You make me uncomfortable with your warmth.
In the unyielding heat of your presence,
I melt.
When you leave,
I remember you fondly.
I welcome you with open arms each time you return,
but I am still just a dandelion puff
on the wind of your thoughts.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 4:07 PM UTC
Cobwebs for eyes
and a cotton ball tongue.
I can't see what everyone else does
and even if I did,
how could I tell you
it hurts?
No one ever expected my buried body
to climb back out of the grave
I dug for myself.
No one ever expected my blackened lungs
to draw breath again,
to breathe the air that smothered me.
Twisted claws
gnashing teeth
slimy scales
And when I wake up
I finally see
that the nightmare
was always me.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC
She’s got a cheap cigarette
she uses to bury us all in smoke.
It hangs off her lips
and wobbles when she talks.
She’s cracked open a new book,
another ****** romance.
It’s always romance,
she says, taking a drag from her cigarette.
*It’s in everything, in every **** book.*
Each word she speaks is followed by a puff of smoke,
small clouds that form as she talks
and roll off of the curve of her lips,
the very same lips
that told me romance
is for suckers, told me talks
of love are talks of nothing rolled into a cigarette
she’d never smoke.
She buries her nose in her book
once more, leaving me to stare at the book
cover and nervously gnaw at my lips.
The empty space between us is full of tension and smoke
and somehow, a stubborn romance
that hangs in the air like a half hit cigarette
hangs on the edge of an ashtray. She talks
to me, around me, and about me, but our talks
never include that tension, though I could write a book
full of the way she glances past her cigarette
at me, how her inviting lips
beg me to foolishly romance
her by hurling apprehensive smiles through her wall of smoke.
The tiny wisps of smoke
that swirl around her dance as she talks
about this dime-store romance
novel she happened to pick up, a devastating book
about a man who spent his life with his lips
sewed shut. She finally puts out her cigarette.
The smoke from her cigarette peters out and silence settles over the two of us.
I move my lips and no sound comes out. When she finally talks
again, I cross my fingers in hopes of being the next romance book she wants to discuss.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
She’s got a cheap cigarette
she uses to bury us all in smoke.
It hangs off her lips
and wobbles when she talks.
She’s cracked open a new book,
another ****** romance.
It’s always romance,
she says, taking a drag from her cigarette.
It’s in everything, in every **** book.
Each word she speaks is followed by a puff of smoke,
small clouds that form as she talks
and roll off of the curve of her lips,
the very same lips
that told me romance
is for suckers, told me talks
of love are talks of nothing rolled into a cigarette
she’d never smoke.
She’s burned pages of a book
before, left small holes in her **** book
when a gasp left her lips.
The empty space between us is full of tension and smoke
and somehow, romance
that hangs in the air like a half hit cigarette
hangs on the edge of the ashtray. She talks
of mystery and science and pool and our talks
never include that tension, though I could write a book
full of the way she glances past her cigarette
at me, how her inviting lips
beg me to foolishly romance
her by hurling nervous smiles through her wall of smoke.
Clichéd as it may be, smoke
alarms scream when she so much as talks
about any sort of romance,
if even just the fictional sort in her book
and I want to sear her with my fire, burn her with my lips
just like she burns her cigarette.
The smoke from her cigarette doesn’t bother me anymore
and I can’t help but watch her lips when she talks.
I keep holding on to hope that maybe I can be a chapter in her ****** romance book.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
At first, you think a thief in the night
has come to take you away.
And though you know that can’t be right,
you pick the truth that suits you.
A bump, a grunt, an earsplitting curse,
all signs that point to heartbreak.
Not thieves at all, but that means it’s worse--
Dad’s coming up to your room.
You throw your blankets over your head.
He makes his way up the stairs,
all sweaty cheeks and feet made of lead,
all cruel thunder and bluster.
You wish that he would pour it all out,
the drink that makes him this way.
You want to kick and you want to shout
and break your turtle figurines,
the ones he buys you every time
he smashes your lamp to pieces
or you make his blood pressure climb
by being small and worthless.
What’s next, more holes punched into the wall?
Or maybe red-faced screaming?
How can your dad love alcohol
more than he ever loved you?
The Svedka never braided his hair
or scratched his back or hugged him.
It didn’t have a father who wasn’t there
even when he was.
Hide under the blankets for now,
little lamb. It’ll all be okay real soon.
This is the last time he’ll come to your room
full of fire and mixed drinks.
You’ll still be afraid and broken inside,
but at least he’ll be broken, too.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
The chickens watch us
with their tiny T-Rex eyes,
their funny feather hats shaking
and pulsing
with Heaven only knows.
Collecting warm brown eggs
from haughty hens
is an honor.
That’s what Papa says, at least.
Papa built these coops himself,
I tell all the chickens.
He made them because he loves you
or maybe just because he wants your eggs.
I’m not sure which,
I say,
but it’s one of those two
or both.
The silkies are doubtful
and pacing
and ready to peck me into a bare corn cob,
but I’ve got an egg carton to fill
and this is the first time I can help
because Grandma isn’t home.
Papa humors my toe-turns
and my untamed joy
the way that only Papa can,
with squinty jokes
and whistle-wheezy laughs.
An almost dropped egg here,
a yellow yolked yelp there,
and my egg carton is full.
Papa wears a sunny-side up smile
and the chickens don’t mind if we sing.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
A needle, a thimble, a canvas.
a fine line of damp sand between soaked and not,
a drop of old salt to meet new wounds,
a wild freedom that cannot be hung.
A needle, a thimble, a canvas.
Thread together the torn teddies,
the favorite brass buttons,
the rusted gold earrings,
the letters unopened, still waiting.
These are patches on the vest of the ocean floor.
The vastness of the littered basement
has many secrets yet,
but some holes cannot be filled.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
These bobber and blueberry plaid sheets
don’t seem as sleek as they once were.
I don’t think I washed them last week.
A put-together person
really ought to wash their sheets
at least once a month
because wrinkles and stains
don’t just take care of themselves.
Didn’t our mother raise us better?
I ask the neatly put together bed
that silently sleeps beside mine.
Although, I suppose,
the ticking of the clock
is the only answer I’ve got
anymore.
That bed only stares,
always stares.
That bed is done in purples and reds
and I always said it could use
a dash of black or white.
And when it won’t sleep at night,
I flip its radio on
and I keep country going,
even though I can change it
to play anything that I like.
The radio sits on an empty dresser
next to a bare table now,
one that I really should dust.
You’d be surprised how much collects
when no one stores
deodorant and lip gloss there.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
The ring, it fits, it knows its place,
much more than even I.
I know that’s always been the case--
the ring, it fits, it knows its place
and I must match its screaming pace.
It’s gold and bold and I am shy,
but the ring, it fits, it knows its place,
much more than even I.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 10:48 AM UTC
Bench.
Book.
Breeze.
Sunlight
peeking
through
the
trees.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC