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.

They say your past lovers
shape your future tastes,
and I'd be fraught with a dilemma
if it were true,
because I cannot afford to love
another man like the last two.

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?

If I have the energy to heal,
then do I have the energy to expend?
To let myself try to love again?

Is it wise to take the little bit I have
And turn it to another and not myself?
Shouldn't I have learned by now?

Why am I not more reserved?
This energy isn't truly in abundance,
and would it not be selfish to think the small amount I have to give is enough for someone else?
It is barely enough for me.

This heart is so foolish,
and I have yet to learn how to tame her rash desires;
I wish she knew to quiet down.

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.

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.

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?

It's all too much to handle;
the tangible and intangible
taunt and mock me
and the vibrations of the room shine through
this lowly, softened flesh of mine
as if to punish my existence.

I think I'm like the headlines,
Flashy, just for show,
but when it comes to substance,
It's left untouched, alone.

What is the purpose of my story,
If it isn't read?
Each page left forgotten,
my words fleeting; dead.

I know that face used to light up,
and I recognize that face here,
but I don’t know what to say,
cause I feel that face in my expressions
and I really thought it’d go away.

I am delighted and also frightened,
and I feel most ashamed
that after all this time,
our faces, some faces, these faces
look the same.

Dance, dance, dance,
string me up,
rip my heart
and puncture my lungs,
pull me close and
swing me around,
watch as your little star
drops to the ground.

I wish to find some respite
In arms like yours,
though, safer,
much safer,
As it is much too likely if they were yours,
I would feel my breath leave
in sharp bellows of agony,
my lungs would decompress
into shriveled bags,
and I'd pray to forget you
all over again.

Was I ever really his favorite?
From the words, he spilled,
I would have been inclined to believe it,
but his actions say otherwise.

Was I ever anyone's favorite?
I've been chronically revered but overlooked at the same time.
They spoke so highly of me, for someone so apt to abandon at a moment's notice.

I couldn't imagine him willing to take the time to get to know me,
and yet I expended my energy to know him;
it's funny,
to think I vowed my love to someone so distant.

I have never been the favorite,
I have always been the connecting piece from one person to another,
leading them to each other like a sheep dog with its flock;
I have always been alone,
One way or another.

I saw your name
again
in an old file
and I was told to dispose of it.

I couldn't help but feel so empowered
and yet oh so very vulnerable;
I'm a soft clam inside a hard shell,
but every time I think of this past you,
you've already pried me open and prodded
at my fleshy underbelly,
my most private spaces.

I was given the control
to take away another memory of you
from a place, we used to inhabit
together
and as much as I should've enjoyed that,
it only made me sad.

For the first time in ages
I said I wanted to die
And I didn’t mean it;
I said it again and, still,
I didn’t mean it.

For the first time in ages,
I could look at my hands
And know that they are mine,
That they are attached
Physically, mentally,
To my own body;
I no longer stare, shakily,
In the mirror
Up to my drifted eyes or chapped lips,
Oh no,
Instead, I see such a lovely warmth,
Something tangible
So when I move my limbs
I know I am here, alive, truly.

For the first time in three miserable,
Lengthy, troublesome, god forsaken years,
I am regaining, RECLAIMING, my existence.
That’s right,
No more empty minded drabble
Or loose whispers begging for help,
Some lost fingertips coated in frigid sorrows,
No,
Never again,
I’ve grown so sick of being sick,
So tired of being tired,
So frustrated with being frustrated;
That I am taking myself back.
I accept her with open arms,
Ones I can finally feel,
And God, did I miss her.

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.

The flesh, the flesh,
it's always the flesh.

I sometimes wish I would have
given up
just to see how much
you'd try to take.

Silly little floater,
a ghost memory,
words of silence
dissipated into my head
like melted goo;
it wants to knock
but it's been forgotten
and the door hinges are rusty,
old, practically archaic;
it floats by my eyes
and I could almost taste
the sting and tang of what happened
yet it's nothing but a floater,
a little mix up in the view,
nothing to remember.

It's always been a struggle
to make my mind and soul agree,
and maybe that's how it's supposed to be,
but honey, let me tell you,
I've felt things that just didn't sit well,
and thought things that did,
and thought things that just didn't sit well,
and felt things that did,
but for once, sweetheart,
my two halves can agree,
cause I don't feel any dissent when I say,
you're the only one for me.

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

Foreign bodies with foreign bodies,
unknown hands with unknown hands,
we said we are in love together,
but we don't know where we stand;
such is the torture
of ghosts loving ghosts,
you never dared to tell me who you were,
nor I shared with you who I am.

Look at us now,
just two shadows in love,
no wonder when the two converged,
they slipped right through each other.

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.

Levitated silhouettes
suspended by the throats
you’re surely a goner
when your own shadow croaks.

Why am I made to feel guilty for having loved him?
It wasn't my fault that he wasn't who he said he was,
and it didn't make my love any less genuine.

Why do I have to brunt all of this shame
for my innocent first real attempt at a safe love?
How was that fair to me?
All I wanted was to love and be loved.

But no, I had to pull myself together,
and immediately turn to shunning,
mocking, and avoiding him,
not even a month after he left me;
I had to repress how I had felt before to show face.

No one else had loved him as I did,
I was the odd one out,
and so I had to "hate" him too.
I still loved him; it wasn't fair.

He ruined everything
and I couldn't say anything about it,
stuck in the battle of knowing
I had to stand for justice and condemnation
of a man who had last held me in his arms
months before.

His bad behavior, in turn,
stole the grieving process from me.
I had to skip all the steps and lock it away
to protect others, to be strong,
and it wasn't fair.

I'm tired of feeling miserable
for having these good memories of him,
and it isn't my fault that he did bad things;
I just wish this never happened at all.

If you lied
and he lied
and everyone's lying
then what am I doing here
listening to everything
when I could be damaging my ear hairs
another way?

I've got to hand it to you,
the curvature of your palms
are so impeccable,
that they easily slip into
the palm of another,
with skin smooth or roughed
by work, and yet even those fingertips,
slender, stubby, even some missing or bent,
can delicately intertwine
as if all gestures could be made together
and your skin and fingerprints could merge
with each touch like a puzzle piece
offered in twos,
designed to craft and to hold on
forever.

I used to remember in images,
Movies, flipbooks, flying across my eyes,
But then I saw haze,
And the foggy screens became thicker,
So the grime and dust became darkness,
And through the darkness became words,
Disconnected, discolored, disjointed
Streams of words,
And so all my memories lost
Vision, became nothing but recalled statements,
So I could tell you yes it happened,
But how or why or what was sifted through a blender,
Chunked into a garbage disposal, and lost somewhere,
yes, the memory exists as a statement,
A declaration it occurred but oh so loosely,
You can’t be sure of it.

Wasteful breaths,
a hyperventilating accordion of pressure,
my heart compressed
like extra pixels in an image, a squeezed lemon,
but unfortunately no lemonade,
only hazy vision.

I can’t move.
Moving only makes me
step closer to death,
or so I imagine,
as my heart spikes thorns inward,
every dagger ever stuck in my back
shoots down my throat
and returns to the heart it aimed for
originally.

I’m so broken.

Clammy palms, cracked nails,
dilated eyes all a mess,
and the shakes,
oh, the shakes,
an earthquake from within
brings much devastation again,
and just like every weak building does,
I collapse to my knees,
barely gripping onto the counter,
praying that if God pities me enough,
he’d let me go.

"Afraid of heights? Don't be silly,"
the hard metal only grazes the sky,
it's nothing, don't you worry.

I'd have never guessed you'd take me up there, where,
I could reach the stars, with wind flushed cheeks, hair flying,
and your crooked teeth smiling back.

The moon was such a bright white,
and your laughter set in motion a part of me I had never felt,
and this exhiliration broke the heavens,
us both staring in wonder and excitement.

Don't be afraid of heights he said to the small(er) middle school me,
and had I known he would look so...
magical mixed in with the night,
I would have never tried to say no.

Remember this,
but I can't be sure,
if I spoke to him or not,
if I left my door unlocked,
if I lost my books upstairs,
if I started what I needed,
if I even brushed my hair
because my mind refuses stimulus
and all I know is that it clears,
everything from my memories
leaving me in a haze, protecting me from something,
experiences I can't remember why I fear,
making it harder to rationalize my emotions,
as if I needed more paranoia
if I could remember
what he said to me,
when I closed myself off,
when I left my guard down,
when I began noticing these trends,
when I stopped caring if I was okay,
and all I know is nothing
from what stings,
leaving me all alone in a horrible fright
of thoughts I can't resurface.

The first vision you ever had for me was blue,
albeit, a bit hazily speckled across my canvas,
sparsley separated from the rest of the daunting white,
but it wasn't enough.

You pondered it for a few minutes but thought better of yourself,
so you cleaned up the blue and added red instead.

Oh red, what a wonderous color,
but over the years you've diluted it to pink,
and that's okay, it suited me best anyway.

You couldn't be sure of your inital sketches,
lined in yellow across my sides,
and so you would work, rework,
and work again; and that was fine.

I've always found it funny,
you know,
how your pallette can be so so very small,
and yet create so many different works,
I wonder how you know which of us go together;
to line your halls with canvases, different and alike,
how are we to make such a satisfactory gallery?

Once, not too long ago,
I met a man, and I think you wrote him in green,
lathered the sides with a smooth ink,
and clumped, in oil, a bright orange near the bottom,
and I think he hopes no one notices the edge,
but I've always found it to be the most beautiful.

It's rather peculiar, really,
to see one color morph into another,
for a shape to become something much larger,
and to see the techniques mimicked in a chain,
a group of us, only linked by the initial movements,
brushed over so many times we might just forget.

Each of us,
a work of art,
separated only by years,
colors,
and life's rotations.

Emptiness
echoes but does not return
the same lifeless message.
Only the stillness of the room reflects
such dreary gasps for color
and that still desire of the moth
longing to surpass its dull greys
for the wings of a fluttering butterfly
in its glory days.

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.

Honored to be the one
who brings love to the confused
and deranged,
to those who use
more than they give,
and to the ones
who scare everyone away;
honored to be the one they loved the most
before one of us must move on.

How could I still want you
when I don't know the first thing
about
the pangs of hunger
or the mystic desire;
I'm not one for such carnal tastes.

I'll never feel the way you do.

Remove all my senses
turn me a husk
leave all the remnants
into the dust
with the pebbles
before you
ask yourself this
was I all you wanted
or was there something else I missed?

I don't make art anymore.
It's so tedious and eats up a part of me
that I can barely hold up.

I'd rather just be a resting body,
but that route seems to cause just the same
discomfort.

Tired, irritable; I want to do as much
as I do not,
and I feel like all my time goes to waste.

My reflection isn't me;
I feel like I am five
years younger than I am.
My art is fueled by the discordance
which makes it so hard to make or write.

I fluctuate:
okay to awful,
to make to give up,
I'm me, who is she?
I don't make art anymore.

Dream me a dream
of a time I have forgotten
Where your breath ran warm
And sticky against my skin,
or your laughter floated,
Trailed into my ears like
My favorite song,
And your arms gently, playfully, brushed
Against my own
Just so I can find it in me
To forgive you for what you’ve done.

What if you were to see my tears of joy, instead of sadness?
What if I were to bask in the warm waves and let them consume me?
What would the world be like if I could branch out my wings and fly like this more often?

Would you even recognize me?
Would you understand all that I missed during my times of sorrow?
Would you notice when I am reborn into happiness, and will you remember it too?

God, I hope so.

This feeling is transformative,
to be alive like this,
and it is so comforting to be
held in the universe's embrace.

Perhaps you'll get a taste of who I've always been.

When I told you I loved you with all my heart,
perhaps you never understood.

My heart is like a magnificent skyscraper and every story was lit like a fancy casino,
glamorously shimmering from its hundreds of windows.
I made sure it was always lit from your view.
Though, I have a confession to make:
It was very rarely that my light was strong enough to hold by itself.
In fact, the lights would shut down more often than I’d have liked to admit to you, or anyone else.
No, the lights were nearly broken and not even a backup generator could hold such a behemoth of a building, and so I would panic.
I panicked and did my best to light it for you because you deserved the prettiest view.
I brought candles.
Thousands upon thousands would illuminate the rooms just bright enough for you to look up at the windows and smile because they were lit and you imagined a place as beautiful as it once was.

Though it wasn’t any longer.

The candles on the first floors would melt and burn out while I’d sprint up the stairs to carry more to the middle floors. My flames were burning faster than I could run, my lungs wanted to give out trying, bursting and frazzling like my lighter (which, it too, needed replacing). I was so carried away, caught in the motions of burning and burnouts that I would trip up the steps and injure myself. I cried as I spilled hot wax down my hands, my arms, and I would peek through my windows with tears, noticing the days you no longer looked up at them. I tried even harder to light the place, I brought bigger candles, maybe they’d hold longer, maybe I could have had more time. You looked up now and again and I felt like maybe you’d finally understood. Then you left and, well, I realized you never knew how hard it is to keep the lights on.

I let them burn out for good.

I keep hesitating, hovering my match over a few candles, wondering if it’s worth pretending my love is still easy. I’ve tossed my old light bulbs out the windows just to see them shatter. I thought maybe if you’d walk by and see the broken glass, you’d want to know for yourself and see what I put myself through.

Yet, all you did was ignore the sounds of the glass smashing against the concrete, the sounds of my shoes rubbing the shards into the pavement, and me.

I still light a few candles here and there, but after a few hours, I have the urge to put it out again so I drown them in buckets of water.

My heart is a mess, and I wish now that instead of just looking up at the illumination, you would have wanted to be involved, and that you would have taken the time to gander inside the building for a change. Why did you never do that for me?

Have you ever seen a tap dancer
sit on a stage
with their legs crossed,
their metal plated shoes
facing away,
and their sound stolen?

No?
Well, have you ever seen a girl
sit on her bed
with her legs crossed,
her feet tucked, hiding,
buried away,
and her voice silenced?

"Is it all you dreamed of?"


She wished to be rich, famous;
to prance round with her name in
bright lights, flashing; a star all her own.
God, was she was happy-

She had a great debut, immediately a sensation;
people galore, a sea of pens, paper,
cameras swarming, flash after flash,
each one crowding her every movement,
enclosing her.

Where was her escape? Where were the exits?

Her face on every newspaper, magazine, like a microscope image;
her faults hand-picked, like ripe fruit, a grape carefully picked off the vine and crushed slowly between the fingers.

What a dream she had thought long ago.

Never did sacrifice drift through an ear,
the day she walked onto the stage.
She sighed as she covered her panicked face,
yet more paparazzi engulfed her.

Soon her cheering fans ceased to exist,
her ideas merely trivial, a mistake;
scandals, fights, tears, she took a deep breath,
she couldn’t keep up with the spiral much longer,
Her name was known.

“Is this what you dreamed of?”
One drink after another, glass after glass,
she watched her career drown with.


Are all dreams worth living?

I have worked so hard
To rid my mind of this phrase,
I wish I were happy,
And I've tried to accept my life as it is,
But hearing that phrase
Come from a friend's mouth
Solidifies how impossible
It is.

I must admit
The part of that phrase that taunts me the most
Is that I say it in the past tense,
I wish I were,
Because heaven forbid
I said a wish for my future.

You've finally caught me.

We've raced for years, but never touched.

Your sister, envy, had grazed my cheeks every now and again, but you're far more devious.

You don't burn like her,
you sour; your energy collides,
collapses, into a bitter liquid.

As soon as we met, I wanted to escape,
but your mischevious glint held me,
and every thought against my will sprouted forth.

You infected me.

You took my rational mind and crushed it,
you twisted my trust, tainted my love,
and now I have to face you.

You're not like your sister,
and I'll be ****** to let you stay,
craddling me like a small child,
listening to your fallacious tales.

I'm better than that,
so the next time you see me,
tell you and your sister goodbye.

You’re so lovely,
you warm me up like a kettle,
so don’t be surprised
when I look at you and whistle.

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.