4.9.12
(no idea what this is really, just wrote it after writing a horrible psychology paper)

I always wake up in circles
The imprint of my motionless
body worn craters between sheets
I never sleep under.

On a nightly basis,
I'm fearful of tucking myself
between basic layers of cotton

swaddled between thin air
and thoughts I don't understand
falling too slowly amidst
scattered mind conversations

In the morning, I'll be confused
by the emotions that lay
in-between the pocket of untouched air

when courage kisses my shoulder blades
i'll leave the abyss that my quilt has created
still fearful of those **** sheets
that have hidden themselves so quietly
beneath the imprint of my body

Sometimes, when bad thoughts plauge my mind at night
I shake my head
in a rapid succession of movement
my attempts to empty the excess

Every night of my childhood
I made a Vegas worthy deal with my father
He took my worries at night
and I took his

He claimed us the biggest worriers on the earth
Dubbed me queen of the Worry Wells before
carefully placing a kiss on my forehead

You see, forehead kisses
were my fathers attempt
to **** out the unseen youthful damage
of a brain constantly panicked with worry

Every night of my childhood
my father left me with his suitcase of fears

I was always too worried to open it

sometime between
the morning sun
and afternoon air

we would sit between
the two trees
in my front yard

the white picket fence
shadowing our faces
while you braided my hair

for each twist of honey colored hair
you would whisper

carefully building the foundation of my youth
tucked between flowers
and lullabies
it was always accessible

until your words would form
a different melody
of sweet plaited kisses
deep inside the strands
that made the summer
seem as long as the braid
swimming down my back

Okay, so it's technically already the seventh but I haven't gone to bed yet, so this counts.

My heart is an accordion
Inside it's many folds
are notes

from past lovers
one says
"I told you I loved you, i promise I didn't mean it"
one says
"why are you such a cold hearted *****"
and one says
"you give the worlds best back rubs"

together, these notes don't amount to much
they would make a ****** poem

a reflection on my innocence of how
to untangle the functionality of a relationship
a perfect precise image of my attempts
to figure out
how to be
and how to be with someone

I still can't figure it out.

But the thing about accordions is,
they sound beautiful with others
but just as awkward and lovely alone.

A year ago today
I considered all too much
pushing down the steady acceleration
of my sixteenth birthday present

I don't remember much.
The song "Breathe me" by Sia was playing
national anthem of bullied hearts
white noise for steel crushing
breathless air

10 minutes away from my house is the hospital
I have timed it.

6 minutes,
no red lights,
or unexpected traffic

On April 5th 2011
I prayed for unexpected traffic
broken red lights
moments of prolonged pain.

I wanted wounds for a reason
inflicted by something besides myself
because of someone else

Instead, my sixteenth birthday present
drove me to therapy

45 minutes away from my house
35 minutes away from the hopsital

You left your hair in the sink
I kept it there as a reminder
we were growing old,
that things fall out of place
and take awhile to rebirth themselves

You left your scent lingering
between my sheets
the familiar mixture of body heat, sly smiles
I left it there as a reminder
of our conversations,
the ones where our paper hearts
wrote tin can telephone conversations
through our arteries

You left every single ******* sock of yours
on the floor
tossed aside,
claiming they trapped too many feelings
inside them at night

Sleeping with feelings wedged between your toes
is the equivalent to walking between whispers

It never works.

You left your skin on the kitchen counter
between the sink and the stove
a reminder that we are always shedding the excess
that in six months we are sombody new,
something our body
doesn't quite feel comfortable yet

You left too many notes for me to find.
hidden in the crevices of drawers
under the matress
stitched inbetween pillow case threads
even inside the broken toaster
a reminder that anything can catch a flame

You left a lot of things in Oregon,
but you didn't leave your heart.

You took that with you.

I want a tattoo of your heart.i want it on the sleeve of my ****** skin.

And when you see it for the first time
I want you to immediately recognize it as yours.

Something out of place
taken out of your body
placed on the skin of someone
you have long forgotten

as some sort of remembrance piece

As even though it's still beating
your heart lays heavy on someone
else's skin for a change

A piece of thick flesh
with a distinct function
of that to only serve your body
not somebody else's