Please don’t make fun,
I know my thoughts ramble,
but I’m picking at pieces of my brain
storming ‘round my head like bees
threatening to sting.

The ones I love are dead-
not in body, but in soul,
and I am left to witness in silence.
Pain when felt is insufferable;
Pain when witnessed is more deeply felt.

My words may never save
nor speak truth to power,
but they are my own:
Blood of my blood, bone of my bone,
And I may learn to love their ugly shapes.

Drifting through the void,
like an astronaut astray in space,
floating forever…

Will I ever come to earth again?
Will I ever roll down a hill of fresh grass?
Will I ever taste the cold droplets of a summer rain?
Will I ever hold another’s hand,
unwilling to let go until morning light?

I dream of a time long behind me,
when the smiling faces of those I loved were familiar.
But now they are so far,
so far in fact I begin to wonder if they ever really existed…
or were they all in my head -
a daydream of the lost soul
drifting sorrowfully past the moon?

her voice rings out like a banshee call
through the hills
of unyielding memory.
she calls my name in silky cries
that wrap my body, squeezing tight
like the hugs she used to give
and i feel my lungs collapsing
from the weight
of the ways i failed her.

“I done messed up,” she tells me
and that’s the last i hear
before her voice is drowned
in unquenchable tears
etching canyons of sorrow in the flesh
that so violently was torn apart
like the dreams we once shared.

now even the stars grow dim
and the shining snow encircles the globe
in a sheet of sorrowful white turning grey,
for her pen has fallen silent
and no one else on earth
can write beauty in these scenes
like that magnificent enchantress of verse.

A Christian is a hypocrite. No more
a king than serpent; faithful men of stone
lack love, lack fear, blind violent lambs. Unknown
to them their role in wars they know not for.

Made in thy image is your God. You claim
His orders justify your sins so you
may blameless conquer land and slave. You do
not know of what you speak nor who you maim.

Salvation comes through lack thereof
when God instead replaced with Love.

Good afternoon!
Take a seat.
He’ll be just with you.

Hello?
Come here.
Stand up.
Sit down.
Breathe.
Step here.
Take a seat.
He’ll be just with you.

Welcome.
Tell me…
Let’s try…
See you soon!

[ten weeks]

Good afternoon!
Take a seat.
He’ll be just with you.

Hello?
Come here.
Breathe.
Sit down.
Stand up.
Step here.
Take a seat.
He’ll be just with you.

Welcome.
Tell me…
Let’s try…
See you soon!

[ten weeks]

Good afternoon!
Take a seat.
He’ll be just with you.

Hello?
Come here.
Sit down.
Breathe.
Stand up.
Step here.
Take a seat.
He’ll be just with you.

Welcome.
Tell me…
Don’t worry.
That’s normal.
Let’s try…
See you soon!

[ten weeks]

Good afternoon!
Take a seat.
He’ll be just with you.

Hello?
Come here.
Breathe.
Stand up.
Sit down.
Step here.
Take a seat.
He’ll be just with you.

Welcome.
Don’t worry.
That’s normal.
Please sit.
It’s okay.
Let’s try…
See you soon!

[two weeks]

Come.
Sit.
Wait.
Arm.
Blood.
Breathe.
Be calm.

Beeeeeeeeep

We tried.

From the beginning I was Daughter.
From the beginning I was stamped
with a Times New Roman “F” for female.
My future laid out: to tread the line
like a tightrope walker, wavering between
too weak and too strong,
too quiet and too bold,
too optimistic and too pessimistic,
too proud and too ashamed,
too prudish and too sultry,
too beautiful and too ugly,
too feminine and too brave.

Like every “F” before me,
I was stamped with the destiny to tiptoe down a pearly aisle,
traded from one man to another, giving way from
Daughter to Wife to Mother.
I was taught to carry dolls like my future children,
learning how to nurture, to care, to love
while my brother set up armies from the other end of the room.
I was stamped as property to fate,
told I could be loved only if I complied.

But you offer me an alternative destiny.
You hand me a pen and ream of paper, demanding that I write.
You scribbled out the demands of destiny and offered me
the steering wheel. It’s a daunting freedom;
I was never taught how to drive. But you tell me to breathe
offer support, and for just a moment my fear evaporates.
From the beginning I was stamped, my future written,
But today I stamp myself, a golden “F” for female. Both
too weak and too strong,
too quiet and too bold,
too optimistic and too pessimistic,
too proud and too ashamed,
too prudish and too sultry,
too beautiful and too ugly,
too feminine and too brave.

An overflowing basket to match an overflowing sink,
reminders of responsibilities like weights,
reestablishing themselves from beyond my bedsheets.
A list stretches upon pages and pages
waiting patiently for checks and arrows
determined fate to be done now or later. I
wonder if the list feels the agony of its own weight
or if it delights in my torture? Maybe it thinks itself
a burden - regretting its own existence as if it were
responsible for creating itself. Maybe I was made,
a conglomerate of tasks to be achieved,
some done and undone, others forgotten beneath
higher priorities. First steps. Check. First words. Check.
Learn to dance. Forgotten. Learn to sing. Undone.
And still there are parts of me that must be rewritten
again and again and again and again - endless.
My mind is an overflowing basket, laundry to be cleaned.
My body is an overflowing sink, dishes to be scrubbed.
Every day over and over, again and again;
If I leave it sit, so too will I until I’ve withered to
oblivion. Endless.