The voice in my mind
Has a lisp—
My thoughts slur
Together,
Never fully coherent.
It is sweet,
In a way. But I wish
I could
Speak clearly, with
Conviction,
Instead of gaining
My willpower
In too-late moments.

I looked down at my boots,

Studied the trailing laces,
And wondered how they
Had come undone.
Were they snagged on a
Small bush, a bramble?
Or in my haste to prolong
The fears I had to face,
Did I duck down and
Untie them myself?

It was a careless murmur,
Spoken on a belated night,
Settling itself in the air
As they spoke on and on.
The words meant nothing
To them.
“Grandma passed away,
Oh yeah. . .”
“Because I love you,
But see. . .”
“Remember your aunt?
She died.”
They were soft words,
Meant to be recieved
Lightly, on silent hands—
But they were surrounded
By so many others, all
Tangled around, until
They didn’t feel real

Anymore.

The foam forms rings
In the tide—
Like blown glass
In the light.


The space between the leaves
Shows the words
We never said.


How lonely it must be
To be the missing piece
Of a set.

The community sat in silence
On the peak of a mountain,

The clouds stretching below
And the chill of dusk sinking
Into their bones like a sincere
Apology.

I am a downed tree slowly
Shedding its rough bark,
Growing pale & vulnerable
In the forest of Your love.

I sat on the edge of a teacup,
Spinning, spinning in a saucer,
My feet dangling in the boiling,
Tea-stained water—wondering
If it were better to fall forward
Or backward.

I love when the sky's eyes are sinking,
               as if sluggish,
the wind a soft melody hummed
           through a tired, but resigned
                      mother’s lips.

There is so much life in the air
    at dusk;
              but it is gentle:
                             The soft rushing of cars,
              far off yowls from stray cats,
a muted conversation between
          a strolling couple.

I feel lost in this world, but somehow
     that makes me feel
                         more at peace--
Because in this moment,
        there is no
               pressure on me.

When I doubled over,
Knees landing hard
On the gravel,
I imagined I was an
Art installation--
A prospect of pain
For people to marvel at.

The word warbled
In my throat.
m a y b e. . .
I knew I could
Not make it work.
s o  w h y
Didn’t I just
Say no?

The slant of his shoulders,
The way they shifted under
His shirt, a bible verse shining
Against the yellow fabric, into
The eyes of others.

Even if the words faded with
One too many washes, you
Would still feel the gold, the
Sound of the Spirit’s footsteps
As they blended with his.
His ambassador, a wordless
Expression of God's love and
Peace in this twisted world.

If I walked through the door,
Lips silent, would anybody
Know I followed Jesus?
Or was my heart obscured--
Split between the world
And my Father?

You never did say

Those words
Your eyes implied.
I heard them
In my head, all lies.

The last time we spoke,
I was bundled in the coat
Of my doubts, my feet cold
As they hung off the edge
Of my bed.

I complained
About the lack of warmth,
But I shook off the blanket
You tried to drape over my
Shoulders.

I stood up,
Bare feet on frozen wood, not
Knowing where I was going,

Only that I needed to be
Away from you.

My thoughts
Led me to the mesh door,
Out into the snow.

But my
Paranoid eyes only saw
White, stretching for miles,
Wishing you would appear
Among the blank hills.

That was when I realised
I only wanted to be away
From  m y s e l f.

The numbness
Of the cold was supposed
To distance my body from
My hatred of myself—

But now my limbs
Are turning blue and purple,
Freezing to the spot, and the
Redness inside only
G r o w s.

I am
Unable to walk away from
It, hide in constant activity
Like I always have.

And I don’t
Blame you for finally giving
Up on trying to follow.

It was not serendipitious—
They were only sounds
Wailed from the opening
Of an old, untuned guitar--
But her eyes still pinched
Shut, hearing the screams
Of a voice no longer here.

It’s my birthday today.
The celebration of my life—
But I only feel the weight
Of all I have yet to turn
It into.
Merely a bag of yarn and
Crafts supplies I swear
I will get back to, but I
Only layer ***** sweaters
Ontop, lying to myself.
The socks
Grow more and more
Mismatched, my eyes
Bleary as I feed my needle
Through the stitches I
Can't see anymore.
Another
Finger counted off on my
Hand, but they start to
Shake more with each one,
The years blurring together.
Did I drop
The thread eons ago? Will I
Have to unravel everything
I thought I was building,
Hoping it was the purpose
Of my life?

The reminders

             Slunk away

When I was no longer

         S  t ruggling--
  
For I did not

              Understand

How they could not

         R  e form

Like I did--

His mouth was a perfect ‘O’
Like the opening of a guitar,
But out of tune, dumbstruck.
There was nothing he could
Say, no words that his face
Hadn’t already expressed.
Where had he been all this
Time? To not notice the lies
Furnishing his own mouth?

The timetable was slanted,
Askew in the dusty light.
No one had checked in,
Nor out, in years.
What was that sound,
That beating of the walls?
I stood in my empty heart.

We think of fainting spells
And red outbursts when
We hear the word
‘Overreact.’
But often, it is more
Accurate to think of the
Silence of a cold shoulder.

He said my touch was soft,

         Gentle, the hands of a babydoll.

But he didn’t know how much

         They shook. How come that

Didn’t leave a mark, didn’t

          Mar the skin with callauses?

They wrung themselves dry,

           Holding my head, pressed under

My legs--all to stop the constant

           Murmur of jangling keys that

Coursed through them.