What are my fears, my hopes, my dreams made of—
are they made of the softest silk or a
pile
of
bricks
strewn in the corner.
Are they made of the
lightest or
feathers clouds
or are they just as heavy and ugly as my fears.
What am I made of,
Am I made of anything at all?
I can't remember the last time I felt like
I am more than a test score,
an application, a list, a graph of numbers comparing me
and a thousand other students
just
like
me.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
Sleepiness has consumed
me lately—
my eyelashes
have little
tiny weights
on the tip
dragging my eyelids down
I don’t know
if I am
tired of life
or resting
to start anew.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
She jumps in bed
letting the tide
of blankets
cover her.
She drowns in cotton,
in fleece,
in tears.
Plunging into the waves
watching bubbles rise
she chooses to go
the other way.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
I wonder
how many times
I will lie
by your side,
face-caked,
back-turned,
pretending to be asleep.
I wonder
how many times
we will lie
without saying a word.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
I still care.
I’m still sad.
I still miss you.
But
you’ve moved on
and no matter
how much poetry
I write about you,
It is unable
to fill the hole
in my heart
that aches
just
for
you.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
i held your hand
as it grew cold
i looked into your eyes
as they dulled
i felt for your heart
as it stopped beating
i cried for your life
as you lost it.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
I wake up
Every morning
Crusted over,
Like some sort of pastry.
The effects
From a night of crying
While I sleep—
Again.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
I never got to say goodbye,
never got to touch your hand—
so many times I tried— I try.
You evaded me, you were so sly,
clowning about with your band—
I never got to say goodbye.
My father called to tell me why,
his voice hollow, canned—
So many times I tried— I try.
That final day I began to cry—
my mother’s tears run on command—
I never got to say goodbye.
There was not one dry eye,
“Let go”— I hear a man demand—
So many times I tried— I try.
Even now, I wish to fly,
To say ‘this was not the plan’—
I never got to say goodbye,
So many times I tried— I try.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
There is a boy walking, maybe ten or eleven,
a skateboard under one arm,
his shirt branded with
THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.
And I wonder, what did she say?
Did she say she liked his tricks
or his ratty sweatshirt?
Did he blush,
swishing his hair in response,
exuding confidence and cockiness, in the mean time remembering his mother,
calling out to him before he left the house.
Did she say “Son,
don’t forget your helmet!”
Even though he was already gone—
Or was she really a he,
who sat him down a few months ago and said
he’d be gone for awhile
that he’d see him soon—
it’s been six months—
and maybe, when the boy heard this, he ran out.
And maybe when he gets older maybe he will run out more often,
to hang out with those who are deemed to be
“the wrong crowd”
and he will be drunk and high,
stumbling under the streets,
above the lights,
hearing-but-not-hearing everything that she is telling him.
She is telling him the secrets of the universe.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
He shot himself in the head,
or he hung himself from a tree,
or he swallowed a whole bunch of pills.
Not that it matters much, after all, what’s done is done.
I can hear you praying each night (you think I’m asleep).
You never ask him why, rather, you ask him what the pills tasted like,
ask if he thought you should try them. I watch you try them.
You spit them back out, repulsed, saying they’re sour,
and the next night I hear you praying, quieter, yet, asking
what the bullet felt like in his head, in his chest or wherever he shot himself,
asking if it brought inner peace, if it brought solace or silence. He is silent.
The next morning your eyes
and the chasms beneath them search mine, scour the pupils, the lens, the iris,
thinking you will find answers since he provided none but
I have none— I’ve never been a good student.
I’ve never known the answer.
Whenever I was called on in class, I was always silent,
but I always had a doodle,
or scrap of a poem, the letters so close together
but so far from making sense,
like you, when you come home from your buddy’s,
your eyes red and weepy because you’ve hit the bowl again and you’re coming back down.
Somewhere between the melting windows and the flaming couch, you tell me you’ve dropped acid again
and I try to lay you down but you refuse because you will drown; the bed is an ocean, after all,
and you have no idea how to swim.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC