loving you in twelve year old cars
soft kisses in the front seats
a dent in the passenger side door
your backpack in the back seat
paint lingering underneath fingernails
i love art
does art love me?
my friends are all ghosts
i see them
we laugh and we love
illusions shatter after too long
i drive you home at 1 AM
i can barely keep my eyes open on the way home
your love is thrumming through my body
and my gaslight is on
i get a little bit reckless when i’m on the road alone
breathing is just easier with one hand on the steering wheel
in, out. in, out.
this year is hard
i’m up to my neck in responsibilities
is this what growing up is like?
i want to sit down
close my eyes
planes fly above me and i feel a sense of longing
i’m already made of metal
wind me up and watch me go
i’m ready to fly
i have never felt heavier
my head weighs a ton and my neck is made of straw
i want to live in between the bricks
i want to go home
I am lost within the box of 64 colors.
Mom got it for me for my birthday.
Said it made me happy when I was young
—tickled pink by the thought of giving me a carton of my childhood.
The crayons lined up tightly like sardines,
tips blunt and paper perfectly peeled.
Colors seemingly endless.
Perhaps I could draw myself a new life.
The viridian found there; dulled, worn, and loved.
Or an airplane, to take me far away from this awful place.
A child sits in the far off room.
Scribbling across parchment
with her crayons sprawled along the floorboards
creaking as her mother approaches.
She abrades the azure along her drawing filling in the sky,
lost in her art.
The magenta of the heart she drew is split unevenly in two
on either side of the room,
she is pleased.
The canary of the sun with flecks of tangerine in it
lays naked and lonely behind her where she is unaware of its misery.
How wonderful it is that she has the delight of drawing!
“You are an artist” mother tells her.
She at the head of the army can conquer the whole page.
She can fill the paper—herself—with the colors.
The white crayon, sits alone in the box.
Immaculate and untouched.
But these are just crayons.
And can’t even color in the lines.
How the hell can a child be so happy with crayons?
Their paper peels unevenly and they snap when you press too hard.
They can’t change what there is.
I could break it.
I could smash this damn crayon.
I could turn them to colorful pieces of what they used to be.
Why would she get me a crayon set?
What is it to do for me?
To benefit me?
Pieces of a memory I don’t want to see.
I should melt it into a pool of wax
spreading seamlessly across the table,
dripping down the wrapper.
It would still fulfill its purpose.
The wax will still stain the page.
The world will still spin,
and time will still go on.
to a T,
detailed to the top,
pulled tight, finished off
with an Atlantic knot.
He walked... up the aisle,
through all of the mourners,
friends, family, & other people.
Till it was his turn to stand before the casket.
No emotion. Tight lipped.
He exhaled out his nose; without even looking,
he knelt. He prayed for what felt like all of his life,
but it had not even been a few days. He rose,
& then opened his eyes. He knew what he would see,
& then at last looked down ..into the coffin. ...This time,
He looked down. He looked down... at himself...
He looked down with a frown ..into a mirror; & its image laughed
so hard ...at itself
that it shattered
his whole world
So he smiled:
He let himself out.
He let go of being mad:
buried the shattered mirror.
He closed the coffin shut.
He mumbled something under his breath,
then turned & left, divided his audience once again,
put his hand over his heart, atop his single-breasted breast;
felt his heart beating ...till somebody screamed over to him,
asking him what he had just said..
He opened the double doors, then responded,
repeating what he had mumbled to the one whom asked,
to all of them: "..Not yet."
"I promise," he said to all of them now. "You all may leave.
I promise ...I have not given up just yet."
& then he left. The doors closed.
He was gone. He stood outside,
where it was quiet. Where he would
now face the world & all of its people.
He walked down the stairs,
stepped foot on solid ground,
stepped foot into the world,
as he left his nest.
He would soar as no eagle
or hero. He would tenaciously
have to run & fight, without wings or power,
as nothing super. He lived,
but parts of him died this day,
...when he tipped.. from fledgling,
& became.. a man.
Time to let the dragon sleep
Holed up in his cave so deep
Put the toys back in their box
Close the door and turn the locks
The dragon's night is at an end
Morning light on dreams descend
Cease your roar start the clocks
Put the toys back in their box
Adventures tales are ours to keep
But now's the dragon's turn to sleep.
At seven I heard the story of Peter Pan;
Growing up wasn't part of his plan.
I wish he'd fly through my window sill,
When the stars are bright and the lakes are still.
I would ask him to take me to Neverland,
Where growing up has always been banned,
And never planned.
I'd never have to hear my parents fight,
Everything would finally be alright.
He'd take me through the sky in one big leap,
Over rivers and through mountains steep.
Second star to the right.
Straight on till morning; through the night.
I'd meet the infamous Tinkerbell,
I knew we'd get on well.
I’d hear her jibber-jabber,
Among the laughter.
I could see Mermaid Lagoon,
As we sink Captain Hook's platoon.
I can join the lost boys; form a family.
Away from the land of the damned; my ruthless reality.
Meet the brave Tiger-Lily,
We could be perfectly silly.
And meet the crocodile who tried to kill time, eating a clock.
Tick tock, tick tock.
I may be able to find a treasure trove.
Maybe I can make a home in a cozy cove.
Peter and I would be as thick as thieves,
I’d make him a crown of leaves.
We will live forever.
To age, we will never surrender.
To live will be an awfully big adventure.
Too far from Peter, I'd never venture.
All you need is faith, trust and pixie dust,
Or you might just combust.
You just have to believe
and you will never have to grieve
and no one would ever leave.
I'd never have to be strong.
I'd never have to care for long.
So let us begin the journey.
My timeless eternity.
My delightful daydream.
My bittersweet destiny.
My dreams of Neverland have yet to cease.
And I am already in my late teens.
Did you know?
I have vines growing around my ribs now.
A tree growing in my guts where I used to hold galaxies.
Churning stardust catching between teeth,
Painting my lips.
Seeping out of my skin and into the sink.
I am a book of metaphors and paradox.
I am nothing at all.
I speak you fair with a liars tongue,
All made of silver and moondust.
I am celestial,
And though your starstuff still makes me sick in the mornings,
Picking your shine from my teeth
All your refuse still inside me wretched into the sink.
Though my limbs are scarred with an effort to see my own galaxies
I am through obsessing over celestial souls.
Too many boys and girls with stars in their eyes
Or Saturn's rings around their fingers
Have caught me with lunar promises and magic fallen from careless lips
Like meteor showers.
I'm rid of my stars.
Now I've been planting flowers in my ribs
The vines mingle with a web of forget-me-nots and bleeding hearts
Lavender buds sprouting from old scars
I pass the 3 am itch off as them growing
Learn to ignore it.
Is my least favorite word in the English language.
And maybe I'm a little biased
And that's because it's been
Resounding in the back of my head
For at least 10 years.
In between the memories
Of bent book spines
About knights, magic, the stars
And Disney tapes dancing on the screen
I latched onto a promise.
"That there is truth and love is real"
(Or so a song told me)
I dreamed days away
In pure fantasy of the way
I thought it would one day be.
I have felt the burning tether of obsession
the thrumming fools gold bonds of infatuation
fought as many mental misconceptions
And false ideas as I can.
So if this is some punishment for those
I want to see my lawyer because I've served my nickel.
You could knit me a suit
Of conventional wisdom
(About being single, being lonely)
Spilt for my benefit.
And I still wouldn't know
Which is most accurate.
"There are plenty of fish in the sea"
"You have to love yourself before someone else can"
Well I admit I have bad self esteem
"Focus on yourself"
Ok but I'm not that kind of per-
"You'll find them when you're not looking"
"You'll miss being single"
I barely know what it's like not to be!
(But we don't talk about that)
I'm tired of the cycle.
It feels like I'm going in circles.
I'm tired of spending nights
Staring at the ceiling
Listening to someone
With more name recognition
Then I have, croon
About how they knew how it felt.
I try to say I shouldn't care.
The memories of a smaller me disagree.
I try to ignore it, and let it be.
My tedium of quiet sweat
A computer screen, and my hands should be enough.
The only problem is when the hormones
No longer strangle my higher orders of thought
I'm left with the minor sour taste
(Nothing experienced nothing learned
Nothing said nothing felt)
What am I doing wrong?
Do I lack testosterone?
Is it the history of mental disease?
Or is that same realization that I have
When I'm bleary eyed in
And I look in the mirror;
That maybe I'm just ugly.
That there is a kernel within me
Of anger, lust, and pride
And I can't tell if I'm worried
That no one will love me despite it
Or because of it I cannot love myself.
Is there foresight or fault in my construction?
Do I still have a finger to wear a ring, because I will, or should I remove them?
Do I have a tongue
So I can speak, converse
With a lover underneath the midnight moon
Or should I extract it?
(Always spoke best with my hands, I feel sometimes)
((Oh you old romantic fool))
How can I remind my heart
That's it's only supposed to pump blood
When all I remember is that it's meant to love.
Damn old outdated chivalry.
Damn the romantic masters who
Wove me hope in meter and verse.
This is what becomes
Of the boy dreamer staring at the window
Who's heart so often leapt
From his chest to his sleeve.
He becomes a man with a child's heart
Who is oblivious to romantic interest
And falls for those who care about him
More than he cares for himself.
I do not want to feel it again
(The warmth, the butterflies,
The shivers up my spine, the joy)
Unless it is real.
Otherwise I wish those feelings
Would die, die, die, die, die.
Eventually I'll be used to the yawning void
That has enveloped my chest.
But sometimes I hope
I chalk up stone and light candles
And pray to gods benevolent of planes unseen
That I'll understand
That I'll see
That I'll know: love.
I'll try and undo the damage
Of 20 years of making a want
Into my need
And knowing that if they were to fall
I'll pick them back up
Let them lean on me
Because that is whom I have chosen to be.
Love for them
But not for me.
i wish my parents had
loved me enough
or just had enough
to put me on a diet when
i was nine years old
because now that i'm
older i can say with
certainty that i would
have rather grown up
thinner and slightly
worse for the wear
than grow up the
way i did
and be the way i
because i ended up
unhappy even though
they told me i was lovely
and i would rather
have had me miserable
and skinny rather than
miserable and fat
i only wish they had
told me the truth
instead of letting me
discover for myself