we've been here before, you and i.
it was raining outside.
i cried for a while and had cake for dinner.
it was the night i didn't drown.

the moments fall together in flipbook photos:
swollen knuckles,
pills in hand,
never enough blood.

i would hold a pocket knife just tight enough.
i would study it,
imagine the sharp kiss of metal against my skin.
and then i would put it away and cry myself to sleep.

we became wonderful dance partners, you and i.
we could rise and fall with the music;
i would lift myself up and wait for you to tear me back down.
i learned to adapt.
swell to crescendo, fancy yourself untouchable,
then fall
              fall
                   fall.

the steps became familiar.
i knew them by heart,
falling into step like it had become tradition.
find the space to release it all,
and watch as it slowly builds back up.

but they changed the rhythm on us.
for all the adapting we can do – you and i –
can we truly adapt to this?
it makes you wonder how far there is to fall,
and if we ever really fell before now.

perhaps some day we'll rise.
maybe this is just a hiccup, a misstep;
you lowered me into a dip and i am patiently waiting for the fall to end.

i can't wait to never hear this song again.

when we first came to this land,
blood was shed for our entitlement.
when we first came to this land,
we took the things that were never ours
and trampled its native growth.
when we first came to this land,
we instilled in it a sickness that may never be cured;
we tarnished sacred lands with greed we call virtue,
and when we did so, we stood on the throat of humanity.

there are some people who are doomed to repeat history.
there are some people who will trample native growth,
spread sickness,
and stand on the throats of our people.
with the heavy weight of six centuries upon our shoulders
we stand,
a hobbled nation no longer able to stride,
heads held high,
through this sea of blood without meeting challenge.

with six centuries passed, we commit genocide anew.
it is not the native growth that suffers,
but the very peddlers of greed who are infected
by the sickness of consequence.
but they alone will not suffer.
as we march through this new iteration of history
wearing death masks instead of cloth,
thousands of innocents lose their lives
in a battle of which they were never a part.

the single day that we dedicate to gratitude,
the one day of the year some remember
to give thanks in between passing heavy dishes,
is not a commemoration of discovery.
it is a commemoration of consequence and greed.
and six centuries later,
it is our own people who we will massacre with the cry of freedom.

Recipe for Disaster:
         1 cup blame, directed away from yourself
         2 tsp of emotional manipulation
         1/4 cup of freshly squeezed fake apologies
         1/8 tsp of spite
         3 cups of self-hatred, projected onto somebody else
         1/2 cup of anxiety, rooted in insecurity
         A pinch of miscommunication
         1 tbsp of false hope
         A healthy dash of passive aggression to taste
         A splash of whiskey
         -- halve the empathy

Directions:
         1. Combine ingredients and simmer until completely evaporated.
         2. Apologize and start again.
         3. Repeat steps one and two.

these private moments are the ones i appreciate the most,
midnight vanilla and flickering flames,
cross-legged on my bed with sugar on my tongue,
music playing,
keys clicking.

these private moments are the ones i appreciate the most,
stolen in between the waking hours,
my own personal party just before the dawn.

i keep wondering
why i wake up every day
feeling a little like the muted sunlight
behind my blackout curtains.
and then i remember:
you were in my dream.
                                                          ­                     and only in my dream.

Poetry
to me
is taking
my pain
and making
it sing.

Simple words cannot describe what you are,
A beautifully complex human so unlike any I have ever seen.

You are rain on the windows at dusk, dripping softly
into puddles and filling them up.
You are watching the sunset on a pier after a long day of laughing;
My ice cream drips down my hand, but I hardly even notice.
You are the peace in hiking up the hillside alone,
Standing over the town and taking a deep breath because you know
you are never truly alone.
You are big windows over city lights, beautiful, bright, and picturesque.
You are the purple-pink lilac sky, ribbons over rain-soaked grass,
sunflowers and dewdrops and soft beneath the fingertips.
You are sunshine on the lake, shining brilliant and blinding,
warm, content, endless.
You are the drives where the windows are down and the music is so loud
I can’t even hear myself sing,
Everything I know and everything I fear getting lost in the rearview mirror.
You are a warm cup of tea on a dreary day, pixie lights and poetry.
You are lying in bed after a day is gone, intertwined with our heads together,
breathing soft, feeling you close to me.
You are the moonlight and the stars that dot the sky, the ones I always stop to stare at,
open-mouthed in your driveway, forgetting to ring the bell.

Simply put:
        you, my dear, are everything.
        everything and so much more.