Once upon a time I visited Hades
Just for a week, something like that.
I don't quite remember how I found the way down.
And I was supposed to be a prisoner of course
No one wants to be confined. I didn't.

But I was fed. Reassured, I signed the forms, still woozy,
And frankly then I was somewhat ignored
but there is so much unexpected liberty in captivity
If it's the cage you yourself have chosen
And that made all the difference. So I rested.

I planted grains there, buckwheat, barley, arborio
Knowing I'd return to spring soon, also knowing now
That hell is temporary, that it just happens sometimes
That my mind is sometimes lost and found again
like a train of thought, or an acquaintance's name

And then I left. I've been back to the underworld
Here and there throughout the years,
when I needed or wanted to visit with my demons.
But I don't need to stay- I just harvest what I've been growing,
Nourish myself, rest a bit, replant, wave to Hades. And go home.

I wanted to write a poem for you.
I really did. And I tried. You deserve an epic.
I don't understand why it won't fall out of me
The way my tooth did last year, or a swear does any day-

I didn't get why I couldn't put you into words,
packaged neat, edited well. Simple.
It should be, I thought. It's established.
You know. I know. It's clear. Sky's blue.

And perhaps that's exactly it.
I love you so simply I cannot complicate it.
I love you so wholly there's no room to doubt it.
I love you in a way that is reciprocated, complete,
entirely inscrutable to me. For once in my life, I am tongue tied.

You would think I could write a poem about that.
You would think I could write a book about you
Then sell it on Oprah's couch, humble-smug
Insufferably smitten and fulfilled.
But I can't. I didn't write this story. It happened to me.

You happened to me. And we're both still a little...
bewildered, might be the word. It's been years,
it's not new, it's not puppy love that brings you home to me.
And we didn't expect this, we never felt that it was owed,
or knew the world even had any of this left in it.

And yet, quietly. If I could just shut up and listen.
The epic writes itself, it isn't forced, it isn't marketable,
But it's true, innately woven into the feeling that I
am now home wherever we go. I learned to speak in tongues,
I ate a dictionary, I wrote until my eyes and fingers were crimson
But I simply could not write something this good.

All the best things are forbidden
(Or on the way to becoming so, or from being so)
Gluttony- lust- mischief-drugs-rebellion- falling in love
especially with someone who sees you when
the mask is off and you’re done performing

It’s frowned upon to occupy your body completely.
It’s impolite to feel both the pain and pleasure your body gives.
It’s not proper to swear and emote and exist in a way that
Challenges others, or makes them think further
Than they were trained to in the context of their life

When they ask you how you are, lie.
When you know you’re right, back down.
Make yourself small enough to fit into the moment
Of brief consideration they’re offering you- do not ask for more-
Do not allow yourself to be anything but opaque, pleasant. Smiling.
But not too wide.

Tuck away your anger, your sorrow, the aching, even joy
Because it threatens them. They do not know how to live in
The spectrum of colors and sounds and shapes and chaos
That is your world, that is the only way you know how to live.
You must be terrifying to them.

So terrorize.

I did not stop writing but I swallowed each word whole
Without remark, buried where I could not read them
Or myself. I could not stop having feelings
But I hid them away- spirited far- speechless
They spoke anyway. I tried to die. I did not.

I can't blame you, or anybody specifically
but I was afraid of what I was made of.
The thing that was growing- it was me,
wildly me, wild anima, whirling and warming
I threatened to metastatize. But I did not.

I only swelled and grew and hurt, really tried hard
To find a window, to make space, and a home
Terrified the author and editor- no one will buy this
And so I killed that thing. I cut it out, and discarded it.
No one noticed. The parade moved on. I did not.

I hid like a wounded fox. I turned myself inside out
away from light, from sound, and love, and trust
I erased memories, wrote better endings, kept it easy
And this suited many, but never myself. Because
You can't actually **** what grows. I did not.

I want to write it on your skin:
how I love you, need you, know you.
want you. there is warmth in every second
drinking time with you, love on eyes.
I want to stretch prose across your back,
your neck, your lips, your hands,
your arms, where I rest in pieces
of deep contentment.
I want to cover you in ink...
tasting blue on your lips,
feeling you feel the words I stutter to say
and writing love on your skin.

It's late now, and the moon is too loud.
the cold touch, surreality
and the harshness of knowing are too much.
I need the static and to chew glass,
to dive beneath the grassy waves
or become part of the mattress.
it's too loud, too light.
i need to be still, so that this will pass me by.
if no one breathes, and i close my eyes
perhaps i can purge myself of sense
scrub my mind, my insides
and think of nothing at all.

i try
everyday
to make myself cold
small and  jagged
so that perhaps
you will believe the lies i tell you
everyday
and leave.
i try
everyday
to make myself
leave you
your warm smile
and soft hands
that thaw me, because if not,
you'll think that i love you.
and i will.