Dance with me and pay the price,
it's no big deal, the music's nice,
a twirl, a tap, why won't you glide?
I promise not to hurt your pride.

My heels click and stomp about,
your feet intact, without a doubt,
but something cracks, between us both,
a shattered, silent, bond-broken oath.

My smiles full of blind deceit,
your trust denied in fast defeat,
I've grown tired of this masquerade,
now you wish you hadn't stayed?

I can't believe you thought you'd be my match,
that we'd make it out without a scratch,
but jokes on you, and me too,
this was our final dance, so enjoy the view.

"I'm afraid of the dark," he said,
but what he meant, I couldn't grasp.

I'm afraid of the light instead.

What more could terrify me than a future I have to face,
a gleaming torrent of certainty,
a resounding push forward,
but the dark?

The dark is my putty; a shadowy liquid,
a fickleness that prays on hope and fear,
and with it holds an escape.

He fears the dark because it can deceive him.
I fear the light because it is the truth.

Dear Mama, you taught me well,
but that's something I'd never tell,
cause complacency is what you preached,
so silence is what I reached.

Mama, you taught me well,
to sit and fiddle, do not wail,
but my emotions are worth much more,
when they aren't hidden behind the door.

Mama, you taught me well,
wishing for naught, I let myself dwell,
and so I idolized all the wrong people,
and followed demands like sheeple.

Mama, you taught me well,
to allow myself to mask my yell,
my tears, my frigid fears, my feelings unspoken,
when my heart lay here so broken.

Mama, you taught me well,
to lock myself into my own cell,
and now I feel I need release,
my soul deserves to be at peace.

Dear Mama, you taught me well,
but this sort of life I wish to quell,
and so I say I must change,
your lessons to me, estrange.

Crispy, and yet thin,
its rough curves shatter and snap,
salty, fragile chips.

"God, I really wish she talked like you,
dressed like you;
how do I get her to think like you do?"

Policing her to be like me will never serve you
because the one who does me best, is me.
Be truthful with yourself,
when you ask her to behave like this,
do you dream of me?

You cannot easily transpose my image onto your lover,
because no one else loves like me,
talks like me,
dresses like me,
can transfix in your mind like me.

Do you love her like you love me?
Does she know the blueprint you use to mold her from?
Could she handle knowing what I know?

Flash forward.
Flashback.

Progress isn't possible
without a little dip in the pool
so keep looking back;
trip over the wires,
set them off and see what happens.

Flash forward.
Flashback.

Drag me through the mud,
but don't let me look
at the mess I've made
in the mirror.

Flash forward.
Flashback.

Hear that voice.
Hear it.
HEAR IT.
Hear it and weep.

Flash forward.
Flashback.
Flash forward.
Flashback.
Flash forward.
Flashback.
FLASH FORWARD.

*Please don't take me back there.

My heart lay in a cloudy, milky state,
its cold, harsh pressure building up within,
leaving me to gaze, masking purpose.

My eyes, dull, hid the fervor,
encasing it in between my lips,
locking them together; smiling.

My breath remains methodical,
sweet melodies juxtaposed,
along my ears and lungs.

Feet pacing, heart staying,
I cannot last; ba-thump,
my hands begin to tingle.

One look, no words;
head spinning away,
there is no closure.

He knew the importance of words
and treated life like a crossword;
taking hints and context to places
that he never knew were possible,
solving them faster than his mind could keep,
he was full of it,
and every letter got him closer
to his dreams of entitlement.

Oh you've solved it, all right,
but his genius was limited,
nothing but words on a page;
The puzzles? He'd just skimmed it,
and each box became his defeat
for his words would no longer speak.

He could only solve the same book;
shoulders up, blamed his luck
on his limited palette,
maybe he'd done better if he invested
in a thing like vocabulary.

A forgotten mission, a new edition,
blew around in his mind,
but somehow he never could manage
to find the time
to understand these riddles' complexity,
and so to this challenge, *he'd flee.

In the early hours of the morning,
you asked me to marry you;
I pushed it off, taking it as a joke,
but you leapt up from our bed anyway,
and I protested, saying there were no rings in sight,
and yet, you wrapped paper, so delicately, into a ring for me.

From the dim-lit room,
I saw you kneel on one knee to ask me.
I swore you were mocking me,
but you persisted that we elope,
and even then I couldn't take you at your word.

Did you really love me like that?
And if so, why did you leave?

What did that look mean
when you glanced at me like that?

Yes, it was true,
another person's lips had grazed mine
when you left me the first time,
and now that you'd come back,
you seemed to know something I didn't.

I hadn't lied
when I told you that
your lips felt right against my own
and his smokey breath did not,
and then the secret you had held was revealed
only slightly, of course,
and I didn't even notice.

When I told you that
I had wished I was kissing you instead,
what I had first thought was a look of love
was actually your look of embarrassment and shame
and this was because, you too, were a man with a smokey breath,
leaving imprints of your lips on another's
long before we had parted ways.

So, it wasn't her who kissed you first;
you filthy little liar,
and you were starting to feel bad
about what you had done.

I was none the wiser,
and sympathized with you,
thinking you too had felt like me,
a big misunderstanding between two people
and that you'd come back to me
because you realized my lips were better than another's,
not that you liked the idea
of getting away with infidelity
and then rushing back into my arms.

I always missed these signs,
and it eats away at me now
when I think about how many
times I should have known.

My comforts, an illusion;
a man crafted in the mind,
to soften the blow of reality.

His touch, warm and delicate,
fake and fleeting,
leaving my heart twisted sour.

An intimacy, imagined,
hands merged with the air,
a hot fever overwhelming.

I cannot break free,
from this manmade delusion,
as too much of me relies on him.

Sanity shatters under my breath,
without his sweet embrace,
a broken mind created man in an empty space.

The sound of wind bounces against my bedroom window,
and the roar of thunder soon follows,
but despite all that noise,
all I can focus on is you.

Gazing down into those gentle green eyes,
I know that I'll never want anything else.
I could see everything through you,
and the softness in your look
is enough to never let go.

Cool ivory, his fingers touch;
A masterful sound.

Melodies crushed, words hush,
Heavy bonds do the notes make,
Beneath the weight of tears.

Pure white, dim-light,
Notes escape from warm breath;
The show goes on.

You’d think when people made crackers,
They wouldn’t shatter,
But here we are,
Early hours of the morning,
Eating defective crackers,
With cheese, salsa, and laughter,
Cause these pseudo-chips are mocking me,
And the entire row keeps breaking,
But it’s okay,
Because even when things seem to fall apart,
We’re always there together,
Picking up the crumbs,
And making things better.

I always took to doubting myself
and so it was no surprise I did
again and again and again
when you had me under your fingertips.

That night I finally saw you,
after months of being apart,
you hoisted me up on your bed
and the look in your eyes seemed so foreign;
there was a hunger there I had never seen before.

I was a bit uncomfortable,
but I missed you so much I didn't care
to think on it further;
but your touch was different too,
and for a split second, I thought,
I'd almost jolt up and leave.

It was so bizarre to me,
you used to be so scared to have me to yourself,
and all of a sudden your hands
were no longer afraid, and,
your grip was a bit stronger than before;
I should have known something was wrong.

This was the closest I had ever come to
feeling like your prey,
and it wasn't right;
every other time you held me,
I could feel the restraint,
that you had chosen a gentle touch
instead of being so demanding,
and I thought that meant you loved me enough
to be delicate.

Was that the case?
Why, now, were you able to be different?
A mechanism like that shouldn't be so easy to switch on and off.

What happened?
Was it becoming too difficult to keep up your facade?
Did you even realize you didn't change back for me?
Why do I always doubt myself?

Your heart moves like a pendulum,
the weight of the blood carrying;
as it beats, sways, and springs.

Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump; swing.

The sound of your cuckoo-clock heart rings,
resonates, in my ears, and the vibrations echo in my mind;

your eyes blink, tick tock tick tock.

Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump; swing.

Our eyes lock, whispers linger,
as our breaths synchronize to your metronome;
our feet fumble, tip tap tip tap,
and our time becomes lost in the sound:

Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump; swing.

Speak to me in numbers
Something tangible
Calculated
Equate your feelings with something
I can infer
Without asking you to
Work these problems over again.

He'd always leave at 2:53 P.M.
Swoosh fwoump.

It was only a matter of time,
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ti

I wanted to be free.

He'd strap me to a chair and whisper,
sweet stories that you'd coo to *a child,
with sour breath running down my neck,
his greasy forehead pressed against my tear-stricken cheeks;
it'd deteriorate and culture in my ears.

His scent engulfed my mind,
my body, my soul...

He made a grave mistake,
dressing me in grimy socks,
making me dance skin-to-skin,
forcing me to kiss him, call him.

Oh no, you see,
he should have known.

I betrayed his trust, I'd pay the price,
"Isn't that right, Leila?"
That's not my name.

"Now Leila, darling, you're going to be a good girl,
for Daddy, aren't you?"
That's not my name.

"Leila, sweetheart, I can trust you, can't I?
Hmm? This will be our little secret,"
That's not my name.

"Aw, don't tell me, dear, beautiful Leila,
you aren't scared, are you?"
That's not my name.

I knew him well,
after a few months,
and his smell was musty,
only when I let it be.

He always liked sweets,
like me.

He was disgusting,
and my wrists ran red with incisions;
he'd lick them clean.

He'd always leave at 2:53.

"Oh Leila, sweetheart, I expect dinner when I get back,
won't you be a good girl,
and do as Daddy taught you?"
That's not my name.

So I did.

This kitchen was charming,
as much as his worn dining ware,
lined with cracked roses painted by Chinese overseas,
wondering when they would be used.

This was the first time I'd seen him genuinely smile,
"You look especially beautiful, tonight, Leila,
perhaps it's the sparkle in your eye,"
That's not my name.

He took a sip.

His glossy eyes hovered above his glass,
and his gaze drifted over to me,
in my grimy socks and brown-stained apron,
my long, dark hair drapped over my shoulders.

Another glass,
another glass,
another glass,
glass,
sugary sweet,
sweet,
down his lips,
lips,
lips,
teeth,
throat,
liver.

He liked sweets,
sweets,
sweets,
dripping, sipping,
sweet,
sugary sweet, nectar,
cool, smooth,
antifreeze.

He'd always leave at 2:53.

Silence.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ti-

2:53 P.M.

Silence at 2:00-
2:00
2:00

I'd heard him cry,
"Leila, Leila, Leila,"
That's not my name.

He'd always leave at 2:53,
2:00,
silence.
He would never leave at 2:53,
2:53 P.M.

*I left at 2:53. Silence.

The river's current starts slow,
chilled streams trickling,
toes shifting, in the dark blue-gray;
almost unpleasant to the touch.

As she wades, the pull becomes stronger;
ice cold, it entraps her chest.

Slwoosh fwssh, she winces as the wind picks up,
and her mind goes still; resilient.

Drifting, her body gives way,
fwuomp, pssshhh.
Almost lifeless do her eyes wash,
away into the water's murk.

Like a ship stranded at sea,
her body struggles to withstand,
water filling her lungs like the hull;
her cheeks pale and wet.

Gasps break the water,
sending ripples as wide as her eyes,
and the tormenting storm laughs;

Each time it moves, grabs, without asking, takes without giving,
and she floats.

Darling, your touch, elegant,
like a soft petaled flower,
transfixes me in place,
and your scent drives me mad.

Warm sweet tastes,
like nectar, sugar drops,
trail across my skin.

Those flavors, refreshing,
like honeysuckle on a Summer afternoon,
bold and vibrant like the Sun,
coat my lips like morning dew.

My heart flutters,
like a hummingbird, fast,
and the only thought tormenting me,
is the desire to relive it again.

Hot, salty tears, muddled,
with the bitter, icy spray,
enveloped by the Atlantic,
desposed by pedigree.

Peoples, of all lifetimes,
swiftly, abducted from their blood,
with lament, embraces ripped apart,
sin left disguised, ousted love.

Lumber structures, like cages,
repressing their last breaths,
left few ongoing in the waves,
desposed by traitorous men.

Forceful souls, whose tongue called out,
reshaped their gruesome plight,
to overthrow the tides and toils, who,
ousted them at the site.

Desde África, a Cuba,
y entonces a América,
los abogados se lucharon,
y tomaron un caso de libertad.

Para un barco se llama Amistad,
todos los malhechos son,
la gente Mende querían justicia,
y tomaron parte por el mundo.

Palpitating palpitating
boom boom bust
a little bit of water makes a metal heart rust
palpitating palpitating
boom boom pow
your gears wound up but you don't know how
palpitating palpitating
boom boom crush
too many repairs make a weak heart mush.

I want my body to merge with yours.
Like a hot mess,
with our wax candle hearts
boiling over, coated in flame,
gasping for oxygen to keep burning,
I want to melt into you.

Ascending among the brilliant stars,
Varied blue, white, yellow, red;
Distinct and somewhat poignant,
Draped beneath the sky overhead.

Orion unsheaths his weapon,
Ursa major does not roar,
These bears and men who cannot see,
Lend faces to the whispy air as they soar.

Dark clouds, dim lit and hazy,
Among the moon's soft shine,
Each image is reflected,
In the city's humble skyline.

Descending alongside comets,
Hot, burning, coarse rocks,
Break free from godly confines,
And dance among men, stars, and clocks.

Can't you see this was all one big, cruel joke?
I have finally clawed myself out of my grave,
just to turn around and spit at the headstone,
and I no longer recognized who was put to rest.

I was wrongfully buried here,
so why won't the grave digger free me from the cemetery?
I implore you, please, to listen, as I insist
I don't belong here!
I have healed all the things that put me to my death,
and I think those that decide to live again should be exhumed.

Why must the past keep trying to push me back
into shallow dirt?
Trust, I know,
that the grave plot never cared one way or another;
it was already calling my name and continues to try
to call me back,
but all I ask is that the darkness let me start over.

My love for you is a different kind,
less explosive and hardened;
no longer plagued by ecstasy.

No romance, roses, or advances.

My love for you is a different kind,
not light-hearted, friendly, or smooth,
lacking tact, natural, or loose.

Not friendship, laughter, and chances.

My love for you is a different kind,
ostracized in form, yet firm, careful,
restless, persistant, and withdrawn.

Not lost, forgotten, or resentful.

My love for you is a different kind,
now,
and I don't know what to do.

Why would you pretend
that you weren't in love with me;
continuing to play so dangerously
against others' skins,
trying to tempt something
from within yourself to not be
so **** obsessed,
so obsessed, I see,
that as soon as I was let go,
you looked inward
and started to project parts of me
onto every other girl.

The absence of you
has been so fulfilling
that despite what love I had to give,
I have found peace
in not giving.

Why is it that you always look so
colorful?

When you laugh so much
that your face flushes red,
when your pink shirt reflects in your cheeks,
or when you stand in the sun,
bathed by the orange-yellow, white,
light beaming off your brow in specks,
when you surround yourself in leaves
of greens, dark and not,
and when you lean in close
to your computer screen,
and the purple-blues bounce off your nose.

Lest we forget your mistakes;
they seep into mine
making us both cold sinners.

Feelings soon forgotten,
Had it not been for him,
Lips unlike before; fragile,
But the flutter all the same.

Playful, light glances,
Reveal much of the heart,
A renaissance began anew,
Inside the mind, body; start.

Awkward steps, a cold voice,
Washing over like the tide,
Left true to see a fleeting stance,
As they said their final goodbye.

Pure reflections of the face,
Left a smile to trail the sky,
The sun would whisper, clouds abound,
To dissipate among the stars.

Somehow I knew you before
in a cottage;
in tepid water;
in the absence,
waiting in
songs,
stories,
my own prayers,
and in dreams detailing
small snippets of the to-be
like clippings of newspaper.

I thought I’d lost you,
and I waded through hail
and quicksand,
trying to dig deeper,
but I hadn’t met you yet,
so when I started to remember
these sounds
sleeping in my mind
I knew I had to trek back.

Your voice plays,
like a record long saved, tucked away,
playing as it did the very first time;
each touch, a step
to a dance I always loved
but convinced myself I’d forgotten;
your smile, a comfort lost in childhood
somewhere,
a sun shining in my memories,
and I knew I recognized it.

You had to be ethereal.

February, you sing,
as the smallest (month), together we ring.

I suppose it was only fair,
that I fall in love like this,
my birthday, and your holiday,
we always have to share.

Although mine creeps before,
avoiding the martyr of your Saint,
and I know that it still kills me,
as I patiently drift upon your shore.

Sweet twos, you and I,
together we strive, linked by the stars,
and I think, perhaps, my soul admits,
I'm never ready to say goodbye.

Stay with me, somehow,
and see the world as I see it,
pretty and dreary,
though more dead than alive,
and squint your eyes into the sizzling desert,
riddled with hollow bones,
and look further to the flowering cacti;
then maybe you would see me reflecting back
in its fruit and know that it is my life;
I tempt death's grip,
but he cannot reach one so destined to survive
regardless of such extremes of hot and cold
or of such arid landscapes,
but I musn't sip at the clouds searching for water,
and maybe I'd admit I've tried,
so stay with me, somehow,
and discover me for yourself.

Drugs, drinks, and the inebriated,
young lungs filled with toxic scents,
their hearts bursting at the beats,
laughing, ***** dancing,
as they're blinded by their age.

What does she do when you sit in distress?
Your bowtie askew, this I asked:

What does she do when you stay up late, a restless fit;
an empty plate,
you do so sit, what does she do when you silently wish?

What does she do when you cope and pray, when you have wasted your entire day;
dreaming and hoping,
but to your dismay, what does she say when you look away?

What does she say when you laugh and cry, and how does she feel when you say goodbye? Does she smile, and beg to stay? I bet you wish it were that way.

What does she do when it comes to you, is this the life for just two, or are you rushing by too fast? Or must you hide behind your mask?

What does she do when you seem content, but can't muster a single, calm reply,
when I ask...
What does she do to your heart that I can't grasp?

Throats burning, hearts clenched;
these pains, migraines, swell,
escape in small gasps, words,
spoken, broken, written in haze.

A victory: small, tall;
Warm, cold, bright, bold.
Blood runs thick, chills,
scattered thoughts race free.

Littered eyes, tries, soft cries,
do they decieve, believe?
Do they call out, shout, bribe,
or do they stop, drop, and die?

Do you really know me like you say you do?
I don't like existing in memories of others when I cannot remember my own.
You can't possibly remember me.

It makes me so angry when you tell me that,
angry that I can't verify it,
angry that those ideas of me still linger,
angry that my past exists at all.

I want to purge this dissociative self
I used to be from all consciousness,
and it isn't fair that you can still remember her.

I am so mad that you can compare me now to me before
and that you can clearly recollect all the signs.
I am so envious that I couldn't have seen the signs myself when it was happening and that I still can't now.

I envy the way you can tip your sight backward to how I was before and that you can see the progress.
I want to see it too.

I am so angry
and this feeling burns my throat
when you remind me of what you know.

Did you love me in a past life?
Is that why you made a pact with me
to conjoin this time in a karmic unraveling?

What did you intend to learn from me?
Our energetic ties implied we should have known
how this would all end;
I felt it in the beginning,
that this might not be sustainable,
but I persisted and so did you,
dragging our feet into the trenches.

Did you care what the end result would be?
Was it satisfying enough to watch the soft shell
surrounding us crack?

Sweetheart,
I'm thriving.

It's impossible for our lips to meet,
just once,
without waiting for their next venture,
and how unreasonable it is
to stop
when your taste lingers:
unforgettable,
demanding,
and desirable.

Oh how I could never leave
your kiss of life,
enchanting,
as it draws me close,
our skin brushing against each other;
and how unforgiving it would be
to let such an organic touch die
without savoring its movements.

Let it be heard,
my love,
that I am truly living.

What are the chances,
a woman like me,
so obsessed with flowers,
branches and leaves,
finds something so beautiful,
so lovely pressed against my chest,
so intoxicating,
that without another thought,
I had to have him too?