back again
in those familiar recesses,
the dark parts of my thoughts
that used to be locked away.

i miss the feeling of my safety blanket,
its weight in my hand,
small enough to fit in my palm.
in a glint of silver,
it reminded me that i have control;
to always look but never touch.

the tight grip was satisfaction enough,
just a hint of what could be,
the flirtation of blood beneath skin begging to be let loose.

but it's different now.
there are no piano benches to be broken,
no dark pools beckoning me to their depths,
no promise of escape.

i know that it will never be done.
the blood will never spill,
the skin will never break over bruised and swollen knuckles.
i will keep existing between the days –
existing,
but never truly living

– and just how many times can i think i want to die

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.

i’m caught between bliss and overflowing rivers,
stuck between two extremes,
trying to breathe,
             trying to breathe,
                    searching for my missing piece.

i know it wasn’t wrong to say, but i’ll love you anyway,
              love you anyway.
on the late nights that we talk,
you lose yourself, you lose it all.
i’ve got my sleeve in my mouth,
trying to breathe,
             trying to breathe,
                    trying to erase what you said to me.

a pint or six too deep; the morning isn’t clean,
and you’re trying to breathe,
             trying to breathe,
                    trying to erase what you said to me.

now i’m lying under lilacs, listening to symphonies,
maybe i’ve found the best version of me;
yoga at twilight, baths under moonlight,
but every time I climb
                    i find myself
                            falling right back to you.

i can’t resist the itch under my skin,
looking over my shoulder,
trying to breathe,
             trying to breathe,
                    wondering what you’d say to me.

i wish i didn’t have to say,
that I would love you anyway.
but after those nights when you poured gas on the fire,
after only a fortnight,
i’m still reaching out for you,
trying not to wonder if i’m the fool,
             who’s gonna love you anyway,
                    love you anyway.

my tongue still tastes like cinnamon,
the moon just beyond my fingertips;
i don’t know what to say,
             but i will love you anyway.
                    (i love you anyway)

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.