I used to be a
rocking chair
in the home of a lovely
elderly two.
In the summers I sat in the shade
on the porch
that was my world.

But I got tired of going
back and forth
with the same old things

I used to be
a pair of rubber gloves
belonging to the maid
of a grand old palace.
I held the sponges
that cleaned the biggest of ballrooms
and the feather duster
that danced along
the most delicate riches.

But I didn't like
being used
to do someone’s
***** work.

I've been a wish from a genie
(I was taken for granted)
I've been the pencil of an artist
(That job was too sketchy)

I was a sapphire gem in a mineral museum
(But I started feeling really blue)
I was a sunken stone in a rolling river
(But I just couldn't go with the flow)

Though, I don’t regret
a single thing I've been.
Because the best part of imagination
is the only thing about it
that I don’t need to make up:

my mind.

Her back like a sunset sitting crouched in a cold tub,
terrified and disillusioned. I watch her from the doorway,
unable to paint over her purples, yellows, and blues.
I watch her trembling deer legs tumble over the linoleum
and all I can think of is that last thing he said to her as
she slipped away.

"How could we have disappointed each other this much?"

I was there, watching her petals wilt, her body slipping into
a vase for him every night in the bar as he looked at a simpering
Los Angeles girl over his beer glass.

Sometimes love comes in like the roll of a fresh spring breeze
over a mountain, sometimes it's like a knife twisting in your
gut, but sometimes love can make you believe he's worth
tearing yourself up.

I pulled her up from the bathtub, crumpled and wilted and tired
and heartbroken. I brushed away the tears and smudged eyes,
and let California's sunshine shimmer on her skin, I opened
all the windows in the world for her,

just to let the right love in, to sweep up the insecurities,
and only leave strength in its place,

and as she tried to thank me, I put my hand on her
heart and said, "You've got two eyes, two legs, two arms,
but only one heart. And someone out there has the pair."
I held her hand to my heart, "But that pair will stop beating
then moment you let yours stop."

And I watched her wash her face, and heal the bruises,
her smile returned and wobbled, and finally I stopped
looking into mirrors to remember what pounded so steadily
and so strongly in my chest.

I panicked.

My brain attacked today.

It attacked my lungs,

Stupid sharp whistling sounds.

I looked out of control.

But I felt aware,

that I wasn’t breathing,

that I was attacking myself again.

It attacked my heart,

terrifying skipping stones in my chest.

Whipped one by one,

Muffled blows in my breast.

I panicked.

I looked out of control but I was aware,

of the guilt,

of what will drag along with me.

I can’t be freed from fault,

It’s not the way.

Because I panic;

is why I don’t relate,

is how I cleanse.

Fright being necessary,

like a dream

where you muscle tone fails you,

I was paralyzed.

My knuckles hit the laminate –

again, again, again.

But I don’t move.

Feeling my bicep twitch,

Feeling my throat raw,

My mouth wide open,

But I don’t make a sound.

Because I panic.

The power inside,

will never translate,

to the outside.

People may see flickers,

of insanity in my eyes.

They may see me tighten up.

They may seem me strain and ease.

But I will never translate.

Until it snaps,

Until I no longer attack myself.

Until I no longer panic.

Until I bellow,

Until I howl,

Until I wail,

Until I swing and connect.

Until it attacks outwardly,

Instead of inwardly.