Do not go gentle into that good night.
Or do and slip away--caressed by cool release.
Without a ripple, slip beneath the quiet waters.
How futile to fight the dying of the light!
The earth will turn and soon you matter not at all.

Rage not Achilles--
for gods, nor men, nor efforts they employ may stop the ceaseless march of time and inevitable decay.

I hope the multiverse theory is true
and there’s infinite me and infinite you.
And due to the nature of infinite chance,
there’s a world where we have had time to dance,
there’s a world where we’re happy,
a world where we’re sad,
a world where I’m playing mom and you’re playing dad.
In one universe I was never born.
In one universe your ACL’s torn.
I’ll cry for the worlds where we’ve never met,
but in one world you’re Romeo and I’m Juliet.

It’s because I’ve been wanting to text you,
but didn’t want you to think I was planning
on texting you at a certain time.
So I wait til two minutes past the hour,
just long enough to seem random,
but not so long that I explode from impatience.
Exploding is an FDA acknowledged side affect of impatience,
in case you were wondering.

Where heroes slumber
the hills are just as green as
the graves of villains.

This word is unspeakably tragic.
Love lost is no love at all.
No sorcery, witchcraft, or magic
Can bring back love that is gone.
Orpheus thought he had found it
His music came oh so close.
But one glance over his shoulder
And true love truly was lost.

You might find me silly and vain, and quite possibly insane.
I didn’t stop from humility, but from futility.
Cause I was tired of screaming and fighting
and the dogs they kept biting
and scratching and begging and pleading.
It was me they were needing.
And the harder I pulled away, the more I had to pay.
I think of the pain, standing in the rain,
looking up at the sky, pretending I could fly.

7 is such a sharp number, pushed in between the sensuous curves of 6 and 8.
All awkward angles and points, 7 is not a graceful number.
It’s odd. And sticks out in all the wrong places.
6 and 8 bend like dancers,
Swaying or flowing as natural as the breeze.
And poor 7 sandwiched in between them, like a middle school kid,
all unsure and out of place.

Diaphanous silk skirts glide gracefully around tiny ankles attached to perfect legs.
And the string quartet plays in the background.
Strong hands encircle a tightly cinched waste
And breath brushes against a neck.

Then the clock strikes midnight or the alarm sounds.
The spell breaks, totalitarian reality invades.
And dreams flutter away, evasive and light,
Like diaphanous silk skirts.

Do you remember that night the end of senior year?
We drove and got drunk off my dad’s stolen beer.
I sat, sand in my toes and wind in my hair,
Glanced up and caught your stare.
“You’re beautiful,” you said.
I smiled and blushed, shyly looking away.
But you sat down beside me
And kissed my lips softly.

Do you remember that night the end of senior year?
I’ve never been so free or so free of fear.
We sat, hand in hand, our souls laid bare.
I missed curfew that night, but didn’t care.
“You’re beautiful,” I said.
You smiled and laughed, boldly keeping my eye.
So I leaned in close to you
And kissed your lips softly.

The little girl stood alone in the wood,
Blonde curls tumbled o'er her disheveled red hood.
The stranger approached and offered to help.
She let him direct her, unlearned in life.
But he caused her and her family nothing but strife.

The young woman stood alone in the tower,
Blonde curls tumbled o'er her face oh so dour.
The stranger approached, and offered to help.
She had learned her lesson the first time though.
She pulled her hair up and locked the window.

In my mind I am a dancer,
Gracefully pirouetting.
My lithe body painting a picture on the floor,
Slender arm extended.
So enchanting that gravity gives up it’s hold on me,
and my leap sails like a ship among the stars,
and I might never fall.

In the mirror I am a fishwife,
Dully hawking.
My thick body smelling of the rotten wares,
Meaty arm extended.
So proletarian that dreams deny me,
and my eyes deaden like a *****’s among johns,
and I might never look up.

In my mind I am champion,
Boldly crusading.
My strong body leaving a sea of blood upon the field,
Sword arm extended.
So formidable that fate fears to tempt me,
and my cuts fall like the wrath of God upon the sinners,
and I might never be vanquished.

In the mirror I am a *******,
Feebly waiting.
My broken body seeming more useless everyday,
Emaciated arm extended.
So inadequate that movement massacres me,
and my lungs constrict like a boa around its meal
and I might never survive.

“Words, words, they’re all we have to go on.”

Words and feelings and thoughts
Blurred after too many shots.
A promise whispered in my ear,
Compliments for no one else to hear.
Search his eyes
Looking for lies.

Words and feelings and thoughts,
My stomach tying in knots.
A tongue pushed in between my lips
Hands exploring down my hips.
Search my skin
Looking for a way in.

I look across the room and see a girl.
She's staring off into the distance,
too jaded to even see the room she's in.
Dark blue circles, under the dark blue pools of her eyes,
are the only souvenirs of her late night.

I look across the room and see a man.
He's leaned back in his chair,
too tired to even open his eyes.
Dark blue bruises, on either knee,
are the only memories of his night in prayer.

I look across the room and see an old woman,
She's sloped forward away from the chair,
too hunched backed to even sit up straight.
Dark blue needles, wrapped around dark blue yarn
are the only sign she's still alive.

I look in the mirror and see myself,
I'm wide-eyed looking for a way out,
too lost even to blink.
Dark blue thoughts circle like dark blue vultures,
haunting my every move.

Long, lazy summer days
Drift into summer nights
The air cools
The wind blows
The stars come out
And I sit and watch
Wondering.

It’s always in the night-time
when the ghosts of our dark pasts
come out and haunt us most.
They whisper secret memories,
tantalizing dreams of what once was,
that can never be again.
And we confuse these alluring, bygone memories
with true visions of the future.
Awaking unsure in the sunlight, confused,
and wishing for the moon.

I want you to love me.
I want you to love me fast and hard
and so deep I can't stand it.
I want you to love me until we burst into the sky
as two new stars,
brighter than any others.
And scientists will be baffled,
they'll spout equations and physics,
but they won't know.
The only people who will understand
will be the couple holding hands, laying down in the field,
who name the two new stars after themselves.

People say they have a broken heart,
when they are betrayed.
But a broken heart isn't a hurting one,
it's one that cannot feel at all.
A pinch, a stab, a punch, a bruise,
a cut, a broken bone.
Anything besides this agonizing apathy.

They're going to be taking my pencil away after this.

With sinking thoughts,
my mind fell
To dark depths where my nightmares dwell.
My body turned and tossed about
my lips parted to give shout,
But no sound came,
my silent scream
of terror where no light could gleam.

Damp, heavy sheets
twisted around my legs,
like cold night sweats,
but there was no nightmare.
It was just the rain,
that had beat against the walls and roof and windows all week long
finally getting in.
That night,
that night of no nightmares,
I met another patient.
His eye looked at me,
then through me.
And through the walls
and through the rain
through the very fabric of reality itself.
They alighted on another world.

Maybe it was a better world,
with gentle rain that never broke through walls.
And bright greens and oranges.
A world where fairies serve ambrosia
with diamond studded wings.
And centaurs carry crystal cups
filled from the fountain of youth.

I'm jealous of his Neverland.
Jealous that he can escape
while I wake up with drenched sheets
once more clinging to my legs.

Right off the bat, I want to remind you that I'm not sorry.
That being said.
Sometimes, I empathize with
Lady Macbeth
and her perpetually stained hands.
More often, I sympathize with
Pontius Pilate
and his hands that never got *****.

Have you ever cut yourself
slicing chicken, shaving legs?
You put your finger in your mouth,
so you don't get blood on the dinner,
and **** life.
Slightly salty, slightly sour.
And red, so, so red.
Red like roses
        like leaves in fall
        like firetrucks
        like a slinky dress
        like blood.
So red you can taste it.
Have you ever cut someone else?
It's just like chicken really.
Turns out, other people bleed
just as salty, sour,
and even more red.

One of the nurses was humming a song today.
I had forgotten about music.
I think it was a wedding march.
She was wearing a ring too.
I had forgotten about love.

Now one introduces themselves around here,
no one wears name tags or anything.
So I've decided to give all my nurses names.
The biggest one, with smooth, chocolate skin and shiny, pearl teeth,
he's Langston.
The next biggest, so similar they could be twins
except for his eating, his name is Byron.
The motherly woman who brings my pills
with a smile everyday is Maya.
And the skinny blonde is Emily.
The only other person I see is the night guard.
His name is Robert.
Oh , and me,
no one ever uses my name either.
I think I've forgotten what it really is,
so I make up a new one everyday.
Theodore, William, Walt, Pablo,
Edgar on my morbid days
and Shell on my silly ones.
A new day,  a new name.
A new identity.
Sometimes, I can almost forget why I'm here.

They let me out of my room today.
First time.
Must be for good behavior or something.
I walked down the hall
on my own two feet,
a matched set of burly male nurses
shadowing me
in case I decided to jump another patient
                                              or myself
                                              or them
                                              or something.
But I didn't even see anyone else.
And I sat in another room,
bigger, but just as empty of color.

The water here tastes funny.
The food does too,
but mostly just the water bothers me.
It tastes unnatural and fake,
like it's been inside too long.
I never really feel clean after a shower here.
And the water never really warms up.
It trickles our of the spout,
like a waterfall during a drought,
falling obligatorily,
but not enthusiastically.
I miss the rain,
the warm showers of spring,
crashing thunderstorms of summer,
chilly drizzle of fall,
even the icy sleet of winter.
I miss God's tears,
falling from the heavens
and baptizing me
again and again.
In the rain,
I could really feel clean
                                 free
                                 forgiven.
But not here.
The showers here barely work,
the water never gets warm,
and it tastes funny anyway.

Sometimes I dream of that night.
I think if it wasn't summer, everything would have been different.
But it was just so hot.
In my dreams,
the world is an oven.
I'm baking, roasting, broiling.
It was 108 degrees that day,
80% humidity.
Someone was once acquitted on the ******* defense.
Isn't the heat defense just as good?
If it wasn't so hot,
I wouldn't have done it.
But it was.
And I did.
And secret number two,
I'm not sorry.

They said I was mad.
Sick in the head.
It was the illness that made me do it.
And how could anyone doubt I was crazy,
after that performance in the courtroom.
But I'll tell you a secret.
I'm not crazy.
I did it because I wanted to.
I suppose it's good, that
they said I was mad.
Because now I'm stuck in this
sterile, white room
this box of pills and soft, blunt objects.
Clinical and devoid of color
                                         emotion
                                         life.
I can feel it draining away my sanity,
this empty life with quiet nurses and paper slippers.
If I wasn't crazy before they admitted me,
I will be if they ever let me out.
But I suppose it's not that bad.
I suppose it's better than prison.
I suppose.

I sat,
hands folded in my lap,
legs crossed,
like a good girl would.
I sat,
head ducked demurely,
contrite expression in place,
like a Catholic to confession.
Then the judge,
or priest,
or God
banged his gavel,
frightening the silence away.
I glanced up
and met his eye.
His scowl faltered
only for a moment.
Then his voice rang clear,
"Guilty."
And silence rushed back into the room.
The shocked hush
resounded in my ears
like the boom of thunder
              scream of a banshee
              wail of a mourner.
It rang and rang,
echoing, amplifying, echoing.
I couldn't take the deafening,
                                 clamoring
                                                   silence.
I sat,
head tipped back,
arms spread wide,
like Jesus on the cross.
I sat,
hysteric laughter spilling out,
rocking back and forth,
like a madman in the street.