dear clark,
rip off your suit and save me already.
i'm lost.
love, lois

worldly belongings
paper pencils pillows pretzels

bedtime things
blankets pillows secrets sighs

shuddering words
chill moist blossom cinder

seashell emptiness
can you hear the ocean?

I wish I could write him a letter
just to ask how he was doing.

If the food tastes different there
if the sky is bluer at 10 AM
if he can see the moon from his window

But really, all I want to know
is if he loves the crinkle of written-on paper
as much as I do

and if sometime, he might
want to write me back
just to feel the paper between his fingers
and the words beneath his palms?

does my cross bracelet
make me a Christian?

does my Gandhi necklace
"be the change you wish to see in the world"
make me peaceful?

does my jewelry
make me a woman?

I've seen darkness;

I have light.

it's in the appreciation of a fantastic tater tot
and a shared laugh after a missed rebound in trash can basketball.

it's in risk and fear and a crazy heart
in late night car rides and "I'm not letting go"

it's at Waffle House at 6AM on a Sunday
in the sheepish grins and sweetly sticky countertop.

it's in the raise of an eyebrow, a wink, a nod
in attention to detail. listening. feeling.

it's in perfect confessions (if shared)
and in a drive thru drink (but only if it tastes right)

it's in the smallest of gestures that mean "I'm sorry"
and the nod that says "you are forgiven"

it's in a car (blue, not black) with a broken console
and in the joyous laughter over squeaky leather seats.

it's in feeling different and wild and passionate
but in soft affection and the summer breeze.

it's in August, in between my toes like sand
natural, messy, persistent
but wonderful all the same.

he holds it for me.

The faint smell of mulled spice lingers.
Soft sounds:
     a television on somewhere
     dishes clinking in the kitchen
     footsteps, small and large.
Scattered pillows on the den floor
The occasional pine needle makes an appearance.
Textbooks, pens, paper, notebooks.
               Everywhere.
Little white hairs stick to anything.
Carpet, usually stained, but soft.
Doors and cabinets that don't quite close.
Chipped paint.
Ribbons, ponytail holders in odd places.
Rustling, running, rattling. More running.
Music, and very loud singing.
An air of silliness, slight stress, hurry.
     Sometimes sadness, but not too often.
Laughing, since we laugh at our strangeness.
An odd happiness occupies the space.

I am a wilted rose.
I am what once was beauty.
I am trust smothered by deception.
I am purity destroyed by hatred.

I am a sunken ship.
I am what once was safety.
I am comfort infected with lies.
I am a good intention on the way to hell.

I am spilled blood.
I am what once was honor.
I am innocence, murdered by anger.
I am friendship, stolen by prejudice.

I am the nightmare.
I am what once was hope.
I am a dream, invaded by darkness.
I am the childish wish, defeated by reality.

I’m going to come right out and say that at 9:52 PM on November 25, 2014, you are on my brain. Maybe because I’m in bed and my mind wanders before I fall asleep, maybe because you haven’t called me back in two hours and maybe because I have weird feelings about you. Who knows? Not me, obviously.

What’s on my brain, really, is next Monday. Because I don’t think I’ll have the nerve to ask if you want to hang out sometime this week (it’s Thanksgiving) and the only time I know I’ll see you is Monday. It’s that crazy, insane feeling that you get where your heart screams a little because it seems like forever. But it’s also a good, secure feeling because it’s concrete. You’ll be there, I’ll be there. I love things that are predictable and easy to anticipate. Things that leave clues and drop hints and leave answers lying around for me to find.

But what’s driving me crazy is that you give no clues. I thought I was a really good at reading people, and I feel terrible for thinking that since it’s completely unjustified. My unjustified assumptions are my fatal flaw, really. It’s why I fall so hard, I think. I assume that the other person will stick around and love me the way I want to love them. Because most of the time, all I really want is to love hard and love well for a long time. You, though, I have no read on you at all. I can’t tell if you want to stick around or if you want me to stick around or if you really just want me to go away and leave you alone. I wish you’d tell me. But then again, I wish you wouldn't because as much as I act like I don’t care, I do. I care a lot. Another fatal flaw.

I’m listening to this really great song called “From Afar” by Vance Joy and it’s touching my heart. It made me want to write whatever this is. The main line is “I always knew I would love you from afar.” That’s sort of how I feel right now. I love awkwardly from your passenger seat, from across the booth, from the end of my row in class when I have to try too hard not to look at you. And yeah, love is a strong word. But hey, it’s in the song, so why not?

At this point, though, I just feel lucky to even know you. You’re one of the most incredibly talented people I’ve ever met. Your humor gets me every time, and I love the way that you listen to what people say. That sounds simple, but listening is such a skill. Listening and understanding and acting like you give a **** are so hard to master, and you do them all with ease. I think that’s what makes you such a good conversationalist. And there’s something about hugging you that’s making me tear up a little right now (****, I’m weird, I know). But I feel really small a lot of the time. And having you reach out and pay attention to me, even for just a few seconds, makes me feel so incredibly lucky. Because if someone as wonderful as you is willing to hold me for a minute and make me feel special, then there is hope for the happy girl in me.

I honestly could write you a short novel about how great I think you are, but I don’t even know how you feel about me yet. I could just be that creepy girl that won’t leave you alone. For now, I’m content to be the girl that loves a little from afar. It’s an honor just to fall for you, even if I land hard.

rest in peace, armadillo pancake.
you died swiftly, thank goodness
at the hand of my left wheel
tail still attached
the plates of your back folded into you like wings.

farewell, my ridged armadillo splotch.
i think of you every time i dodge your smudge of color
and every time one of your brothers wanders by
walking clueless into the same predicament
stunned into pancake-hood forever.

alas.
rest in peace, my flat friend.
you will not be forgotten.

stroke. skin. eyes. heat. mascara stains. wishes. stardust. wonder. answers.
sing. torn. give. want. fly. run. shine. burn. bloom. blossom. sunlight.
remember. desire. jealousy. anger. alone. taken. see. beautiful.
rescue. trust. hope. destiny. childish. dream. time. golden.
lace. cinnamon. frustration. forbidden. betrayal. fit.
decision. understanding. words. flowers. hold.
strength. soft. burst. hands. tears. love.
grief. moonlight. fairies. joy. strike.
games.  voices. natural. season.
useless. pride. change.
simplicity. fire.
freedom.

You're asleep, but I'm having a little fantasy.

We are going to Paris (of course) and we just decided to go. No planning, no serious packing. Just got our stuff together and went for a few days. We fly through the night, and I wake up with my head on your shoulder (like Gordo and Lizzie) and we eat plane breakfast (which for some reason involves sausage links and orange juice in this little dream) and land at Charles de Gaulle at 10 AM.
We get off the plane and go find our hotel, which is kind of far from the heart of the city but we like it cause that's where the really cute eclectic apartments and shops are. And you buy me red roses that night and every day we take long walks all over the place.
We do touristy stuff while we are there, and you take me to all of the places you went to with your family and we even play soccer in front of the Eiffel Tower one night, for your old times sake.
But mostly we make love a few times a day and go get beautiful meals and I speak French to the waiters and you think it's ****. We go to a little bakery down the street from us every morning and night and just have an obscene amount of baguettes in our room. We sleep with all of the windows open (it's summer) and the light of the Eiffel Tower is visible at night, far off in the distance.
Some nights, we make love on the balcony of the hotel and then just talk forever, and I'm so perfectly happy there in your arms on the balcony of our little quaint hotel in Paris just for the hell of it.
And I'm so ******* glad you're there with me, even if it's just in my head.

let me reiterate
that the fish was not just a fish.
it wasn't even about the fish.
if you could see through his scales
the parasitic, plaguing fish
the fishy, foiled, murky eyes
and the five beautiful hooks
hanging in his lip, scarred into his being
you would see yourself
and pain and baggage and acceptance
begging, abandonment, pain, freedom.
facets. scaled facets reflecting in the sunlight.
it was never about the **** fish.

Hi.
I miss you.
Please come home.
I love you.

we are all just decaying
slowly, systematically.

there's even a formula
one cigarette: -1 year
one night stand: -2 years
one broken heart: -3 years

add in heredity, longevity genes, disease
and you're already halfway there.

if you take two half lives,
do you take a whole?

or is it exponential
only ending when you run out of digits?

forgive me, but i cannot comprehend
why little bird, age 9
should ever need to understand
the historical origins of terrorism
the significance of the Socratic method
the inner workings of microeconomics
or the implications of nuclear war.

no, my little bird, age 9
can hide right behind her golden ringlets
and sunshine eyes
for as long as she wishes.
she learns the politics of friendship
and the importance of kindness
and that's all we truly need
to get by.
she doesn't see the bigger picture,
no.
she cannot empathize with the suffering of nations
(she flies too high above it all to see).

she doesn't see all of the the *******, either.

not all ignorance is blissful,
but little bird's is.

I love the skyline of my city
in the day, brilliant and bright
at night, glowing with the stars.

Coming down from the mountain,
the lights engulf the cars.
The iron messenger welcomes me
pointing at the sky
above the lovely brick and metal
that make up this history.

Rich with history, indeed it is.
Chills run down my spine
to know the horrors these buildings have seen.
No rain can make up
for the tears that have fallen on these sidewalks.
No bricks can build up
what cruelty has broken down.
No memorial can drive away
the haunting absence felt in that great church.

But there is beauty in this
in that life still remains.
That someone lives to paint the lower walls on Southside
or protect the cobblestone beauty of Morris Avenue.
That we know now where we have been
enough to have come this far.

The skyline says these things to me
it whispers them at sundown.
"We are here, we live
and we live artfully, wonderfully, triumphantly."
The lights glow with pride
and the buildings shine with change.

I love the skyline of my city
because it brings hope.

i wonder what it's like
to love in another language.

do the words for it
(call me when you get home, be careful)
(i'm so proud of you)
(stay)
feel different as they form in your mouth?

do they roll off the tongue the same way
(sometimes too easily, hastily)
or do they get stuck
and refuse to come out?

and does your heart still swell
at the same phrases
(you're beautiful)
(i want to see you)
(i'm falling for you)
when the words don't sound
as simple, as sweet?

maybe another language would be better.
a few languages, a few colors, a few different styles.
different accents. maybe a picture of my heart
bursting at the seams.
because sometimes
"i love you"
doesn't cover it all.

for now, though,
for here

i adore you
my heart belongs to you
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU SO
in every language, every color, every font.
anywhere, nowhere, everywhere.

We began in a place
where growth is purposefully prevented.
Weeds struggle through cracks,
reaching desperately for sunlight
only to be flattened in passing.

Parking lots
are for coming and going.
For undeveloped beginnings
and unexplained parting.
The gravel catches snippets of sentences,
and a whole conversation ever so often.
It is not meant to see
the middle of the story,
the falling of a heart.

We began in parking lots.
The gravel listened closely
as we discussed our aspirations
and learned each other
piece by piece.
The cement soaked up every detail:
our first few kisses beside my car,
the first whispered "i love you,"
the development of our intimacy
haloed by a streetlamp.

We grew in the comfort of asphalt,
of parking lines and late night love.
We stretched our hearts
to grow in the sun
(or, rather, in the moonlight)
and let our bodies lead,
enchanted.

We are the gravel's dream,
our love forever captured
in parking lots and starlight.

She smiled because she could see the
bottom.
The concrete looked calm from high above,
like a broken wave coating the damp, warm sand.
Crickets sang out through the darkness
but the roaring of the ocean
drowned them out.

It was darker than dark
and quiet enough to breathe.

Perfection.

Her final breath sent her over,
gliding toward the waves
floating on a cloud.

Finally, freedom.
Silence.
Darkness.

As she neared the ground, she reveled in
her weightlessness.
It was joyful, for the first time
since him.
It was riveting, inspiring, unique, unimaginable.

Ending.
It was ending.

The ocean was not giving.
It did not wash her away.
It did not wash away the hurt.

She heard a scream, and footsteps.
Her smile, her joy, her revelation
disappeared.

Why could she still hear the screams?

take me to Waffle House
(preferably late; it's best for people watching)
and enlighten me
about life outside suburbia, USA.

there is something stunning about listening to the world
escape through someone's lips.

There is a little box of windy things
sitting in the shadows

a whisper sits at the bottom
smiling slightly

a few drops of blood aimlessly wander

words drift slowly
stained with mascara

pieces of paper
with memory words
stinging with tears, and a lingering smile

and a birdsong floats from the lid
softfly, ever so softly,
but childishly sweet.

Easily, easily she crept into my mind.

She smelled of the crunch of autumn leaves under boots, or rain on pavement, or possibly both together. I can’t distinguish between the two in the weakness of my memory. I’ve always wished there was a way to capture a smell like a picture, just to savor now and again. I would replay her entrance over and over in my mind if I could. I admit this one regret, though I try never to regret what brings me to the place in which I am still standing. I regret not savoring my own picture of her first appearance into my consciousness.

"Please, just come lie down beside me.
I'm so tired.
You don't even have to
    touch me.
Just be here, nearby."

ripped/my/clothes/off.
sensual, sensitive, wild.
hands down my ribs,
across the hills and valleys of my/bare/chest
slowly, on the curve of my leg,
the warm small of my back.

"Can I just hold you
like last night?
Wrap my arms around you?"

clawing/scratching/loving
by the light of the moon.
frantic sighing
my hands caressing/kissing/tasting/experiencing
every inch of his beautiful body.
succumbing to the dizzying reality.

"That would be just fine."

She was slipping;
he was preoccupied.

silver kiss
silent kiss
kisses in the dark

no cinnamon burn
      on my lips
no fireworks

nothing special.

it wasn't special
until the next day.

the special hit
with the force of a firework
        inside my chest
with the burn of cinnamon
        in my brain, in my mouth, in my heart.

it hit when I realized
that little kisses
sweet kisses
silver kisses
slow, gentle kisses

make you greedy.

i lost a love of loves  
(he wrote like this when he was grumpy)
but it will be all right
in time.

for now i'll sip my tea
and mourn my muse
and entertain the thought of him
saving the day.

he's someone's hero, anyways.

something grotesque
something *****
something gritty

lipstick smudged across his cheek
blood running up, up, up
cold baby in a warm dumpster

***, and how it's remembered
when sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

something broken
something loud

a broken heart on the sidewalk,
crushed underfoot.

I saw my father in the dying of the dog.
It was a slow, intentional, graceful death
that stretched itself out over months,
all the while breaking daddy’s heart.
The dog began to walk slowly,
as if he were dragging his feet through honey.
Each step was lifted, suspended above the ground a moment,
placed gingerly back.
Then, the lump on the back of his leg appeared,
boiling up and presenting itself in what seemed like a moment.
After that, the sleeping.
He had always enjoyed basking in the Alabama sun out on the deck, but it became his only activity.
Sleep, eat, sleep, drink, sleep. That was his routine.
He began to ignore the little dog,
growling at her when she wanted him to play.
After a while, his light naps became deep sleep at all hours of the day. We often had to knock loudly on the window
just to make sure he would wake up again.
One day when we went to feed him,
he didn’t come at the sound of the food striking the metal bowl.
As soon as we touched him, we knew.
He left soundlessly, forever frozen in his favorite position,
curled up innocently by the window.

My father became a strange parallel to him.
When the dog slowed,
Daddy slowed.
His thoughts were soupier, taking longer to formulate into full sentences when he spoke.
He often forgot to eat, and when he remembered,
he rarely finished his meal before moving on to something else.
He spent most of his time in his red recliner, lying perfectly still.
He snapped at innocent questions and simple gestures addressing him, and could no longer tolerate loud talking or music.
He withered as the dog withered, slowly but surely.
They both grayed around the eyes,
a marking of wisdom, but also of age.
They were one soul split into two bodies, though one found a peaceful escape.
Daddy stayed here.

"can you get your shoe off of that chair please?"
i've been lost in your magic. i had forgotten.
still, i don't get in trouble. ever.
you laugh. it makes me laugh, out loud. unfiltered laughter.
he's still standing over us, waiting for me to move.
he's awkward. so tall he might blow away in the wind.
adult acne. needs a shave. eyebrow arched in distaste.
and we are invincible. untouchable.
frighteningly adult and unbearably childish.

fast forward
20 minutes.

"i'm not letting go."
my heart bursts a little in my chest.
you made me beg for that hug
but i melt into your arms all the same.
i like the way your clothes smell
and the way your cheek scratches mine.
i like the shape of your hands
when they are on me, touching, holding.
it's not perfect, but it's whole.
and i haven't been whole in years.

we were whole. that was whole, there.
frighteningly adult and unbearably childish.
perfectly exhilarating.

That pain?
That pulling pain
that resonates within my chest
rips at my lungs
brings tears in the darkness
stings in the light
sends chills down my spine
fever through my body
and an unbearable ache to my heart?
Yes.
That's her.

The smell of blood hovered; breathing it in, she smiled.

So quickly we judge.
So little we know.

Maybe she had a baby at home
that had no food to eat
or clothes to wear
or honor to uphold.

Maybe she was all that baby had
and this was the only thing
that kept her alive.

Maybe she needed this
to ensure that baby would have
a mommy to hold her
and tell her she is loved
at the end of that day.

Would you betray someone strong
to save someone weak?

Who knows.
Maybe she is smarter than all of us.
Kinder, braver indeed.

Maybe we see the wrong hero.

So quickly we judge.
So quickly we ****.

clearly there is damage
in the mechanics
of our interlaced hearts.

savor me
roll my words around in your mouth
like marbles
and dream of the taste of my skin
and the bite of winter
on the tip of my nose and lips.

do not break apart my words
like ice
still, staring, fragmented in anger;
do not tear me
from afar, with your words
assumed unheard, but screamed
to the ends of the earth.
do not assume i am unfrozen
fluid and unattached
to the sound of your voice.

remember me
in lace and wonder and December
in beauty and imperfection;
or forget
that i am far, far away
in pain, from missing and being unmissed.
or that i exist, altogether.

clearly there is damage
in the mechanics
of our infinity
wrinkled and unraveled before us.

My mother is a bluebird.
She flies sweetly about the sky
seemingly carefree, but clear minded.
She is beautiful
bringing light to anything she passes.
Sometimes, I think she has flown over me,
but she keeps me in her mind
and under her wing.
My mother is a bluebird.

It's hard not to be able to share my fondest memory.
Lying in bed and just holding each other.
It was something beautiful. You were something beautiful.
Your beautiful dark eyes and strong hands and kind smile
gave me chills.
It didn't even take anything. You didn't have to do anything
special. It didn't matter.
Laughing, talking, smiling, nothing. Anything. Everything.
I loved you. I loved you so hard.
I loved when you brushed your lips across my cheek
and teased
oh, how you teased.
Because I wanted every inch of you.
And I loved when you drifted in and out of sleep
and breathed deeper, and laughed slower
and that you didn't mind
when I did the same.
And when I told you something from the hardness of my heart
where hard brick walls protect my (persistent, ugly) demons
you just held me tighter.
I've never felt so safe.
I loved that.
And when it was over, when the sun was rising quickly
and dim light was creeping in to greet us
"Good morning, secret lovers, you've made it!"
there was an electricity in our knowledge of each other.
No one knew how we knew each other that night.
No one knows
what beauty, terror, intimacy
looked like, between the two of us.
It's hard to put that memory away
when all I want to do is scream.
It's hard to wake up and say
"I am going to be happy today"
when my happy is tucked in with us.
It's just so hard.

can't get warm in the summertime
but still too hot to move.

goosebumps everywhere.

it's a secret
a ***** beautiful secret

with a rushing kind of happiness
strangled by fear
and the guilt, oh, the guilt.

the happy is frantic
it bites, it burns
it's chilling and thrilling and terrifying

turn on the AC
cold, cold, cold.

frozen in the summertime.

goosebumps.

Kiss me hard. Harder.
Grab my waist, pull me in close.
Don't let go for anything.
Scratch, bite, tear my clothes off.
Let me be your electricity.
I will send you sailing through the stars
if you'll keep me in your galaxy.
Throw me against the wall.
Hate me and love me all in one breath.
Scream at me. Louder.
Set your heart on fire
and let it ignite mine.
Allow us to burn slowly.
Leave no trace.

I'm going to hell for this one.
Not quickly though, since
I think Satan
wants to see me squirm
(And God, poor God,
He still has hope).

No, smiling eyes
And midnight hair
And caramel skin
(Sweet tasting, smooth)
Will carry me there
And drop me off
On their way to heaven.

I'm going to hell for this one.
Yes, surely.

The problem is
You can't share a lover.
Not when your heart
is captivated.

I'm going to hell for this one.
Watch out for my falling heart.

She folded the letter into tiny, intricate squares
before sealing it with a kiss.

His kisses were her solace.

Solace is often mistaken for
teenage preoccupation,
you see.