I like to think of my palms as poems
or perhaps, my poems as palms
as I hold them both, hands up,
in offering.
begging for you to take them by the handfuls
grasping them with your own,
poems, palms,
palms, poems
I blow them in kisses
so another may hold them grippless
letting them slip to the sky
fingerpainting the framework
that pillars the planet
presented in feather light
poems, palms,
palms, poems
I breathe them in doses
healing myself in the powdered pressure of
poems, palms
palms, poems
to my wounds, cleansing and mending
in the touch of words, these
poems, palms
palms, poems
in offering, as I hold them both
for you to kiss and breathe and mend
as well

You are nothing now,
but if I had the chance to wish one thing of you,
it is this:
(may your past rest in parenthesis)
only an aside in the monologue of life
a soliloquy to the fourth wall of dramatic irony
a bracketed prologue to your story  
interjecting an understanding of now and everything from now
in a seemingly never-ending pattern
as present becomes past and enters the parentheses

when your death came and your last words and thoughts slipped behind you
death was the only thing left unsheltered
as your brackets came to a close
but may you rest in every moment and memory you contained in interjection thus far,
(may you rest in parenthesis)

The last times I wore a french braid:

17, laying on my stomach in the psychiatric intensive care unit, (adolescent)
I reach for my hair, and let them grow tired,
tirelessly overlapping the strands until the entire mass is taken care of.
I stay on my stomach,
I try not to move too much or the orderlies will think I'm at it again.
A few days later, in the unit common room, my new roomate has me sit in front of her.
She runs fingers through, twists and playfully tugs she says if we hadn't met here she'd be in love.
I agree.
Still braided by her delicate hands my hair flicks as we giggle together into the early hours of my 18th birthday,
sipping at ***** dipped pepsi she had her sister sneak in.
The nurses chant "this isn't a sleepover! Get back to your beds!"
But we are kids,
So we feast on the cookies and crackers I'd been shoving down my pants at mealtimes then she waits patiently as I purge them.
We make blood sister bonds in our skin with razorblades and she braids my hair one last time before they move me to the adult ward. Because I was no longer a kid.
So the next day I cut it off.
I cut it off the next year too.
And half way through the next I cut it again,
keeping my hair just out of braiding reach,
Just out of length of fingers running through,
twisting and playfully tugging,
I like it a mess, so they won't fall in love with me anymore.
Braidless, I can stay distant, unattached like the feeble, overdyed locks matting on my head, but I can feel it growing every second

20, I lay on my stomach, hospital bedsheets unruffled in starch allegiance,
Reach behind my head and see if it's long enough, and I braid.

You slithered away and
a shadow slipped out of my skin.
What I had collected of you
disappeared, leaving
a rift in my chest and
arrested, held hostage
the hopes
pinned into my heart
that I kept of you and I.

I can feel that
you left
in my bones,
in my muscles
in my skin
every memory sends shivers
If only I could tear it all open
to let out the vibrations
free myself from these
sensations of loss
and convulsions
of emptiness
without you.

Once
you made everything
better but now you’ve gone
and torn away the happy.
You made it all hurt.
You ripped me apart
from the bottom up.
You left a rift in my chest
as your shadow
slipped out of my skin
and you slithered away.

― I wish you could hear my heart as it skips the beats you once filled.

I kissed the boy who tasted like cigarettes
I held his hand and felt like fire
and in my recklessness
I was pleased with myself like I was the one
who smoked instead of
breathing second hand kisses
I was pleased like I was the one he
put to his mouth and lit
he sheltered from the wind
and let burn so close to him

it felt familiar like home,
where smoke dusted the walls
and the inside of my family's lungs
where smoke left its imprint in that
same scent on his lips
and in my nostalgia I found myself
comfortable like I was the one
who smoked instead of
stealing second hand kisses
I was safe like I was the one he
packed away tight
took care to light
and held as long as he could

I put out fires by drowning them
in my demons but this one won't be
so easily extinguished since my demons
started burning out themselves
and in my recovery I found myself peaceful
like I was the one who smoked instead of
wishing for second hand kisses
I was still like I was the one he
handled like glass
craved in the night
and ****** dry

I kissed the boy who tasted like cigarettes
and he set me on fire.
I tasted the boy who kissed cigarettes
and he took me by surprise
but all along I was only borrowing
his second hand kisses.

Why can’t you see
the you that I see?
The smiles and dimples
And pretty teeth
Go along perfectly
with your voice and words
but you can’t see
the you that I see
and I can’t see
the you that you see.

Maybe someday we could have a picnic together.
Sunlight always makes your eyes shimmer like public swimming pools
with a little too much chlorine, and I’d love to see you dance
nervously when you discover a line of ants marching up your leg.
I’d like to kiss you with the taste of potato salad fresh on your lips
with a twist of lukewarm lemonade; you’d probably push me away
self consciously, but the fact of the matter is that your mouth
would excite me even after eating ten pounds of garlic.
The red checkered blanket would bring out the creamy tones
in your skin and I’d soon find myself devouring your beauty rather than
the pre-made peanut butter and jam sandwiches.
Your voice and its stories are sweeter than any strawberries
I’ve ever tasted, anyhow.
I could plan our lunches together for the rest of our lives,
but you’re not the kind of girl to settle down for a lunch
with someone like me, let alone for a lifetime.
So for some inexplicable reason I imagine myself at your door,
wicker basket in hand, with no answer.
As it would seem, picnics aren’t really your scene.
And neither am I.