The evening was awake full of history
wind pressing against warm skin
reminding us
that forgetting would be too long
and


we didn't have a sail
or a boat
or more importantly an anchor
to remove or ground us in this swelling sea


I looked over your head wishing for sunlight
so we could go back to yesterday and the day before

so that maybe we would have never yelled so loudly
on the train tracks
watching humanity tear itself apart
on each side of us

we got lost in that
we lost everything we said we never would
and now these buildings aren't our friends
and their structure is pushing us out like gates

and soon,
I'll become a stranger to another town
walking without your shadow underneath empty street lights
talking to the moon about things only you heard
about why I thought the world is ending
and how I planned on

surviving
(your hand helped the most)

tonight we said goodbye in tangled fists and heartbeats
tonight I shed away the secrecy of humming words I told you while you were sleeping
far away dreaming of me
I grabbed you like it was the last time, the way I always meant to hold you

tonight I sang to you in years
locked behind eyes you so swore chambered the sun
(on couches and floors)
watching you circle around me
like the earth
steady in your footsteps
in cold spring winds

waiting..

but Im already in Portland missing you
walking streets and counting trees I wish I could show you
because you're not here
where I think I need you

Im already reading your book about the sand
and imaging the way you smile in the desert

tickling scars you gave me on a bed
wasted wine and razor blades
(now twisted like metallic woven thread pink and past)

Lucky You ,I tongued my lips
(felt those)

parted teeth
(jesus christ)

that red rust

pain killing love
love killing pain
(circling)

fuck the way you made my thighs sweat

but,
your arms are tied around me now
and Im promising myself I won't forget
amongst the screaming silent trees

your heart is beating faster..


but,
rest assured..
'your emotions are heavy,
I'll keep them inside my chest'

Love-driven on the edge of chance
he took the stairs in his surefooted stride:
Two, four - and one too many.
Happens, sometimes.
He dunked his thumb in the jam pot
And sought for a sentence –
That eluded him.
He rooted, laughed and drank,
Took his scarf,
hat
and thought:
Such a lucky chance –
It happens, now and then,
That you lose time
But grasp your luck
And leave on the dot.

Well then!
Four, two – you know the rest:
One too many.
It was meant to be.
There were flowers by the table –
And the cups were steaming
Invitingly to be stirred.
Hot chocolate and a piece of cake.
You know too well,
It happens now and then:
That you lose time
But grasp your luck
Hot chocolate and a piece of cake.

She kept me warm

so i gave her my heat

and she re-gifted it

and left

and i was cold.

He tucks me in

with sweet words

that evoke crinkled eyes

and upturned corners

and someone will be lucky

to be his love

someday

She knows the sound

my tears make as they fall

through the ground

because hers have fallen the same

and she knows the taste of pain

when a heart breaks this way

because hers was broken the same

so she indulges me

and loves me

and carries me through the day

and i don’t tell her everything

but she feels my misery

She caught the choke

around my throat when

i didn’t know how to live

and she picked me up

and told me to walk

gave what she had to give.

I’m not fixed,

but I’m still alive,

and she is responsible for that.

He validates me

when i feel i must be crazy

and worthless

he tells me i’m not

without any prompt

and says he’ll always be

Big Brother to me

She sticks around

even though I’m obviously crazy.

She’s already seen me go through my worst.

She just listens and takes it in

and we go for a walk

and another day passes

while she is my friend

There are nights when the only things that interrupt the darker portions of my discontent
is the heavy drone of insects
around my single bare bulb.

I do not live in poverty, nor could I claim that I ever have
but the tiny souls still dance
around that single bare bulb

It hangs down from an empty rafter where plaster demons creep
like a little necktie party for one
lucky bulb.

It makes me furious to see it's glowing corpse so teased
laughing monsters around it
you're with me, bare bulb

Those who mock you, I will end.
For in my room, you are king
(I could never turn you off)
Forever yours
Bulb

Closed windows, pretty flowers,
Beeping machines, no loose threads.
TVs running, nurses waiting,
Painted rooms, well-made beds.

The atmosphere is clean and open,
Yet stuffy and enclosed.
And the nurses here are smiling
While patients grasp their crosses close.

The temporary homes are painted
With animals and desert view.
Anxiously waiting to see if the
Person will go soon.

The hallways: long and deafening.
The rooms: screaming with fear.
The walls are closed in, watching firmly,
For miracles also happen here.

A child sees his first glimpse of the world;
A cancer survivor leaves happily after the fight;
A lucky person lies relieved after surgery;
A suffering man closes his eyes.

-

Artificial home-like furniture, hands sanitized.
A life is lost and tears appear from words they wish they'd said.
Luck or blessing, yours to name, and flower scent in the air.

But once a body leaves or fails to give away a breath,
Nothing is changed.
The life that lay upon the mattress now ceases to exist,
And the chamber stays a chamber;
For all they are are painted, lurking, killing, curing rooms
And tucked-in-well-made beds.

it takes some people

forty years

two kids

a mortgage

and a divorce

to learn that, sometimes, love doesn't mean a damn thing.

lucky me.

it only took me one you.

Our moments together were
An inconvenience for both,
Necessity for neither,
Desired only by me.

I was a stupid, little girl.

I need not hold back tears
My ducts for you dried out
When my
Faith, love, and trust
Ebbed away with
Disappointing and lackluster years

Dropped down a bottomless pit

Your ability to ignore
My existence remains
Ever admirable
While my sentiments remain
Everlastingly indifferent

I'm a cold-natured soul

When you're an old man
You will think back on the days
You wasted our time,
And turned a blind eye

You'll wonder why your only begotten child left your life

If you are lucky enough to reach an age of old
A numbness so comfortable
Unspeakably whole
On your deathbed
Peacefully waiting
The departure of your soul
Notice,
I won't be there
I've turned a blind eye.

Oh, father, you've taught me too well

They say every seven to ten years you replace all your cells
you shed your skin like a snake, in the night, making dust

these dust motes swirl, a swirling in mourning of stirring,
light filters through glasses on a table, in another's home.

I think of you often, and now, presently, I lie wondering
if you are okay. If you will be okay, if you love me still.

I wonder how badly I broke your heart, and if I will feel it
echoing, if and when you cry out, for me, from little sleep.

I wonder if you will remember my name as good, as clean,
and whole in your mind, untarnished by devoted cynicism

I wonder when we meet for coffee, if you will ask me back,
I wonder what I will say. We said we would meet, will we?

Should we? Would it help us with anything? Will it hurt?
I'm afraid if you hear one word from me, you will unravel

like a spool of film, with you going over and over and over
every memory and analyzing what happened where, when.

I can't tell you where I stopped loving you. I remember one
night, and many of them, each all unforgettable secrets, that

I will tell to my own daughters, maybe, if I am so lucky, of
when we saw the shooting California stars. They were ours.

But, I will not tell them about the night we spent together,
you watched as I cried clutching--scarring--skin with nails,

you didn't know what to do. And then we ran out of things,
and I didn't know if I liked you, or even if I liked me, really.

But, I still hear you, sometimes, with a ripped and raw voice,
that screamed, like an animal, that you only wanted me! No!

I didn't know what I wanted, but, I knew I couldn't stay,
that is how I felt, after so long, with the city impending,

pressingly. I felt forced to stay. I left because I couldn't.
I left you, alone, because I didn't know if I wanted you.

I wanted what I have now. I wanted art. I wanted the city.
I wanted new boys, girls, drinking, laughing, and kissing.

I wanted to know the taste of others that weren't you, and
what it felt like to truly be unsafe, alone, and dependent

on nothing but my own wits, gumption, and self esteem,
I have it. It is rough, but it is more worth it to me to know.

I remember all the weekends in bed, sweetly spent tucked
in the crook of your shoulder, the smell of your neck, us all

talking and laughing, enamored with each other and feeling
of love and euphoria. We'd tell each other our futures, and

we said we'd meet in Paris in ten years, laughing bitterly at
what we all know; that our relationship will come to an end.

That's the thing about first loves, that you are sure of an end.
You were a better man to me than others, that I know surely.

I did not need the roughness of a cruel person to know it then,
and having felt the cruelness of others, I know the real sounds.

But I do not think I can return to you, and be the same woman
that you once wanted, needed, and saw. I am just not the same.

Something in me grows, feverishly, and maybe we will meet,
but I am moving fervently, and too quickly for your nostalgia.

You would be chasing a whiff from a stale perfume bottle,
and a wisp of a will that is just barely out of longing reach.

So my question is, still, will we ever meet again, and if so,
where and when will we each be, and will you want a we?

To whomever is reading this,

First off, let it be known that I do not seek attention, nor do I wish it even in the slightest. See, I most certainly do prefer to be on my own. The spotlight's far too bright anyway. Or at least, that's what I'm trying to tell myself. However, I still can't seem to shake the feeling that this could very well be a cry for help, and that somehow, these words are my last hope. But then again, it is just another humid night, and maybe I'm only writing to make use of my time as I've come to the realization that I won't be falling asleep at any point soon.

I thought I was doing better, I honestly did. I'd started talking to my friends again. Laughing, sharing jokes, maybe even throwing in a genuine smile every once in a while. I mean, I sure as hell knew that I still had a long ways to go, but, things were finally starting to look up for me. Or so it seemed.

What I've never been able to quite fully understand, is how quickly everything can change. In the blink of an eye, really. Life is not a constant; it's a rollercoaster ride filled with ups and downs and bumps and turns and highs and lows and scary moments. A good day can turn into a horrible day in just a fraction of a second, because that's just the way it goes. We're supposed to grin and bear it because, well, we have to. Things change and people change, and life doesn't stop for anybody.

But tell me, what happens when it's a bad day after a bad day after a bad day? What happens when your friends give up on you? When there's no more jokes to be told and a fake smile is the only thing that will force the corners of your mouth to curve upward? See, maybe I was wrong before. Maybe life really is a constant sometimes; because it seems to me that all I've got are constant feelings of darkness. Depression. Loneliness. Regret. Hatred.

I don't hate the world though, trust me. It's a beautiful place. And maybe, just maybe, if things get better I'll sail the seven seas and travel to all the different countries and just let the greatness of this world engulf me and swallow me whole. I'd like that, I really would. You see, I love this world. It's above and beyond anything I could ever imagine. I don't even hate life, for that matter. The very fact that we are here today has got to be the biggest miracle there is. But then there's my life, which is a whole different story.

Don't get the wrong idea though. I am not complaining about my life. I have a roof over my head, I have food to eat, clean water, an amazing family, and so much more. There are children in this world who I'm sure would love to be me; children who don't have the money to attend school, or even to eat a decent meal. There are people getting raped, assaulted, bullied, and treated poorly every day. I am so lucky that I don't have to deal with any of that. So, why am I so unsatisfied? Why can't I just be grateful for everything that I have?

The thing is, I hate myself. Not only that though, I hate the way I've chosen to live my life. I hate the person looking back at me in the mirror each day, and I hate these thoughts in my head; screaming insults at me every second, loud enough to drown out everything that is good. I've forgotten how to appreciate the little things; like the fresh smell after a day of rain, or long walks on the beach, or laying down on cool grass to look up at the stars on a hot summer night. I guess I'm just too preoccupied with the things I should have done or shouldn't have done, not even thinking about the things that I still can do.

I'm a disappointment. A failure. I have put humans to shame. Why am I still here, when I clearly do not belong in a world of such beauty? Everything I touch gets spoiled; even myself. I should never have been born, but I was. And here I am still, but for what reason? What good can ever become of me? Should I just end it all right here and now, or would that do more harm than good? I don't know...

What I do know is this: I used to have hopes and dreams, always wishing that things would turn out in the end. But it's different now. I'm plummeting down into a tunnel of darkness, and the light that once could be seen near the end is now burnt out. I have no way of escaping.

Hope all is well on your end.

Much love,

Ridley