When you say: you are Sooo
skinny, *****. I think you’re
trying to complement me
but just don’t, please just stop.
I’ll let the use of ‘*****’ as a term
of endearment, go for now.
But Skinny is not a complement.
It’s a buzz word that evokes images
of too thin runway models, and
******* thigh gaps. Please don’t
associate me with #thinsperation.
Social media is as divided on
the issue as my thighs.
Pitting skinny ******* against
fat ****** all in the name of likes
and follows and shares.  
They pray on our own need
to validate our bodies and they
know the fastest way to do
so is to hate hers.
But taking the media’s
imposable beauty standards
and turning it on its head than
passing it on to me is just a game
of tag that none of us can win.
We are warring against our fellow woman
in pursuit of the ideal female form.
We are warriors behind the message
boards fighting the good fight for say
‘health’ or ‘feminism’.
Feminism does not mean do whatever
you want say whatever you want.
Feminism is not fat or thin.
She is not lipstick or armpit hair.
****** or…not a ******.
She is simply women, plural,
because there are a lot of us.
I won’t fight anymore with
surface level insults,
but I will debate you on
how social media
is the assemblage of all
human depravities
So the next time you call me a *****,
leave my skinny *** out of it.

The most obnoxious part about
being a communications major,
is having to tell people you're  a
communications major, it's having
to explain to concerned strangers
what I plan to do with that-

The major question is the new,
What's your sign?
The future physicist asks
with crooked smile, plastic cup
in hand, and *** in his eyes.
My answer elicits a sigh, a smirk,
and what do you plan to do with that?
He asks the way one asks a child
******* on their parents car keys.

So I tell him:
I plan to hang my degree in my
guest bathroom-

Why?

*Because I don't give a **** about what
other people think of it.

One coffee and one tea
in a cafe you and me

A smile, then a laugh
eyes speak on my behalf

I'm nervous and you can tell
my voice is begging to rebel

Your eyes try to read my shyness
your tongue full of wryness

Beginnings are my favorite part
but this could break my heart

I am a penguin, a stupid bird,
That trained her wings to swim
In circles through dark cold waters.
Contrary to popular belief not
All penguins mate for life,
Warm water penguins do,
But emperor penguins only stay
Together for winter and most
Of that time it’s a long distance
Relationship. They use the idea
Of each other to keep warm.
I wonder if emperor penguins
Break up when spring comes,
Or do they simply go their
Separate ways without explanation.
I am a warm water penguin who’s
Found herself in foreign waters.  
Do not fall for emperor penguins
Yes they are tall and beautiful,
But they only need you for winter.
He will call you pretty and say
He misses you, he will see you in
The spring. These words are not for you.
When the sun breaks through
He will not answer your calls.
He will not say goodbye, and you
Will not be able to enjoy the warmth
Because you long for the delusion of winter
Because you worry that you wasted your
One shot at love or rather he did.
Stupid bird, now you know:
You can believe in love at first sight
But there is no guarantee that
Your penguin will love you back.

If you ever want to know
a friend on a deeper level
offer to sober cab.
When they do shots
watch their guards
fall down
when they fall down
help them up.

With clear eyes see
their secrets.
With your steady
tongue keep them.

Take witness to the
ones who curse you
out for trying to
switch out their *****
for water and to the
ones who apologize
over and over again
for letting this happen
again.

Last night at a party I had five shots
And five revelations along with them
Thank you, tiny sweet shot glass for
Burning away inhibitions.
Burning hot,  liquescent cinnamon
Goes straight to my knees and my phone
As I sat on the kitchen counter, texting,
And I had some things to say that
         I never dared to before.
One: Like how when I thought that
you wanted me, I was an apparition
that had been trying to break the veil
between two worlds, to no avail
and you with your kind eyes
          resurrected me.  
Two: That I’ve never been noticed by a
good man. Nor have I noticed any.
You were sugar and spice, but
telling someone that you miss
them and then never fulfilling
the sweet promise of someday,
         isn’t very nice at all.
Three: The first time you told me I was beautiful
I couldn’t believe you. Because I always believed
that complements were gifts men gave
to women to remind us that we are only our
bodies. And as a girl who is most comfortable
when she retreats deep within the recesses
of her imagination I find this troubling.
Besides what good is beauty when it only
          serves to make sweeter my fire.
Four: the second and third and fourth time you
called me beautiful I believe you meant it .
Because you offered up those treats without
demanding payment and I thought that’s what
respect was, what longing was. And it felt good to
be wanted for more than my body but still...
I felt the heavier meaning your words
And your eyes spoke in sonnets
And the more you said it the more I needed
to hear it.I had never needed to hear it before you.
But your insistence that I am beautiful
made me want you and for the first time
               I let myself want.
Five: I hate that if you called me right now
I would go to you, in a heartbeat.
I hate that you inspire poetry so cliche.
That everything I  feel about you
is as the Sun rises each day:
Spectacular yet under appreciated.
I hate that I make excuses for you.
That I understand how you could
forget about me, change your mind
about me. I hate that I don’t think
you did anything wrong. I hate that I
should hate you but I can’t press send
because I’m still hoping that you will
come back to me, like how
the Sun longs to share the sky
                      with the Moon
I took your words like a shot of whiskey,
nervous at first and then all at once.
They tasted like heaven, and burned like hell,
a confusion of syrupy sweet nothings (nothing
because that's all we ever were) and the sting
of your silence when you left town. When I
first saw you I wrote a poem about how
I didn't know your name and I  was not brave
enough to ask. I knew you were going to be
important but I didn’t know then that
       the afterthought of you would
                                burn so much.

Someone tolled me once;
'you must first love yourself
before you can love someone else'.

I can't scream loud enough
that they are wrong, that it
is all to easy for a woman to
feel red and purple sunsets
for a man and yet her sky's
are ever clouded.

She knows that everything
he is, is everything she doesn't  
deserve. That when their soul
was ripped apart in heaven
before being sent to earth he
was given everything good.

I love your light, your soul
is ever bright.
You balance my dark, but
forgive me when I can not
love myself the way you
want me to.
Forgive yourself for not
being able to change me.
God forgive us for not
being able to repair
the torn seams
of our
souls.

To the Ginger I Met on Tinder,

I'm sorry I didn't linger
longer in your arms,
but I've known you barely
three weeks and this is crazy,
but kissing you tasted like
ice water, not that it was too
wet cause it wasn't!

I'm doing this all wrong,
let me start again:
You see I don't take chances
on hopeless romances.
But kissing you was electrifying
like shock therapy gone
wonderfully, horribly, mind
numbingly...well. So well that
I lost my mind, temporarily.
I found it, unfortunately.
I found it was very confused.

You started out as a picture
on a screen, all I knew was,
red hair, big eyes, and nice arms.
Even when you were in front of me,
arms wrapped around me,
big beautiful eyes looking
down at me full of life,
even when I could reach out
and touch you, you didn't
feel real...

Do I feel real to you?
Do you wonder how to
make your fantasy feel
like reality?
Do you wonder if you should?
When the photo starts talking
back what do we talk about?

As badly as I want to
break the laws of physics
with you, I know I can't.
Because I don't matter, to you.
Nothing can be created from nothing.
My time and energy is not destroyed
by you it is only transformed into new
understanding of my standards.

Lightening bolts will never be
enough for me, they're too dangerous
too unpredictable, I crave constancy
alongside my intimacy.

So to answer the question
I hope you're asking yourself:
Yes you are kind of an *******,
but no you didn't hurt me.

Regretfully Yours,
The Blonde You Met On Tinder

When it's time to tell the boy, the name
Of my pet elephant in the bedroom,
I know to expect one of two reactions.
His eyes could widen, with interest,
At the prospect of having stumbled
Upon America, a new world.
They only want to plant their flag.
But more likely he will grow quiet,
Not knowing what to say to fix me,
I didn't realize I was broken.
More likely my virginity is not a
Responsibility he signed up for.

He won't leave me right away,
But for all intensive purposes
He's no longer with me.
This kind of distance is not
Geography related.
Now holding hands is a chore,
For it's no longer foreplay.
What's the point of taking me to bed
When there's that much pressure.
He doesn't want to give me the wrong idea.
He love's me, too much to
Take that away from me.

I don't want it taken from me
I want to share the best parts
Of ourselves.  
I want to come together,
In every meaning of the phrase.
I won't let the oppression of
God in our bed, but I want
To utter his name in vain.

I decided a long time ago
That I'd wait for love, but
I never thought that love
Would make me wait this long.
Never thought I'd avoid first kisses
With the fear they'd be last kisses.
I never thought I could scare boys away,
But my virginity is no longer an elephant.
It has become this dragon,
That no one is brave enough to slay.

And so I sit, in my ivory tower
Of ****** frustration, and wait on love.
I'm waiting for a third type of reaction.

To the boy with the blue-green shoes,
Because that is how I know you
For I can’t look in your eyes.
Thank god you always wear that pair.

To the boy with the curly hair
Because I don’t know your name
I am much too shy to ask
And afraid you will not want mine.

To the boy with the smile so sad,
Because I wish that you could know
That I will miss you when I
Let you leave, but can’t let you go

The smell of cigarettes reminds
Me of my father, but not
The thick chemical smell
Of most cigarettes, no he
Smokes an all natural brand:
Oxymoron Lights.
Which will still **** you, but
They smell so much better.
I used to hate that habit of
His, but now I know it's
More complicated than the
Addiction they warn about
In health class.

Kindergarten was the first
Time I learned about tobacco,
Properly. The teacher asked:
'Whose parents smoke'.
My tiny hand shot up with
Eagerness, pride even.
She had those of us with
Our hands raised get our
Jackets from their hooks
On the wall. Our classmates
Took turns smelling our coats
To determine whose smelled the
Most of cigarettes. The winner
A small blonde boy who's name
I don't remember, only his
Brown leather  jacket and the
Stench so strong it has stayed
With me fifteen years later.

I know now that my pink
Puffer coats lack of odor
Was a sign of my fathers
Good character and love.
I know now that he is not
Perfect. That he carries a
Life time of pain and regret
Behind his eyes because he
Thinks that I can not see it there.
And that cigarettes are a much
Lesser evil than the demons that
Haunt his past and the he will
Not let them haunt my present.
I know all of this now, but
Back then I just wanted
To smell like him.

Girls wear stiletto's
so that they are that
much further from
the ***** soaked floor.
hands on hips
and lips
sips from
scarlet letter stained straws.

Men don't know where to
put their hands.
On hips
and lips
dips tastes
forbidden fruit
off her trees please.

People in the blender
ice breaking, mixer shaking
As close as we can get
but lonely like debris
in the storm
room  spinning
ears ringing
no one winning,
everyone sinning
and no one
caring

Dear New Love,
Why do I call you New Love?
Does this imply that
There is Old Love, that
love has an expiration date.

Dear Old Love,
Why is the memory of you
still clinging to my sheets?
It's not that I miss you
It's not that I want you
back, but I crave that
feeling from when our
love was young,
When I was innocent.

Dear New Love,
I’m scared, sorry.

Dear Old Love,
I am not sorry.

Dear New Love,
I need you to understand
that I am very good at
being alone, that I
have turned off the
parts of myself that make
me loveable.
I stopped watering
My gardens and my flowers
Have all died
That I am afraid to
fall because I
know how it feels
to not be caught.

Dear Old Love,
Thank you for not
Catching me.

Dear New Love,
Please be patient.
Walk slowly with me
through this city, let
the crowds run past
we will catch up.
Hold my hand.
I'll keep your promise
within the space between
us, for it's not distance
it's love.

love,
Julia

I wish I was a dancer
A ballerina.
I wish my body was
Capable of grace.
1,2,3...1,2,3

I'd point my toes
They'd curl under,
Head held high.
Smile. Sigh. Repeat.
1,2,3...1,2,3

My mind can spin
Tales of love, but
The story of my body
Remains unwritten.
1,2,3...1,2,3

I would rather be single
on Valentines day than be
the object of your obsession

I would rather be heckled
by the critics in the comedy club
that is my love life, than
hear the venom in your voice
through the phone at 3 am

I would rather never get laid
than feel your hands creep
inside my ******* again

I would rather drink cheep *****
than taste the lies in your kisses

I would rather buy my own
flowers than smell your
scent on my favorite bra

I would rather be blind
than see what you call love

I would rather be alone
on Valentines day than
be your ****** valentine

She picks up pennies
off the sidewalk and
saves them for a
honeymoon someday.

He waits for her, patiently,
like those lost pennies, for
he knows that to be touched
by her will be worth the wait.

I don't often pray,
but for a love like that
I beseech a God for
whom I've lost all faith.

Tonight I cry in
My peppermint tea, A toast
To my sorry life.

love; something everyone wants
but no one knows what it looks like.

#life; something everyone has
but no one knows how to use it.

#sad
  #depression
    #pain
      #death; for when poets get ‘the feels’

      #heartbreak #you #him #her #heart
       Poets who fall in love fast with the
       Same reckless abandon that made
       You climb all the way to the top.
       Those scars used to make you cry
       Now they make you write.

For 116 days you
occupied my heart and
most of my thoughts.
My skin was branded
when you left on day 83.
Every familiar sight, sound,
touch, smell, taste reminded
me of you...

Last night (day 117),
I kissed someone new,
and none of him
reminded me of you.
I let his hands wander,
let him steal my
breathe, but
not my heart.

Today I set my calendar
back to day 1.
My days belong to me.

I am free of you,
and I miss the feeling
of missing you...

I am a hopeless romantic
And you are my hopeless romance
Away from you I feel homesick
I’ve no grounds for this stance
But ever since New Year’s Eve
When you said a little too much
But not enough, I believe
That if only we could touch
And exist together in space
You could be my shelter
In my heart you’d have a place
And I could be your answer
I can only hope that someway
We can meet again someday

Planning for the future is a
skill that is innately human.
An evolutionary achievement.  
It is thought that memory is
used to predict upcoming events.
That we use our own perception
of our past to picture our future.
Set goals. Plan. Do.

Some of us are better at this than
others, survival of the fittest I guess

That checking societies boxes
At appropriate ages is a sign of
good mental health.

Maybe I don't fit that mold
Maybe I don't want my past
to dictate my future but I’d
still like it acknowledged in the
end credits in the movie that is my life
that 'she could have
offed herself much sooner but
choose to write this **** poem instead'.

No I don't have a plan.
I can't see the future
But for the first time in long
Time I know I have one

Women that are like water are
afraid of men who are like mountains.
We move freely downhill toward
the ocean and get carried away
by the tides, swept away by
opportunity, and circumstance,
not stopping to think of the
stability that rocks can offer.

When I see a mountain I
only see the ways in which
we would torture each other.
I would seep into his cracks trying
to know the in's and the out's
of him only to have him
freeze me out.

Water when it freezes
becomes solid.
Love when you freeze it
becomes solid,
expands and breaks that
which tried to contain it.
Please don't try to contain me

I can't change what I am
I do not deserve your strength
you do not deserve my indecisiveness
Please do us both a favor, walk away
Save us both from this sadness.

One year since I met him.
Six months since I saw him.
Three since I've spoken to him.
And finally I'm done.
Like polar bears lumbering
Over sand dunes I'm dried up.
I can't believe that he was a man
For whom I thought I could have
Written epics for.

I need new inspiration.
When your muse is fickle
As leaves on deciduous trees
One must find a new source
For the Mississippi.

I will take up crime, start small.
Jaywalking!
And write a limerick about the
Thrill of it.

I'll dance with more than one
Man in a night let them touch
But not keep. They cannot
Breach this beach it's mine.
I don't invite strangers into my
Bed, I take none of them home,
but somehow they're all a poem.
I don't want to be a writer
With pages of ex-lovers in
Her notebooks scrawled
Out in ink, like blood,
Like tears from a flood.
Cause I will pour out all
My words, my language is
Love, on the pages balled
Up in waste baskets hidden.
My heart beats to a rhythm
Too irregular a meter
For most to keep up.
I get it.

A muse is old news.
I can write it better
Than some hipster sweater
Wearing, never texting first,
Fall in and out of love headfirst
Kinda man.

But oh man, I'd love a man
With whom I would write
Perpetual sonnets.
Fill volumes with devotion
Not about one night but all
The nights that we fall asleep
Together knowing that tomorrow
Is another day I get to write about him.
And though nothing will be new
There will be something beautiful
About when the whiskey on his breath
Meets the coffee on mine.
We all have our vices,
The idea of love is mine.
Each kiss would taste like rhyme
A thief he'd steal my heart
A victimless crime.

Till then I will take new roads
Through yellow wood and
Envy the song of the nightingale,
Because I too know why the
Caged bird sings.
It rests in my chest, flutters,
And gets excited by others
Touch and false promises.
I promise this: I will wait love
But idle shall my pen never be.

I only ever worried that you
were too old for me.
Never once thought that I
could be too young for you.

I felt an uncomfortable mix
of excitement and fear
when I caught your eyes
lingering around my thighs.

I never imagined that you
too had an internal debate
somewhere between your
morals and your...

I don't want to be your
temptation, forbidden fruit.
Maybe if I were riper you'd
feel better about picking me.

I didn't know that a man
could hold me with arms
so strong-
But kiss me with lips
so soft-

I have felt butterflies make
windstorms of my insides before-
But I never felt their wings halt-
Hushed, still and quiet-
Have they flown away?
Or have you lulled them
into a false state of grace?
I could exist in your embrace,
in the calm after the storm,
my heart flat-lined and wind
knocked out of my chest,
for however long you let me.

I whisper into your sandpaper cheek
I should go-
You whisper  back
Okay-

But I sit for a few more moments,
your arms wrapped around me,
reluctant to move, because when I do
I can no longer pretend you're mine.
This is only a stolen moment in time.

You unfold yourself from me
and it's already begun-
The moment passes
and soon enough this feeling
too will be undone.

Sitting on the floor of my apartment
Eating peanut butter from the jar with
My fingers, I don’t want to ***** a spoon.
Surrounded by boxes filled with
Belongings that don’t feel like mine.

On my way home, boxes packed into
My mother’s car. I would have driven
Myself but two months prior fate
Pushed my pretty red car off the
Road with a U.S. mail truck. *****.

Unload the boxes in a room that
Looks like a memorial to childhood.
The memory of summers past are
What I cling to now, for the next three
Months feel like someone else’s time.

Look for a job. Look for a car.
Look for signs that he moved on.
Look for an excuse not to and
Go to the beach by myself instead.
Look for a place for storing boxes.

I should unpack. Boxes arrogant
And weighted to compartmentalize
All the expectations I would rather not
Remember and disappointment  
I am tired of looking at.

You make me stupid happy.
So happy that I can't write
smart poetry,
I can only speak in cliches.
I can only see red roses
and blue violets, but
your eyes are bluer
than I ever thought
I deserved to look at.
When you sleep,
I can't see them,
but I feel your arms
wrapped around my body,
and I feel safer than I ever
thought I could with a man.
I'll gladly give you everything
because you have given me
the greatest gift.
Not love, but trust.

Twice to be exact...
The first time was slow,
but not hesitant, deliberate.
Soft and pink I left my mark
on the plaid pattern and he held
me, our bodies washed in warm
shadows from a single flame
burning at both ends

The second time was quick
and messy, but we needed
each other more than we needed
clean more than we needed
perfect. I needed him, all of him,
and his soft edges not the
Instagram filtered version of
himself he showed the world.
And I needed to show him
the real me, raw and red

When I look back on that
summer all I see is him and red
I hope that he remembers
that summer as red as I do
and that red now somehow
feels like blue...
I stained his sheets and
he stained my summer,
with coffee and beer, with
grass and sand in my shoes.
With morning breath kisses,
And motorcycle fumes.
With salt water mixed with
my mascara: happy tears,
hot and burning red!

I find it ironic that for a
man who didn't want to be
a music teacher you are so eager
to teach me how to make music.
You're patient with me when
our notes turn sour or the
rhythm is all wrong.
With gentle hands you run
scales over my spine like
keys of a baby grand, and
remind me of the importance
of breath support, while
simultaneously using my air.
You tell me that stage fright
is only as real as you let it be.
That making love, not unlike
singing, is about letting
the audience see your soul, and
that you (the only patron in my
concert hall) already sees it, loves it,
and wants to hear it.

It is not my intention to paint
A morose portrait of your passing,
To draw you up as the sad clown.
After all you where are, were,
A comedian and I a poet.

But as a poet I am allowed the artistic
License to express a range of emotion.
A comedian is not because
When funny people stop laughing
The world stops listening.

You took too big bites out of life.
Did you take to much?
When the crowds stopped cheering
Was the reverberation of the silence
Too loud?

Was our laughter ever a kin to
That of the jackels?
Could we have saved you
By lifting you on to our shoulders
Rather than on a pedestal?

Or third or fourth,
After work or school,
another girl or his ex.
Always after number one:
himself,
his car,
his motorcycle,
his friends,
his needs-

The sad sinking feeling
when you realize that
you've become comfortable
coming in last place

You take the crumbs he
feeds you while you let
him feast on your lips

This, in your mind, is love
and you'd never ask for
more because you don't
deserve to come in first

My guinea pig, flower, died.
I was six.
This was the first time
I encountered death and,
I didn't understand why he,
yes flower was a he,
was sleeping on his back
tiny legs stuck in the air.
I held the dead rodent and,
tried to force feed him carrots,
his favorite, treat.

If only we all could leave
so quietly-
Without fear of what's to
come-
If we could go through
life without knowing
that it's all temporary

My mom came in, screamed
took him away and made me
wash the death from my hands.
I wasn't sad about flower,
I only asked if he could
have carrots in heaven?

Where are you now?
    are you alone,
do you miss me...?

I miss your sleeping body,
pressed against mine
in the early morning.
The way you'd stretch,
and bend around me
like a question mark.
Your body wanting me
before your mind woke.

Could we go back?
To that place?
Forget that you gave up,
and let our bodies
remind us of why we fell
in the first place?

At the intersection
of Thirteen and Sheyenne.
I'm heading West, him East.

I had a vision:
His motorcycle twisted
under my SUV
pinned to the asphalt,
pinned to the sheets,
Back flash to
the assault,
all my fault...

The light wasn't red,
but it wasn't green either.
His fault for being in
my moral blind spot.

We made eye contact,
mine stayed dry,
he broke first
and for a second time,
he ran the red.

I never had someone touch me like
I was made of glass and his touch
Made me feel like diamonds.
So sweet and it made me cry,
Tears hot and full fell down
My check, over a smile.
Resurrected, by his kind soul,
I am alive again.

The Black Cat watches
me with green eyes,
***** it's head to one side.
I stare back blinking,
fumbling over my footing.
I let him cross my path,
and feel the pain of
nostalgia as he slinks away.

I've named this pain after you.
An ache in my belly, it burns,
Simmers below my heart that
Keeps beating in spite of it.

I liked that you wore a watch.
Never looked to your phone for the time.
The time, where did the time go?
You kept it on your wrist attached to
The hand that held all the cards and
You took it with you when you left.

The depression began when my grandmother died.
She died at exactly three am (the same hour
in which I write this poem). Three am has
since become my sort of witching hour, magical.
I remember being ten years old and
rolling over in bed just when my little alarm
clock turned the hour and being told three days
later that she had died at three am that night.
It was like she was saying goodbye.
My grandmother and I shared a bond that
I feel was reflected by tiny moments of
happenstance from the moment I was born.
I was born on July 3rd, her half birthday.
It was also the day she was diagnosed.
I wake up at three am almost every night
now and if I do sleep through the entire night
I feel like I missed something.  

Hers was the first funeral I’d ever been to.
I remember disappearing for a while, in
between the service and the grave site,
when lunch was served, I wasn’t hungry.
My grandma didn’t go to church so I
find it strange that her funeral was held
in such a large one, it was a complex of
chapels and offices I admit I got a little lost.
I found myself in the balcony off the main
chapel, it was lovely with picture windows.
Down at the front there was a priest and
a couple with their baby. The baby was being
baptized, no fuss, no fanfare. Just loveliness.
The baby cried and so did I, for I was wondering
Was it the same God reasonable for both events?

That’s always been my problem to many
big questions needing answering.
I’d go to four more family members funerals
Before I was fourteen and with each one
The sadness grew stronger, I had more
questions and even fewer answers.
That's never really changed but now
I know that I may never get my answers.
I say sadness, but depression has
nothing to do with being sad really.
We all go in and out of sadness
but some of us like to hold it to long.
I know now that it's only my old paint
under the new and I'll keep it that way.
I guess the reason I never went through
with it is because I felt I didn’t have a
good enough reason, how sick is that.
The survivors of really tragedy have every
right to be angry, to be sad, and yet…
That’s one of my questions should I meet God:
How can people you’ve hurt so badly
love you so much?

I don't write about the fall,
Only about hitting the ground.
Imagine my surprise when
He caught me instead.

I had a dream about you.
I was at a party and I hate parties.
There were people so many people
All dancing and drinking flat cheap beer
From flimsy, disposable paper cups.
The boys were jackals hungry for the
Women with their painted clown smiles
And thickly lined black pearl eyes.
The room and the people were spinning.
Everything shifted and you and I
Were outside in the grass the house
Behind us standing sentinel
The air feels cool in my lungs and each
Blade of grass was a sweet nothing.
We lay there in the backyard without talking
For an eternity. Your hand on the ground to
My left was close enough to hold, but I didn’t.
We just looked up at the sky, the clouds hid
Our stars, but I’m sure that they were crossed.
We rolled over and fell down
A steep hill like
        Children do, faster
                and faster until all that
                        existed was green  and
                               I had no thoughts for once.
I slowed to a stop, opened my eyes, and
There were carnival lights everywhere.
Sights and smells like I’d never know and
I wanted to experience all of it, but I
Looked to my left and you were gone.
The lights meant nothing without you.

Sometimes I wake up and forget
Where I am. I have to remind myself
That I am here and you are there and
That all of the romantic scenarios in
My dreams are not real because in spite of my
Tendency to let my unconscious mind wander
To a place where we could be together. And
In spite of the fact that I could never remember
My dreams before I met you, this is not a love poem
Because you don’t know me and I don’t know you
And I don’t know how to get to know you
From three hundred miles away.
You kept up a barrier between us, always
Kept an empty chair between us, now I know why.
I wish you would have told me you were leaving
Still I hope that we can meet somewhere in
Between here and there before I forget the
Kindness in your eyes and before you forget
That you once found me beautiful.
Yes this is not a love poem, but this is a thank you note
For if we can't clear the clouds from our stars
I'm still grateful for having met you
Because when I remember the peace I felt
When I was near you, when
We spoke without words
I dream.

Scarlet wings,
Flightless bird.
Perched upon
Shelves. Daydreams
Of the hands that
Folded her and
Wonders: where
Have they gone?
What went wrong?

I don't get a lot of things right,
but I know that when I have you,
you will be my greatest achievement.
I will take you to our home that
is built on the best kind of love
the kind that is gentle and permanent.
When you are one, and your first word
is daddy,
I'll understand, he is a man
who inspires my best poetry too.

When you are six, and you want to
pick out your own clothes for your
first day of kindergarten, I'll let you.
I will also take pictures.

The day I have to explain the
difference between lust and
love to you, how you came to be,
and why you're family is broken, will be the worst day of my life,
until the day I have to mend your
first broken heart.
I can tell you now that I will not
know what to say or do in either
situation, but I can tell you this:
That loving and being loved should
be easy, like breathing, it should
Flow freely in and out of you.
That it's ok to have loved many
times, so long as, each love is as
healing as when you inhale. If it
fills you up from the inside and
out. That is how I loved your father.
We need love like we need air, but
we inhale and we exhale.
When love leaves you, it will feel
like you cannot breathe, through
the pain in your chest, but breath
little girl. Take full deep breaths
and know that you were my
second love, but also my best.

I sit down to write a poem,
actually write, not type.
Because pencil against paper is
satisfying. It's warm, not cold,
not like keys on a laptop, or worse
a touch screen, that's not touch.
Because I want to feel,
everything, but I haven't yet.
I sit down to write a poem,
I got nothing.

It may seem insignificant
and it makes no difference.
Nothing has changed, I
still stand sentential to
my own heart.
But somehow my pen feels
lighter in hand, my words
sound softer in ear,
they look brighter on the page
and all because you read them.

A woman who wears
many hats; still
does her hair

I miss him the way lilies
Miss the Sun at midnight,
And I long for his return
The way the tides long for
The Moon when it is full.

What are you afraid of?*

I am afraid I'm loosing you
and afraid I'm loosing myself,
In tying to make you mine

I don't know if I should fight
For what I have never won,
I don't know if you are a prize

I don't know when
I started falling or
When I'll hit the ground,
But this tumble might hurt
More than a stumble,
And I am afraid

Afraid to give myself away,
Like a gift, to a man who might
Throw me away, like trash.