly turning into dust
our hands no longer fit, you see, they are no longer us.
maybe this is a temporary feeling, a momentary high
but i feel this sense of
(she's almost there)
calm has washed over me
and i almost feel at peace,
or maybe i'm just numb.
My city is a 6 block radius, up one street, down the next, with constant orange hands telling you,
“No, don’t cross.”
Don’t cross, don’t ever cross, don’t ever leave these confines.
Because outside, you exist.
Outside these streets, you are a real person. You do real things.
And you miss the days of riding trains aimlessly. Of finding routes with no destination.
And that was okay.
Those days were simple, those streets were real. Those orange hands told you to go ahead anyway. “Cross into the great beyond; whatever is beyond here, it has to be great.”
But there are things here holding you back,
At each corner, there is a gate, holding you back.
At each corner, there is an inkling, telling you “Tomorrow, next week, next month.”
And by next year, you are still standing on the same corner, waiting.
You are waiting to be that real person again.
You are waiting to cross, waiting for that orange hand to wave you by.
But the light never changes, and the hand stands still;
Just like you.
Still like the calm before the storm that swept you here.
And here you are again, at a crossroads uncrossable.
Trying to wade through an asphalt river to the other side, the other unknown.
You just want to feel whole again, but these city blocks are suffocating you, taking you down,
Bit by bit
You are drowning.
My city is a monarch, my city is a queen, my city is a haven.
This is not my city
For my city has skylines and airwaves and breathing room,
My city has people who live and beautiful pathways to explore and discover.
My city lives, and this city is dead.
This city is killing me
Bit by bit
I am drowning.
I don’t see the sparkle in his eye
Not the slight of his jaw, the tone of his hair.
But I dream of the tightness felt in my stomach whenever
I was in love.
The heart feels caged within my ribs, beating the walls, aching to get out.
Is it then, a crime to cage the heart? To keep it locked up.
But I feel it change, like seasons. One day I’m in love
(birds are singing, orchestrating my every step.
There is a string section, playing distinctly for me, taking into account
the rapid beating of my heart.)
The next I’m clawing against the door, dying to get out
and nauseous with desire to feel free again.
It’s unhealthy, this obsession for the unknown.
because nothing, then, can be enough and
She can’t stop moving.
How will she ever know?