Daily,
I fight over whether to resurrect
memories of savory heat and the humming of your body
or the distaste for my opinions dripping from your tongue.

I will be pulled forever.
But not by your hand.

her
everywhere
in the faces of television
a shadow cloaked behind
the once bright memories of us
settled stark
dark

like when your lids
shut
vision no longer viable
a quick closing of reality

the reality is
in a world of forgetfulness
or real time
she’s there

so then
will she too come to learn
the pain
of not having all of you
the ever-present existence
that you don’t possess the ability
to know yourself without someone else

will she too
entertain nights of
becoming vacant
numb

will she too
outlive you

You looked at me like an imposer on your norm. As if I were a dreaded interaction with a distant Aunt. “You’ve grown so much” , as you look back glassy eyed, wondering how you can take up such space in a strangers memory without consent. You kiss her on the cheek and let your words skim the surface of daily nothings, to appease the peace.

You once looked at me like an unexpected find. As if you walked into a book store with side-eyed intentions, even still, encountering a book with enticing decor. You decide to crack it open, intrigue urging you to check if it’s worth it’s embellished coat. You make the gamble, buy the book, read a line and sink, you’re hooked.

Until it gets shelved among it’s fellow bound narratives, to hopefully one day be leafed through, touched by uncommitted fingers on a day with extra time. You read through a few pages that once gripped your soul but now simply invite an additional intake of breath, only to give credit that it once meant more. You close the story and put us back in it’s rightful place.

You’ll reopen it again.
You’ll draw more breaths.
You’ll make nice with a distant aunt.
And you’ll keep giving books a chance.
And you will forever look at me with foreign eyes.

I wish time would slow down
let me catch up

scrolling through old snapshots
dated still lifes
of once quite
present moments

gifts of time
when I gazed towards the future
and assessed
“will I want to savor and long for this later?
yes

yes
how I long
lust and savor
the source of my current reflections
within these lines

Memories. Moments. Minutes.
a collaboration, congregation
coagulated confines
of precious compartmented time

still
I am separated from particular points of potential paradise
indefinitely

It didn’t feel good
But it felt
And for that
I can ask nothing else
_

No me sentí bien
Pero me sentí
Y por eso
no puedo pedir nada más

the whole world is just sitting on my chest
3 to 1 i take a deep breath
within the corners of my mind i wept
there's been dry humor
telling me to grab my own flesh as ease
of comfort
sometimes that is all you have
said my mother digging in the garden,
lodged 3 jobs deep

Eyes familiar with the small closing of the lid
like a door slamming shut
I'm on the other side

Foot steps leave and I am left
the cold floor pressing against my naked arm left
trying to push me up

Heavy,
I remember what I hear and don't
I fight, me and them
toe to toe
I lay still
my body will not respond to ambivalence

I find a calm sliver
the lid returns to open
slowly safely
making sure I get the experience

I'm in a different room
but my body is the same
I have been so many in one

The walls were painted white. When you touched them, ran your hand palm facing against the absence of color, it seemed, it felt, as though some of the white would come with you. Almost dust like. It was always odd to pull away and see the same palm as before, swearing some of the wall had just come off.  My palm can still feel that white. Perhaps it did brush off in dust patterns, just not in the ways I thought. I did that quite often, running my hand against those cheap painted old walls. Walls my mother never let me paint a different color. She dreaded any foreseen stressor, like one of her opinionated daughters complaining about a choice she thought was right. God forbid I chose a color and didn’t like it after application. Through this I learned both that homes and rooms are just places, to be filtered through rather than homed and I learned fear of choice. I make choice almost recklessly now, but I am simply a separate person.

I touched those walls so often and it’s not til now that I wonder how stacked lifeless dead wood was supposed to make me feel at home anyways. Did the builders of the structure know that what they believed to be created shelter became my cage? Of course they didn’t. But I do wonder if they ever wonder about what their untied labor later creates. White caging walls. Brittle, able to be toppled by the wrath of god, yet my little fists could do nothing. I suppose I am to be the image of god only, not the strength.

I touched those walls at night, after a long evening of eating honey nut cheerios on the edge of my green bed, watching mindless tv, only able to focus on my visions of perceived joy I would get from emotionless eating and the immediate pleasure I would receive in my brain after regurgitating it only 30 minutes later. Any later and my body might have begun to absorb the nutrients. And god forbid I became formidable in any way. I wanted to be thin and brittle, simply an image. God’s strength never moved me nor my walls. How caged I was by my own person. I remember that joy  as much as the sadness that no one would ever hear me. Would know what was happening to me. I was simply a room in another  room. It was quiet everywhere and the air always felt thin.  

The green on that bed really only served to emphasize the white walls more. It was not mine as nothing ever really was. They were white like paper.

How confusing
How saddening
you see
I am putting out my own light
and quenching yours
simultaneously

Laying my body down
palm resting on the back of my head
ready for a new one

The grief that comes from change
is the most personal death

and source of new breath

So let's hear it
for me
and me

The dawn breaks
and the tumultuous night mends

Eyes peel awake
to neatly tend
to the days routine

Minutes pass
a full belly and future prospects take precedence of thought
as the first day hour ends

I take a look at the time
and the path often traveled
through the front door
Always foot forward
in pursuit of forever more

my dominant had turns counter-clockwise and opens
me up to see
that she
has stroked the sky's surface with her smooth bristles
pinks, yellows, blues

hues galore

I maintain gaze forward
toward
a potential passing moment
of oft overlooked wonder

and with this shifting point of view
her artistry adored

I think to myself

maybe
I will look back
no more

It’s a crisp cool morning.
The sun has broken through the constraints
of your blinds.

I wake up from a night of half-awake enveloping security,
pulling me from distance
to as close as our bodies can manage.
My eyes open and I see the lines
of the outside world
interrupting
the perfect canvas of your familiar features.

You wake up with jokes.
The best you;
smiling with teeth,
Teaching the morning sun what it really means
to bring light to a room.

We don’t say much cause there’s not much to say.
The air clear,
like my mind.
You come up from behind.
One arm, then the next.
Cloaking me
in serenity.

You hold me tight.
My eyes close and my lips curl up
like the hair at the nape of your neck
when you haven’t cut it in a while.

This is it.
The feeling of pure, easy, love.
The cessation of thoughts
of anything else but the importance of us
This -
My ideal.

Yours is the future,
Situational perfection,
A world where everything falls into place through a
convoluted combination of calculations and chance.
Where once we hit certain points
you can fully invest in me.

I want what we already had.
You’re future.
I’m memories.

Am I your home,
or your happy place?

I’ll spell it out.

Home is a place you feel comfortable.
It’s a natural
Habitual location
Of which to return.
                It’s full of
Memorable marble in
Every direction,
it’s halls having been tread through
countless times.

step
        by
             step

The walls have been a gradual work of art
stacked on with tangible squares
of people and places you care
about so much you wish them to be
in your peripheral daily routine.
Hand-held history.

A happy place

is what you think of
anywhere,
a transferable escape,
a geographical area,
an influential individual,
a conjuring of a fantasy,
of a sweet past pure point in time
that grounds you.

I don’t know if I’m either for you,
but I know
I’m not both.
Perhaps,
I’m snippets.

I’m comfortable, familiar, full of moments
of shared audible joys
tastes and touches.

I'm a fantasy,
an imagined form of who
you
wish me to be.
you
return to me
time and time again.
I'm familiar.
I feel right at home.

So kick your feet up
r  e  l  a  x,
loosen.
Now, sweetheart,
tell me about your day.
Tell me about
what you think of
to escape me.

My mother used to say
if you drop a frog in boiling water
he jumps out.
But if you set him in cool water and slowly up the temp,
he'll adjust until he’s boiling.

Well I’ll tell ya,
it sure is hot in here.
Here,
this *** in which I sit, sweating,
regretting

Boiling over with little atrocities.
A belittling comment here.
A joke at my expense peppered in there.
Red flags bubbling to the surface.

If I had just paid attention to the temp.
If I had turned 180 degrees
to look at the settings and see
that I was sitting in 212,
I would have yelled,
Let me out!

Little did I know
that a little turns into a lot.
That more often than not,
they will not change.
They will just alter their already
steady hand
As they slowly
Up the temp.

My lips feel so heavy
as though laying themselves down
awaiting your arrival
as I once did

The room is so dimly lit
and this seat just uncomfortable enough
not to sit.
For too long, at least.
I shuffle, I raise my knees,
anything to see
if I can make this fit.
But it's too bad and my back's tight.
Enough to think - alright,
I'll move.
Maybe another chair is better.
But being a little uncomfortable keeps me awake.
Always trying to see if in a different state
it could serve me.
And really my feet sure are tired.
So I sit back down
and I wait
until the night turns late.
I shift, I sink, I adjust, I think
about how this room is so dimly lit,
and how this seat is just uncomfortable enough
not to sit.

It took more than a year
to believe, sincere
that being owned
is not the same
as being known.

bend over
bend backwards
lean over
yell these words from life
all different and quite the same
i'll live until I perfect your name

i walk endlessly around my brain tunnels
reconstitution of my puzzle pieces
my life is the whole framed and the game

of the tunnels i fall into the deepest ones
and try to transcribe
work that was never supposed to be mine

i will spend the rest of my lives
perfecting your name
letting my teeth touch, quick
a greeting for your Name's
arrival on my lips, a meeting
9 to forever

you get me out of my brain
i have learned to fully love
these days

in pictures
i always draw your neck too long.
even my own hands know
that i was never your equal.

----------------------------------------          ---------------­--------------------------
                                      ­                 Two
                                                   rhythmic
                                            hands       ­ work
                                     together.            seamless
                                   ­   routine                creation
                              ­   of pristine                patterns.
                                    life sewn              stitch by
                                           stitch.            nimbly        
                                                inter       laced
                                                   into   your
                                                      fabric
                                                        and
                                                        you
                                                         mi
                                                          n
  ­                                                        e
       ­                                                    .
                                                           .
                                                           .

Needle points of time
threading tighter
more succinct
on the brink
of a fine
work of art
to cloak and comfort
even whilst apart

Despite it all
doubt and difference
weaved it's way in

Isn't it funny
how taking out one
can unravel the whole

until all that's left is that endless thread
that you use
to string me along

My laughs are now
at the top of my throat
Our situation
now being what chokes me

My moans have become
breathing exercises
to calm down
my tears
now pools of long-term fear
rather than
temporary turmoil

My hands
now pick up pens and put
pain to paper
tears to trees
rather than reaching to yours
in ease

now
let go of me please

Rainfall brings so much clarity
amplifying absence
creating space for quiet weather
and crisp evening skin feel appreciation

the rain is heavy down
but will let up
she is a trailblazer
a perspective paradigm

embodiment of change, need, rest, force, release, and control
the rain is change
a shallow experience of temporary depth
tumultuous girl

there is no one like her
yet here i am

The fair was this week
and to be frank I'm a wreck.

The idea of being merry
spins sickeningly in my head.

My throat tight from choking down
the blurry memories whirring about.
I'm worrying about looking merry.
Just go-round those thoughts you'll be fine.
"It just takes time".

But here's the thing;
when you go in a circle,
no matter how high, low, or fast,
you'll pass by that same spot;
the present quickly matching the past.

You're stuck in that same rotation
until someone else decides it's done.
Glued in an orbit otherly orchestrated,
the blind faith of all in the hands of one.

Spinning, turning
stomach churching,
Why can't I undo what's been done?
Why couldn't I be your only one?
Where am I when others are having fun?
Is this all for not or not for none?
I wish I could run.

But up here,
elevated inches closer to the sun,
I'm stuck
in an otherly orchestrated orbit.

To be fair,
I was ultimately let down,
me and my orchestrator once again on
fair ground.
Yet I fear
I'm still spinning, turning
thoughts and stomach churning
and, to be frank,
I'm still wrecked.

The presence of pain
it pushes the back of my neck
manifested
as it sends shivers up my spine

there to constantly remind
me that the silence is so deafening
I could sink into the floor
and no one would hear me

You never were one for tattoos
yet here you are,
phantom finger tips
etched on my skin forever.

it’s two same ends of magnets
trying so hard to meet
to click
we get so close but life and fate
chuckle at the polar opposition

You encapsulate my mind.

I think my brain is stuck on rewind.

Images blurring so fast it'll make your head spin,

like when you would lift up my chin

and kiss me.

Do you miss me?

She said
it's hard hearing happy songs
when they don't do their job
why would I listen to what I can't have

she let
her chosen songs speak
for themselves

they said
am I happy
are you
I don't need an answer now
but it's important to me please

and I felt
in the silence
her heart beating violent

and I heard
what I think she'd say

talking to him
is as good as hitting a wall
as good as a purposeless walk
in her hometown mall
listening to them play
songs
that can't make her happy

I live my life through a defined lens,
out of reach of the divine right to live
in comfort.

My days are green.
My mind is red.
And my pockets are grey.

I know the feeling of a light weight wallet
and the cotton rolled up in my pocket
better than I know the back of my empty hand.

I tread through thinly veiled disdain
for those who wear their privilege like a
thick dry-clean-only coat.

It is on my words that I choke back my pain
so that I can remotely emote
in unadulterated penniless peace.

My tears cease when I think,
What's the point of my white tears anyway?
To fill the cup of solidarity?

Barely.

Who's even gonna take a sip?
Probably someone with a seat at the table
Physically able, financially stable.

How do I piece together
the puzzles of my multifaceted life
of being both a have and haven't?

How do I find where I belong when those
with my skin and hair
lack the ability to share
my story with quiet and true understanding?

I'm flying above a world of layers.
And I ask
Where am I supposed to be landing?

You tuck my hair behind my ear
I tuck that memory in my pocket

now my hair falls in my face
sight compromised
because you're not there

wet salty hair

All this shouldered weight
keeps me on the ground.
I do find I come alive
When the aching thoughts enshroud.

My thoughts come wordless
and more in the form of imagery.
Floating moments of ideology
Engulfing down to the core of me.

I get lost when I let go of
that weight ache,
that cementing, sobering,
oddly comfortable state.

Maybe what I desire
is yet to be portrayed
in the limits of language
and thus ensues
a dramatic cranial display.

Envisioned arms splayed out to connect,
to coalesce,
But finger tips never touch.
Here lies another image of regress.

So I guess
I'll reinstate that woeful weight
to recreate
the fondly familiar leadened gait.

At this I am best.
Yes,
I believe I am self-made depressed.

i dread stepping out of my succumbed selfness
where water puts pressure to thought
and to do anything productive
im not ought

i dont want to leave
but im told to go on to face
a faceless world

no one touches me here
and the walls are mine
the tile is overlooked and i resonate
time here isn't
and im never late

theres simply
the dull sound of monotonous water tones
to keep me company
and i want for not

They smell like secondary smoke and ginger
a delicious combination

I always found solace in kitchens
now I too find easy rest
in sharing their breath

dual comfort
from breathing them in
expanded breadth

in my sunny kitchen

you are the opposite of what I've known to be love
and I am the middle ground to fall back on

rejection and disinterest
swirl in my mental
as you say
ever so gentle
that you're obsessed

swirling, I turn
looking for return to ease
and surrender only to me

to you I'm distant
to me I'm eerily insistent
on my safety

if in the midst
of my failure to consist
you stay

perhaps I can fully learn to love
one day

Do you want
expertise
or experience

My experience in response sums
expertise please
A degree putting weight to words
but my past filling you with unease

If you trust degree over the other
you are a sponge for complicity
put simply
a tittilating talk tease

you talk trees and peoples needs
but walk by as I'm on my knees
begging to be seen

your zone screams
expertise only
my own experience irrelevant
my existence remains to you
irreverent

next.

There is goodness written all over you
so much so

that i will spend a very long time
reading it all

i kiss every corner in hopes of understanding
how perfection can be so warm

caramel tastes sweeter to me now
that i have tasted the butteryness of your own

my mother would be proud
of what i have found

You have me thinking in future past tense
You've filled every space you haven't even been in yet

most times
I'm trapped in my mind
and most times
there's food to eat and coffee to grind

and I thank mother nature
for the mundanity
for the temporary release
from my insanity

Who will tend to her,
the plights of the past?

How noble of me
to be the one
even when I had
no hand in her creation.

I will do what I have
always
and take care
of what is not mine.

Not to live
but to give while I do.

This life
born into giving
but never asked.

We begin so behind.

I'd rather be missed
than be there.
To leave a place,
to take up mental space,
is like a shot in the arm.

My upbringing taught me
it's better to be wanted
than to be present.

I will always want to be chased.
I believe
to settle will be my grace.