The snow is thin and pale today
like that girl –
you thought –
from the Home Depot –
the palette of an empty day
I think, instead
to smooth my hand along your arm
extend dominion 'cross your chest
To till the damp slope of your shoulder
in surging heat
of earthen tones
to find in winter flames
your brow, your cheek, your neck
...your mouth that way...
This is the braille I'm all about
being far-sighted
and just too close
to even focus on you –
your eyes –
and all
the loss
these days
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 2:43 PM UTC
I long to see you already,
Even if the time of our separation—
The distance of a second
Which felt like a lifetime—
Was so short.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
You know the type.
She's probably called something like
Isabella. Rosalie. Ginevra.
and you find her in the sort of novel where
she's outdone by someone called something like
Jane. Agnes. Lucy.
She's remembered in criticism as
Trivial. Silly. Foolish.
She's defined as Shallow. Vain. False gold.
She's analysed as the mirror, the contrast or the foil
and you're supposed to vaguely dislike her.
She'll reaffirm to the reader that the heroine,
whether she be plain or beautiful, is always, in the end,
Rational. Independent. Brave.
She reaffirms the heroine as someone who
learns and grows
while the silly girl is left looking at herself in the mirror.
The thing is sometimes I feel more like the silly girl,
the girl who needs a hand, the girl who reads books
and wants to believe the stories.
Sometimes, I'm looking in the mirror,
chest deep in my own trivial, silly little worries,
looking at the puddles not the lake, and I know.
I know I'd be one of the silly girls,
not the heroine, out there, just surviving.
I'd be one of those silly girls and I hate it - and yet
- what's so wrong with the silly girls?
What's so wrong with the girls who love themselves,
or love the wrong people or love their clothes?
What's wrong with the girls who are
brave but not rational,
independent but trivial,
selfish but practical?
What's wrong with those girls,
because I always find myself preferring
the Ginevras and the Isabellas anyway.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 7:35 PM UTC
Cold gusts and city streets
All around me, history
City lights and late nights
But the best part is the rain
That drenches your body
stains the walls, and floods your feet
Umbrellas out and raincoats on
Forget them
Let yourself get washed away
Drown in the Boston rain
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 6:58 PM UTC
Let the ink write down your sorrows
Let the music drown out your screams
Let the voices in your head take control
Let everything that matters recede
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 3:58 AM UTC
Fingers frantically fidgeting
And eyes darting
Heart racing, lungs hyperventilating
Why is it so hard to say hello?
Head hanging, hands limp
And eyes downcast
Talking through tears
Why can't I say goodbye?
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 12:04 AM UTC
The street lamps have fizzled out
Sidewalks are bare
The buildings are tired
Waiting for someone who isn't there
Clouds have settled
Rain falls to the ground
An abandoned metropolis
Watch the leaves drift down
Cracks race along the walls
And the bricks fall away
They break just like a heart
No one to pick up the remains
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 3:15 AM UTC
You know what's harder than falling for the bad guy?
Falling for the others
The seemingly nice ones
The good guys
The signs are all there afterall,
Everyone can't stop raving about how wonderful he is
The ideal nice guy
And for a moment
Just one moment of blindsidedness
You believe it
You let it consume you
Revelling in the positives
Lacing together each moment spent together
Into a beautiful story
The perfect beginning, middle and end
Designed intricately by yours truly
A potential work of art
Destined for greatness perhaps
Isn't it?
The pride of your masterpiece
destroys you
Engulfing your sense of reality
Blinding you from the truth
The falsehood of it
A piece that depicts nothing
Nothing but an illusion
Another dimensional reality
One you don't live in
And probably never will
And sometimes
In those rare moments of silence
It comes back
The crushing harsh reality
Your foolhardy choices laid bare
And you admit
Quietly to yourself
For who else can your true self be revealed to?
Maybe
Just maybe you were wrong
Those masterful strokes of perfection
The gleaming knighthood of it all
Just a lie?
A veil drawn over your sense of truth
So strong it blinded you
Completely
Drowning you in its falsehoods
The shores of reality no more than a distant memory
You know what's worse than falling for the bad guy?
Falling for the right one.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 1:58 AM UTC
You are my crush.
I feel like I want you.
I feel like I need you.
But you are my crush.
That might be the only thing you are.
I think about you constantly.
So much it hurts.
I want you but do you want me?
Probably not.
You are my crush and that's the only thing you will ever be. Frankly that makes me so crushed.
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
i. Reasons Why
To seek to understand the self.
To put the scattered pieces
together
to form a coherent narrative of
my life.
To understand what pieces are missing
and how to continue without
them.
ii. First Memories
The first memory I have is
of a high chair,
ravioli,
and an unfamiliar older woman.
Mother working.
I explored the house,
a baby gate with dogs behind.
iii. Paranoid Tendencies
Later, Mom with her pistol,
nails in windows,
doors locked,
even internal ones.
Being hushed
told to hide under the desk
with my nieces.
Terrified of what was happening,
she went outside
to clear the perimeter,
certain,
so certain that people are
after all of us.
Why?
I remember her wild green eyes
and her hair of fire.
Nights of this,
waking up to her shooting outside
my window,
cursing at this alleged person
"creeping around."
Nights she would sit in a
small yellow chair,
only meant for kids,
at the door leading from the back room
to the kitchen.
I'd have to ***
but she would clear the rooms
before I went.
That's love.
Protection.
**iv. Missing Father: **** On You**
The first time my father
held me,
I ****** in his face.
So I'm told.
v. Education Impressions
I wandered through the halls,
my first day of
school, Kindergarten,
with no clue where I was going.
Dropped off, late for work.
Always working, the bills had to
be paid.
That's love.
A roof over my head.
Paddled weekly, sometimes more,
in Kindergarten,
age 5.
Apparently I had some disciplinary
issues.
Pulled from this school, onto
the next.
Write-up forms weekly, or more.
I would slip them under the
bathroom door in the morning
while Mom was in a rush,
getting ready for work.
Always being paddled,
coming home to switches and belts
and hands
and a tired Mother.
Nothing abusive,
but that's love.
Discipline.
Fighting, kicking, punching,
pick on me,
try it.
Always fighting.
Their most used punishment was
to walk the fence
during PE.
Needless to say,
I never got my Physical Education.
Moved to another school,
discipline issues
again.
Stopped fighting,
and sacrificed my self-esteem
for it.
The issues continued,
but I graduated and
left.
vi. Missing Father: Formative Years
This is when you were needed most.
I made many poor decisions,
a stupid kid,
with a need for just a bit
of guidance.
I made it on my own though.
vii. Bologna and Ramen
There were special nights,
with an electricity through the air,
when Mom would cook.
Hamburger helper, green beans,
corn, a fresh gallon of
sweet tea, a slice of white bread
to top it off.
A meal for kings in those days.
But, typically, with a single income,
and a house of five,
it was sandwiches and noodles.
I despise bologna and ramen
still.
viii. Missing Father: The Second Time
The second time we met
was in a store my Mom frequented.
I asked you if I should get
a hot sausage.
I didn't find out who I had spoken to
for years.
ix. Control
As a kid I always could figure
out how to make things
go my way.
I would make sure things lined
up
just
right.
Most things are about the order
in which information
is revealed.
You have to see through others' eyes.
It's a ***** side of me,
but I do what I can to keep it at bay.
Still,
it remains.
x. Envy
Family in Auburn,
cousins, Aunts, Uncles.
There was one set in particular.
My Uncle who come from nothing,
as all the others,
and was so determined to have something
out of life.
I always wanted to take his kids'
places.
The nice clothes that didn't smell of cats,
the go-karts and swim lessons and
swing set and pool.
They had it all.
I modeled myself after this Uncle.
I'm going to have something.
Now I do.
xi. Kitchen Floor
I laid in the kitchen floor
at my Sister's trailer
for several hours.
I cried, maybe.
I didn't speak, I just
laid there.
Catatonic.
This is the first thing that
came to mind when I started
realizing the sickness in my mind.
A first clue, if you will.
All of the others fell into place
quickly afterward.
xii. Step-Father
It all started so perfect,
how could there be a demon in
this kind and gentle man?
But manic phases happened.
Regularly.
Usually spurred by alcohol.
He would stay up all night,
with *** after ***
of coffee.
Going through every item
in the house.
He and my Mom would scream,
so late,
she telling him to go to bed,
to get the **** out,
to quit messing with ****
He would call her names
and throw things and make
word salad in the air of money
and get rich quick schemes.
I would pretend to sleep,
most nights I didn't while
he was manic.
I would sleep at school,
and dread the war-zone I'd
step into every day after.
He would finally be arrested
and committed.
This happened for years,
this cycle.
One of the last times it happened,
he put his hands on my niece.
I nearly killed him that night.
He died in a drunk driving
manic-induced spree
not long after.
He was a great man when he wasn't manic.
But that's love.
Through darkness and light.
xiii. Harm
I went through these years
filled with hatred and recklessness.
Lines on my arms,
and a barrel in my mouth,
but I came out the other side.
I know the dark times are here
when I regret not pulling that trigger.
xiv. Missing Father: Unneccessary Hardships
Things didn't have to be that way,
but maybe we are all better
for the suffering.
xv. Driving
I learned to drive by taking my Sister
back and forth to hospitals
because she was fiending for pain meds.
I watched her toss pill after pill down
her throat
for years.
"Migraines."
Aka, withdrawals.
She would scream and incite chaos
until she got her fix.
An addict.
It was not my Sister.
She attempted suicide multiple times.
Eventually the chemicals were too much,
she had a stroke.
I thought I was going to lose her,
my dear Sister.
She's clean now, and
I've never been more proud
of my big Sis.
xvi. A Final Word
My life was not hard,
no harder than anyone else's.
But it was mine.
I look at this myself and say
"oh boo hoo," in contempt of myself,
but it was real.
Somewhere, hidden in this
half-missing puzzle, is the
answer to the question on my
warped views on love and life.
This is my narrative,
these are my beginnings.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC