I bought a new typewriter today
found it sitting on a table made of plywood at our local flea market
the case is falling apart
and it doesn't actually work
but it was cheap
and its an antique and I guess the rust gives it character

The irony is that even if it did work,
I still wouldn't have any words.

The irony is writing a poem about writers block.

The irony is that I already have one that does work, I just hoped that maybe the previous hands would have left a message on the keys that would inspire me to make my own.

But today I am the broken keys and the missing ribbon.

I know I don't tell you ever so I know I don't say it nearly enough,
but the way you touch me is unlike any other being has or could-
the softness your hands hold make me feel like a flower, and you're the bee, stopping by for a quick moment to kiss me.
I wish you wouldn't fly away in the evening and I didn't have to wait until the morning to be kissed goodbye.

tonight's one of those nights where I'd like to sit on a rooftop and smoke cigarettes and speak poetically with strangers

except I never do because I'm afraid of climbing onto roofs because you never know if you might fall through
and don't worry I don't actually talk to strangers either,
each new pair of eyes like snakes when you roll the dice...
and of course I don't smoke cigarettes, I stopped when my niece found out and it crushed her innocent little view of me in her world,

but it just seems like the thing to do in times like those, don't it?

My hands were shaking when I saw you
the blood, dried up and masking your face,
your lips looked soft against the harsh black scabs
and your eyes looked full beneath the stitches on your brow
with bands on your wrists and
the little white clip on your finger measuring your pulse,
you looked so fragile, so small
I wanted to pick you up
stick you on a little orange wand and blow you into a bubble
so that you could float around unharmed and small
and I could make sure nothing popped you, and if it did,
I could catch you. and put you in another one.
Anything to keep you safe.

my hands were shaking when your mother told me you were in the hospital
my hands were shaking on the way to visit you in the icu
I couldn't shake the vision of a boy laying in a casket
I wondered what shirt they'd put you in
I know you're okay now and that is getting me by
but the anxiety of it all comes back each time I close my eyes
it comes pouring out of me like the blood from your head
and I can't find the medicine to clot them

I wish I could wipe the blood without reopening wounds
But your face still looks nice with gashes across it
you even look a little brave
like you fought wolves all afternoon
i'm just glad you won

When my father looked down at me,
half-jokingly asked if he'd be
checking me into rehab
within the next few years,
a part of me I didn't know I harbored
hit the back of my throat,
wanted me to
bark back remarks that
I hadn't known would ever grow
from years of watching him destroy his body
from tears from watching him,
his eyes half-closed, his head half-nodding,
half-listening to the stories of a little girl
who wanted not to be forgotten
who wanted one less memory of a door
ripped half way off the hinges
who wanted one more memory of
the stillness of a mug on our glass table
not earthquakes in louisiana and
heartbreak from ceramic shards laying in
coffee and powdered xanax
How I wished the word rehab
wouldn't have made you more mad
would have crossed your mind
would have been a solution to
the problem you never thought we would find
out about you kept your secret hidden
at the expense of her image
We burned her name to keep you lifted
you never apologized you never got help
you did it all by yourself
after years of watching you destroy your body,
how dare you look at me and question
if my glass of wine is too full
if my bottles are piling up
I think my organs are fine, thank you,
it runs in our family not to want help.


Of course, that side of me stayed silent,
and will never be exposed,
at least not face to face,
only in anonymously written prose.

So I laughed and not knowing what to say
masking the feelings I wouldn't show,
I looked at him in his tired run down eyes
and I half-jokingly replied with "No."

The most groundbreaking moments in my life have mostly been the minute connections I have made with other mortals, the ones that made me feel small while making my heart feel like it was growing inside of my tiny chest, like my organs were running around, making way, like my rib cage disconnected, tried to move, and eventually would break, like my veins were stems of flowers, and I could see the petals growing in the pinks of cheeks and across my pale chest, I felt the stitches, long gone now, from my twenty year old scar would rip my torso open right down the center and expose the heart inside, honest.

But my heart doesn't swell the way it used to, and my rib cage fells like its sinking in on itself, like the my organs are running and squeezing themselves into dark corners to avoid being attacked by the shards of ivory.

When I look into the eyes of a girl I know I'd have been enamored by, if I had met her at an earlier time, I only see the glare in her glasses. I sigh at her misfortunes but check the clock, noticing how slowly time passes
when you're unable to understand someone
looking at their palms, the way their fingers move,
wondering why my mind is feeling so numb...
My heart feels like an empty rim, missing the face of the drum.

I have not been to the cardiologist in six years,
I'm afraid he will tell me the stickers on my skin told him my secret,
when I smile they see my skeleton,
when I sing they see my gums,
that's why I listen with my mouth closed and protect the illusion with a hum.

I have not flossed for a long time either, afraid they will find the plaque in the trash, pull it out and reveal inside this furnace is only ash.

Maybe it wasn't the drugs, or the red headed devil dancing on your spine that convinced you I was no good.
Maybe it was just my delivery, the way desperation spilled out of my ears, a little too dedicated to understanding, that made me seem less delicate.
I saw it coming, it was just a matter of time until desolation sunk in again and forced my aesthetic to be destruction.
There's a disconnect, sometimes, the sound waves don't hit eardrums quite right.
And sometimes, they're just a little too loud.
It's okay to turn the volume down.
But the music doesn't cease just because it's softer.
And it doesn't any hurt less just because it happens more often.