I had a dream the bananas in our garden were ripe.
You: shiny eyed, ragged nailed in the dirt.
I dreamt of you-
Licking the honey that ran off my chin, slip sliding down neck, pooling in collarbone.
I dreamt you called me your honey;
the hum of worker bees woke me up.
I can't remember if it was a dream-
the day you would bruise the bananas in your fist,
saying it was a bad year to grow.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
when god closes a door, he opens a window, ma used to say. it was really me, chubby, scared hands pushing them closed, slamming. shuddering hinges, cracks spiderwebbing to the ceiling. not to protect; she saw growing from the seed she planted--- born bad, fruit bruised on the branch. instead of first words and steps, it was first irrationalities, the turn of the cycle that would consume us both. but she couldn’t throw me out. i may be the brown spot on the peach, but i’m still sweet. my juice will run down your chin when you bite into me. i will linger, sticky between your fingers. you could throw out the pit. but she planted me, and a crooked tree grew.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
I imagine parting your lips would feel like dipping my hands into a bag of uncooked
rice,
starchy sweet,
falling between my fingers, yielding.
I imagine you holding my papercut wrists, my papercut heart together with trembly
hands, scotch tape and just enough pressure to fill up the spaces,
just for a little while.
Baby girl, you’d say, when I’d consider asking you to help me pick up the pieces.
Carrying them carefully, like a bird’s egg,
like the day no backward glances were cast,
eyes set, head set, a measured pace.
Stop it, dewdrop, as I held my breath, waiting for the pieces to drop again,
tiny cracks multiplying into a pattern like the afghan at the foot of my bed,
the way my hands splintered when you held them in yours.
Listen: imagine the landscapes that fill our bodies--
the curves where I would nestle my head,
the warm folds where I’d hide,
the sinkholes and leaks you’d try to patch up, to stop up.
Listen to me, honeysuckle girl.
Your elbows are too sharp,
like the point of blades that fit so snugly into your hand—
that feel like they were once part of you, but left;
no backward glances cast.
Imagine this love-crumb:
let me file you down,
I like it when you’re soft.
Then it doesn’t feel like you’ll shatter when I touch you—
Listen,
just fold up, baby girl.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
I imagine parting your lips would feel like dipping my hands into a bag of uncooked rice,
starchy sweet,
falling between my fingers, yielding.
I imagine you holding my papercut wrists, my papercut heart together with trembly hands, scotch tape and just enough pressure to fill up the spaces,
just for a little while.
Baby girl, you’d say, when I’d consider asking you to help me pick up the pieces.
Carrying them carefully, like a bird’s egg,
like the day no backward glances were cast,
eyes set, head set, a measured pace.
Stop it, baby girl, as I held my breath, waiting for the pieces to drop again,
tiny cracks multiplying into a pattern like the afghan at the foot of my bed,
the way my hands splintered when you held them in yours.
Listen: imagine the landscapes that fill our bodies--
the curves where I would nestle my head,
the warm folds where I’d hide,
the sinkholes and leaks you’d try to patch up, to stop up.
Listen to me, baby girl.
Your elbows are too sharp,
like the point of blades that fit so snugly into your hand—
that feel like they were once part of you, but left;
no backward glances cast.
Imagine this, baby girl:
let me file them down,
I like it when you’re soft,
like me.
Then it doesn’t feel like you’ll shatter when I touch you—
Listen,
just fold up, baby girl.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
Everyone was talking about Montana, while the nicotine stained moon shed it’s light over the sad whiskey-drunk outside the dive bar,
Closing Time playing softly through broken glass and furtive glances.
The careless of me floated through conversations,
was pushed away by my own fluttering hips
and the sobriety of being somewhere unfamiliar.
The careful of me smiled at the smoke, reached and stumbled through
the point of no return.
Arms slung around hips, sleepy, disinterested laughter:
everyone slow-dancing their way home.
Me: drawing in the dirt between the curb and the road,
the asphalt sweetly jumping up to meet me.
Me: kissing the nearest kneecaps,
please be my Montana.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
You fell down the stairs and slid slowly into that yellow-smelling pit,
Its murky clouds slowly caressed your shivering skin,
Making you so cold that you thought you were warm, too hot
Until you tried to strip all your clothes off to stop the sweating.
You said it reminded you of the sea,
How it was always there, rocking you to sleep even when you thought your fiery thoughts would never let you rest.
And even though those clouds always followed you, at least they kept you from getting sunburned,
and they would talk to you when you couldn’t even talk to yourself.
When your veins screamed and mocked you, you wanted to pluck at them like violin strings,
But they were off-key so you just pulled, pulled, pulled them out.
It was easy, you said.
So I started closing my eyes every time I walked down the stairs.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:21 PM UTC
I knew I shouldn’t listen. But your eyes convinced me, all devil-like and crinkly around the edges. You painted me up and muddled my lines so I couldn’t tell where you began. You played your little game so well, and you won- you made me believe. You pulled every rug I had straight out from under me, so of course I let you catch me. The fall was easy, simple as falling asleep. I didn’t question you, didn’t know how to put my fists up and swing. You pulled out my veins and snapped them like violin strings and marveled at the discord, how it was a symphony to your ears. I believed you. You said you wanted to destroy something beautiful- I was not beautiful but I let you do it anyway. You drank me up and smacked your lips and I let you come back for seconds. You made a feast of me and all there’s left are the heart strings- desperately trying to hold me together, with nothing to hold on to. You didn’t like how your voice echoed off of me, so you found your next exhibit space. You said you wanted to destroy something beautiful, but you destroyed me.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
his feet were already numb. he should have listened. they said that running wouldn't get him anywhere; it wouldn't change anything or him. even though his body was number, his mind would never cease to destroy and rebuild itself all over again. he fancied himself a phoenix, but he ignored the burns that were becoming more and more prominent. he ignored the pulling desire to remain ashes, to warm himself in the embers and never again have the burden of a body. he is running, but he is only going from ashes to ashes. its starting to become a lonelier journey, the more his body disappears. they said his bones would crumble and his skin would peel, but that would not change a ******* thing. he'd still be that sorry old pile of ashes, balanced on the border of flames and smoke. everyone told him to set himself on fire. he should have listened.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
when people look at her, they see a girl who’s eyes are wild in her head, who never slows down enough to let the fears catch up. she has bruised knees, she kisses too hard and laughs at her own sadness. she has always just woken up from a nap, talks in riddles and thinks in haikus. she tricks everyone into liking her, but she isn’t capable of liking anyone. she definitely does not like herself. she is broken guitar strings, eggshells and forgotten secrets. but the first time you looked at her with your full moon eyes and too many eyelashes, you saw a girl who just wants to fit into someone like a puzzle piece, she wants to be lost in someone else’s bedsheets. she wants to count the freckles on your shoulder and kiss each one. she wants to sing you to sleep because she never wanted to sing until you looked at her. she wants you to trace the bruises on her heart and then give her new ones, because she is tired of being alone.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
if i fell in love, would you be mad? on a scale of apathy to indifference, i think i can guess how much you didn’t care. when all i wanted was slow smiles and endless cups of tea, you wanted the wind in your hair and drunken mistakes. and i get that, but you didn’t have to treat me like a landfill, like i was a dumping group for your insecurities and wasted time. i’m holding on to you like repressed anger, even though i think i forget how to be angry at you. you’re the years i enjoyed wasting but now i realize there were so many things i could have accomplished. and it’s my own fault for letting your twisted way of loving make me forget how to love myself.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC