i wish i could be better. i wish i could let thoughts flow from my head to my mouth. this is why i am a writer. i am in no way capable of having words flow out of my mouth with ease. there is always a second thought. i wish more people understood this affliction, not many do. i have always lived in my head a little too much. even as a little girl. i always thought too much, and never said enough. i think it's from people in my young age saying too much. having said too many empty promises. and being too irresponsible with their lips.

i would rather be irresponsible with a pen. at least it can be scribbled out or written too quick.
there is a reason i write nearly illegible.

there is an ache that shutters down my spine and keeps my chest heavy. there are non-existent stones in my coat pocket. i know they are not real. yet they feel more real than anything i have ever held in my life. sometimes i file through my stones in my coat pocket. in search of an answer of why my body is so heavy with dread. i never really find an answer. maybe i'll find the answers in the bottom of the city lake. it is unknown if others ever found their answers. but maybe, they found their peace. and that is an eluding enough risk. i'll take a short walk with my stones shoved deep into my pockets. i might even swallow a few.

my mother sees purple
because purple lives on her flesh.

she has stains
from shoulders down.
they scatter across her back
like pressed grapes.
the juice squeezed out of them
to create a rich man’s wine.
they wrap around her legs
like grape vines.
pulling her closer to the ground
with each step.

she hides them.
when men approach her
she says
“quiero que me ames.
my body has rejected me
and even in the womb
i was mutating.”

the men love her face.
she is a woman who does not age.
they say to her
“tu eres morada.
to love yourself you must
accept the color.”
so they have all added
new shades of purple
to her body.

i think that is why
my favorite eyeshadow color
is purple.

At times I fear I am just like my mother,
Irresponsible, corrupt, deceiving.
Going no where – fast.
Gathering too much of the bad genes in my body.
They range from,
Alcoholism,
Being dependent on any type of pill,
To being with controlling a spouse.
I have never seen my mother with a man that was good for her.
This is another looming fear, being under the thumb of controlling men.
I think things like that run down the bloodline.
It’s all I have seen as a kid,
A man has to be controlling to really be in love with you,
A man has to put you in your place to show you he cares,
A man has to fully support you,
strip you of anyway of being independent;
because that is love.  
It is scary, and you yield many red flags.
But something in me finds beauty in it.
I know this is horribly sick, I know this isn’t right.
But something about the fight, is so beautiful.
When you tell me I mean the world to you,
I believe it, I do.
But something else looms over my head.
And I’m not quite sure what it is,
but it is quiet and sly.
This is what I fear what my mother felt,
A looming fear over her head, not even realizing the weight.
This is what draws me in, I feel myself reeling closer, and closer
to this unsettling, but secure feeling.
A promise of a beautiful land to live on,
with a beautiful family and wonderful home.
A promise of a great life, but at what cost?
My own father? My family?
It seems odd that you would want to strip me of the man that raised me,
the man that molded me.
Of everyone near me that I have grown close to through the years.
Odd that you want to be my one and only.
Quite literally.
But something is so intriguing about you.
I can not help but tell myself that you are the one.
But again, at what cost?
This is my biggest fear, I do not want to inherit this gene from my mother.
I do not want the gene, of having
every aspect of my life needing to be controlled.
To be solely reliant on one human being,
and it not even be myself.
That is my fear.
To be merely dependent on you.
I love you, I love you so much.
And that is my fear, loving you more than myself.
And putting all my life on the back burner to please you.
I beg of you,
do not be that man.
Your envy is green as a sly snake, and it is evil.
And your anger, my god your anger, it is red as the devils horns.
But,
your love, compassion, and sensitivity,
is as warm and pink as the act of love making.
And love trumps all, does it not?
Your envy may be green, and anger red.
But your love is what makes me feel whole.
I love you, and understand,
I will give you all of me.
As long as it does not drain me.

Debauched nights, destruction waning,
There is a twisted pull to the underbelly.
Chaos is ****, like silk stockings and
Bonnie an Clyde.
I can smell it a mile away,
like a dog in heat.
It lures me from the
safety of my sweet calm life.
There is an existence beyond
the bridge, but it's boring and soulless.
I want to ****** the light, and
the routine.  Dredge the marrow
from the bone

I wish I knew more about Greek tragedies,
more about religion,
more about my own genetic make-up.
I am just too bland. That is my fear.
I have lots of them.
The future.
The past, it haunts me. Sometimes the does present too.
The way my chest aches when I am home alone, and the way my dog's breathing skips in his sleep.
What a wonderful life it would be to be a farm dog. I wish to be a farm dog often, maybe God will grant me this in my next life.
The only thing I would have to worry about is the herd of sheep.
Who obey anyway.