thump-thump. thump-thump.
my heart. still beats.
i am. alive.
my blood. still runs.
am i. awake?
or am. i dead?
thump-thump. thump-thump.
thump-thump. thump thump.
my blood. still runs.
i am. alive.
my breath. is quick.
am i. alive?
or am. i dead?
thump-thump. thump-thump.
thump-thump. thump-thump.
my breath. is quick.
i am. alive.
my mind's. racing.
am i. alive?
or am. i dead?
thump-thump. thump-thump.
thump-thump. thump thump.
my mind's. racing.
i am. alive.
my hands. they shake.
am i. alive?
or am. i dead?
thump-thump. thump-thump.
thump-thump. thump-thump.
my hands. they shake.
i am. alive.
i try. to breathe.
am i. alive?
or am. i dead?
thump-thump. thump-thump.
thump-thump. thump-thump.
i try. to breathe.
i am. alive.
i can't. get air.
am i. alive?
or am. i dead?
thump-thump.
thump.
thump.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 10:08 PM UTC
Sometimes everything you know has to burn
so you can rise from the ashes and grow into something better.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 10:49 AM UTC
When he was seven and I was ten
I kept a collection of things I loved on my headboard.
A watch from my grandma.
A war medal of my great-grandfather's.
A medal I had won after a hard match.
A small trinket that he had made for me.
He asked me about it once, then things started appearing on his.
His first knife from our grandpa.
A picture of great-grandpa in the war.
A small flag pin.
A small cross I carved for him.
When he was ten and I was thirteen
Grandma and Grandpa died within the same month and left things for us.
A eagle sculpture for each of us.
A ring for me.
Grandpa's collection of ties for him.
A switchblade for me.
An old .22 for him.
When I was getting ready on the day of the funeral, I heard a soft tap on the door
And when I opened it to see his sheepish expression framed in the collar of a button up shirt I didn't say anything
and taught him how to tie a tie.
When he was thirteen and I was sixteen
I saw him spiraling down the same path I had.
He sunk into himself.
I noticed.
He didn't want to talk about it right now.
I didn't make him.
When he finally came to me with tears on his cheeks and admitted he needed help,
I helped.
That Christmas, I bought him a wallet and he gave me a small wrapped present
That rattled slightly when he handed it to me.
It was a cross on a silver chain.
The wallet is getting worn out
and the cross still hangs on the inside of my shirt
close to my heart
just like he is.
~~
Dear Little Brother,
You might be three years younger,
and your green eyes still filled with wonder,
but you're learning how the world works
and how to understand each of its quirks.
You need to be careful out there
that you aren't scared and caught unaware
Learn from my mistakes, and you'll find
We're separate people, not of the same mind.
Don't forget to breathe sometimes
I swear to God that it's not a crime,
and though they may tell you you're too soft,
Do not, Do Not let your heart become frost.
Little brother, learn to fight your own fight,
and learn to let your light let others shine bright.
You are not a waste of space,
and you'll need to find your own place.
When I'm gone, I need you to understand
some things are worth taking a stand.
You need to fight for what you believe
and don't you dare waste time to grieve.
Don't you dare waste time to grieve.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 10:09 PM UTC
My hair may be cropped short,
and I may wear unconventional clothing
and I may not do the things expected of "polite young women"
and I may love whom you say I have no right to love
but that does not give you the right to shame me.
That does not give you the right to try to change me.
That does not mean I have to find words to explain me.
Ego sum qui sum.
I am who I am,
and I will not define myself by what you expect me to be.
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 10:05 PM UTC
The sun fights to stay above the horizon, but longs to sink beyond the hills and the trees to bid the world around us good night.
One by one, stars become visible in the quickly darkening sky, eventually forming constellations that weave themselves into the universe.
They tell stories, legends, myths: Orion and his loyal dog, Canis; Apollo's messenger, Corvus; Draco, the fearsome dragon.
None of them can pull the same feelings from me as you do.
You're warm, soft, silent; your body is flush against mine with your head against mine and your hand rests on my stomach.
It's late, and my parents have both texted me multiple times.
"Where are you?"
"Are you safe?"
"Young lady, if you stay out too late again that cell phone is gone"
I should go home. I should be home.
I should be parked in my driveway and walking in the front door.
The only problem is that right now, in this perfect moment,
I feel more at home in your arms than I ever have anywhere.
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 6:06 PM UTC
Life is a song where everyone dances to their own beat
Some learn to dance quickly, some are born with two left feet
Some are taught how to dance and teach others how
I've finally found my feet and my rhythm
But you're threatening to throw me off
With your winking and your flirting and your soft smiling
Could I learn to dance along to your song instead?
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC
the anxiety
is the roaring
pacing monster
in the back of my closet
that i can only
keep caged for so long
and the bone-achingly
insatiable void
is the silent
shapeless creature
that lurks in the back of my mind
waiting to strike
when my back is turned.
i can't fight two fronts at once.
i can't win both battles simultaneously.
therefore, a choice must be made.
which is the lesser of two evils?
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 5:48 PM UTC
when he was six, he wanted to be a soldier
and he ran around with sticks and a too-big helmet on his head
and a raging fire of courage in his heart
and his grandfather pulled him into his lap and asked what he fought for.
his chest puffed up
and his chin jutted out
and his little voice squeaked, "I fight for what is right!"
and his grandpa shook his head and shooed him off to play.
when he was ten, he still wanted to be a soldier
and he came home one day with bruises on his elbows
and too much hurt in his heart
and his father asked him what was wrong.
his chest fell
and his chin shook
and his voice quivered when he said, "I fight for what's right."
and his father gave him a hug and talked to him about it.
when he was twelve, he still wanted to be a soldier
and he tried harder than everyone else to prove he had it in his head
and the determination in his heart
and his father got him his first .22 and showed him how to shoot it.
his chest puffed up
and his chin jutted out
and his voice cracked when he said, "I fight for what's good!"
and his father shook his head and taught him more.
when he was sixteen, he still wanted to be a soldier
and he walked around with a broken hand from having too big a head
and too much anger in his heart
and his doctor asked him what he did
his chest burned
and his chin clenched
and his voice was more growl when he said, "I fight for what's right."
and his doctor shook his head and told him not to do it again.
when he was eighteen, he signed up for the army
and he pushed himself harder to prove he still had it in his head
and the motivation in his heart
and his grandfather got sick that year and called him to his bedside.
his chest ached
and his head fell
and his voice broke when he said, "I still fight for what's right."
and his grandfather's hand went limp in his.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 9:26 AM UTC
Cut me open, and all you'll find are words
that I couldn't say/can't say/won't say
(because I was a coward
because I'm weak
because I'm scared).
They'll spill like ink onto the carpet
and this is not a stain that will come out easily
(or even at all)
because while it's true that sticks and stones break my bones,
words will be the thing that will **** me.
They will betray me in the worst possible way
and go from saving my life
to ending it.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 8:40 PM UTC
There are no trees.
Well, that's a lie. There are a few, but they're mostly planted by people in straight lines that run east to west, west to east.
There are few trees, and there's a lot of topsoil not being held down by root systems. When there's a drought, the soil blows around in dust storms that can last hours, days, weeks, all because of a lack o' rain.
A lack o' rain, for Christ's sake.
And because of the lack o' rain, windmills scatter across the landscape, pumping water up from the aquifer.
What for?
The freakin' cattle, of course. There's more cattle than people out here, but they're as trapped as we are; miles and miles of fences cut boundaries into the acres of rolling green hills.
Cut boundaries, cut boundaries, cut boundaries.
More boundaries are shaped by the railroad and the highway system (Thank you, President Eisenhower), but they also link the small towns dotting the landscape.
Towns. Not cities. Towns of five hundred people or less. More often less than not. (Villages?)
Everything here is old. Worn, not by use, but by being there, by being beat down on by the wind, and the sun, and years and decades of weather.
People included.
"Washed out" isn't the right wording. "Tired" is more like it.
And predominately white.
(Sorry, Native Americans. We kind of kicked you out and treated you like you were the invaders.)
Ruddy skin. Scarred arms. Calloused hands.
Tattered clothes covering hardened skin.
Even the kids are like that. Lookin' like they're ten years older than they really are.
There are two types of people here.
The first type is rooted here. The family's been there for decades, the farm-ground's been owned for longer. (Depression-era, you understand.)
(I was born in this house, I will die in this house.)
The second type is driven by the desire to get out, get out, get out. But get out of what?
(Fences, you understand, are not only physical, and all fences out here are made from barbed wire.)
(Barbed wire hurts. Wear leather gloves when you're fencing.)
The people technologically advanced, but in the ways that work best for working hard and earning money. Tractors. Combines. Medicine for the livestock.
Sure, you ain't got cell service half the time, but who needs that?
And who wants to listen to anything but the country radio station that plays ads half the time, the only station that comes in?
When it snows, nobody waits for the maintainer. (Snow plow on steroids, for the city folk.) They put the loader on the heaviest tractor they have and hope they don't get stuck.
There's a lot of hoping that happens here.
Hope that it rains. Hope that nobody gets sick, because most can't afford to be. Hope the gamble they took pays off. Hope they don't get stuck. Hope that the kids don't get in a wreck in a place with no cell service.
Football's a weirdly big thing here.
Every fall Friday night, if someone doesn't show up at the field to watch the game, they're either sick or drunk off their *** and banned from the school grounds.
(Sorry, there's swear words embedded in my blood. It's part of the dangers of living here.)
And if someone's not in sports, they're looked down upon.
Outcast.
The internet is a good escape. (If you've got it.)
So is television. (If you're into it.)
So is drugs and alcohol. (If you're legal or ballsy enough to do it.)
But.
But there's a certain sense of freedom that crashes through your veins when you're riding ******** across an empty pasture, the horse sweating and huffing and puffing below you like a train, your arms outstretched like your free, free, free.
But you're not and you've got chores to do and by the time you've put the horse away and fed them and checked cattle and told your boss (your grandpa or dad) that you've taken care of everything, it's dark.
So you drag your tired, sore self home and shower, letting the water wash away the sweat and the mud and the dirt (and sometimes the blood) from your aching body and change into a baggy shirt and pants and crash onto your bed.
(With two blankets - a jean blanket made by family and a quilt also made by family.)
And you sleep
and you do it all again tomorrow
with the tired people and the tired animals and the landscape that calls to you, no matter who you are.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 6:16 PM UTC