each of you reminds me
that strength manifests
magic and majesty at it's
own rate and pace
within each of us

i hear the roar of the lion,
see the silent slow build
of muscles below the surface,
smell the sweet satisfaction
of forging familial ties,
touch the tangible results
of big brains and hard work,
see the bravery it takes to
let love in after horrific loss,
and taste the treats only
an open mind can unleash

each of us wholly woman,
with wombs that grow
babies, change, and inspiration-
all creators in our unique
capacities, with hearts
as full as the moon that
moves the waves within

chaos is overwhelming, innate, a perfect picture of what i've become
i live within it, no, i thrive within it,
pushing myself to levels i probably didn't need to reach,
but here i find myself, and often,
i'm alone

i wonder about what it all means, the pushing and the pulling,
the wanting and the nothingness, how i can wake up in love
and by nightfall all i want is to curl up inside of myself

there are moments when you're inescapable, but i'm
beginning to wonder if you've know about my evasion
from the start and have gotten too good at pretending

i wish i could be the woman i am sometimes, the one
that sees you for who you are and understands that
we all progress at a pace the stars decided lifetimes ago

instead i mirror my own destruction upon you, perhaps
because i see the chaos looking out at me from your
eyes that still seem young, and are nothing at all like my own

i've met you before,
watched you mutate,
witnessed the moment you crumble
and usually i lend a hand
in putting you back together

i've seen who you are,
a self prescribed new birth,
but still the same sad sack that felt like
you had to leave it all behind
to really start over

i've laughed at you in secret,
knowing that will never do the trick,
no amount of outward reimagining could
ever undo the fact that you
will never love who lives within

i've learned from you, finally,
watching my own potential destiny,
as it unfurls slowly and surely in the
same steady footfalls that
only ever lead to self destruction

i've longed to let go of you,
but without my own permission,
i always came back to the place where
you stand still in time stuck
battling between ego and self

i've met you before,
seen where this takes us,
and this time i've decided to forget
my innate empathic impulses
and to run like hell

i'm everything i already knew that i was. a strong woman, with convictions that wilt like flowers that aren't meant for the 90 degree weeks we've been getting here in april. we sit around and fan ourselves with half thoughts, and you pretend that my sweat is the sweetest elixir to ever pass your lips. you make me sick with the way you look at me, but for a long time i can't stop trying to memorize the exact color of the water or the sky your eyes are. when i finally realize why, i'm taking myself in, dizzied by the likeness between her and i, and my mind, it keeps glitching as you and he run together. i'm confused at first, uncertain, but then i realize this is my subconscious speaking, the universe cross firing my faulty wiring to wake me up. you've given enough to everyone else, and i know you won't stop, but in this way it must end now. find a way to love yourself through the one you choose to love.

the day is long
my body weary
the mind is strong
my heart sees clearly

for this i was born
no more denial
the light has shown
the end of the spiral

i float above me
within and without
i now know free
comes at cost of doubt

the love that i have
explodes never ending
the love that i give
is well worth sending

i cut the rope
and here i stand
i hold now hope
in both of my hands

i swore to myself
that i'd stretch you away,
each breath a release
of the negative space
you occupied as your
hands roamed and found
all of the pieces of me
that would never be perfect

i imagined us floating
above the water, lost in the
cracks between the planks
of wood that you cut and
measured as the callouses
became rougher on each
of your fingertips

i longed for them to get
snagged once more as you
took off my stockings, or
brushed my hair from my
face to see that i was only
a child waiting for someone,
anyone, to love me

i could still smell the wet
and hear the drops fall in
that measured way they do,
i allowed myself to be draped
in the clouds and the vapor
felt like your big dog breathing
on the back of my neck

i laid still and wondered what
it might be like to do so
in the tiny slice of heaven
you had created for yourself,
knowing i would never know

i wondered if it was the spots
or the lack of security, or
maybe it was the secrets
that i couldn't help keeping
even when my tongue
tried it's damnedest
to tell the truth

i woke up and my eyes
were still the same, clouded
and looking for something
i wasn't ready to see, 'maybe
tomorrow,' i whispered as
i found solace in my own
arms that rocked me back
to the inevitable in between

you told me you loved
red, blue, and geometry—
and the next morning
i found red
lines on my back
and blue
circles on my neck.
i know you've read
the things i've written.
i know you know
the things i've done.
we share a secret within
the line of our vision.
we never spoke about it.




we never spoke about it.

Here in the west borough, down three or four blocks from the epicenter, the shocks come to you in tides — little, electric, delightful in some alien way. Even the sounds of instant decay ring pleasant. The concrete, the bricks, the mortar, the Corinthian columns, the suspended ceiling tiles, the florescent bulbs, the coffee cups, the desktops, the family portraits all fall from their stations, screaming toward the cool pavement. It’s a temperate Thursday in January and the weathermen continue to talk in stunted disbelief. A car catches fire on Malcom X Boulevard, and weather is the wrong word, you think, for this phenomenon. It’s rage. It’s bitter. The violence of the sun-catching glass smacks of vengeance and this whole thing is man-made or, at the very least, god-made but not anything so indiscriminate as weather.

There’s still the pleasure of it though. The collapse of the old world. And there’s nothing but rubble on the corner of 9th and Dominican, and for the life of you, you can’t remember what stood there before. In your evergreen bones you know one thing: whatever anodyne brick institution reigned will be replaced by that glorious glass and that glorious steel, 100 towers impaling the sky. The future is now. A tremor. A cloud of dust.

For about ten seconds the windshield is worthless yet you speed up, hurling yourself through the fog of destruction into a **** world, feeling essential and brilliant and and and.