show me your mortality
it doesn't rule my life.
i know you say the same
but it's those moments you look out between your eyelashes that tell me the most.

you didn't offend me.
it offends me more when you only want my friendship for the hardships.
you make me feel like i'm only worthy of my bad experiences.
being a good friend means being there for more than just the bad times.
don't feel like you have to help me through anything,
i've already done just fine.

You make my hands cold, full of soft eyes and hooded thoughts.
Late nights spent between sleep and slumber,
dreams and lies, fantasies and nightmares.
The labyrinth limbo, that nexus that lets you dare to picture what you don't dare to think when your eyes are fully open.

My hands trace my lips, my hips, these slits
in the drywall, feeling for more motion.
Feed me to a full frenzy, I don't want anything from you that I can't give myself.
There is a bible on my nightstand, but it's full of my own truths and holy testimonies.

Because my parents let me run around naked for too long.
Because I was always up a tree without a sturdy branch.
Because I was a good sneak.
Because my Babcia gave me too many cookies.
Because my dziadkowie always said my dress was beautiful.
Because I like to shake it, shake it, shake it.
Because it's too easy to cry.
Because I'd rather not yell.
Because I don't want to.
Because I forgot.
Because I pretended not to understand, but really didn't know what to say.
Because I like it.
Because I didn't understand, but said it anyway.
Because it's too hard to cry, when all you cry is smoke and mirrors and misunderstanding.
Because I don't know why the caged bird sings.
Because I'd rather scream.
Because you have long, curly hair that you let me braid.
Because you sang with me that one night.
Because you let me hold your hand, even though I know you don't like holding hands.
Because you have red hair, and love ears.
Becuase you are nature and nuture.
Because you are tall.
Because you give the best hugs.
Because you left your ***** dishes in the fridge.
Because you told me your secrets in my car that night, and let me tell you mine.
Because you always make me laugh, and I can always make you laugh.
Because you have red hair, and dance.
Because you are short.
Because you love so much.
Because you're hard to love but I love you anyway.
Because you taught me how to be myself, even if it seems like sometimes you forget who you are.
Because if at first you don't succeed, tango around the kitchen and try again.
Because you reminded me how to be sassy.
Because you taught me how to do a stall.
Because I still don't know what to think of you.
Because you pretended to be my mom so I could adopt a cat.
Because you trusted me, and had high expectations.
Because you let me go.
Because you still return my phone calls, and eat peach ice cream with me.
Because you knew Smokey.
Because you were beautiful, and I'm sorry I didn't know you were hurting on the inside.
Because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Because I don't know any other way.

You ask me why?
I can think of a million things.
Why not?

I tried to pray once,
twice, a hundred times.
I was always scared of the person who would answer,
until they started answering.
It was usually my Ciocia, or my Dzia Dzia,
saying, 'hush hush little one",
or "be good to each other".
Most times, when I was lying balled up under the covers,
or hiding in my shower,
trying my hardest not to sob the walls out of existence,
those were the answers to my prayers.
The best advice usually came from myself,
telling me to take my time and be ridiculous,
even if just for the moment.
I didn't think I needed God to tell me that,
when I could tell  that to myself.

I tried to pray once,
twice, a thousand times.
I wasn't sure what to pray about.
I felt weird reliving my day in narrative form,
and I didn't want to ask for favors or forgiveness like Christmas gifts.
I'll find my own good community,
my own piece of mind.

I tried to pray once,
twice, a million times.
Each time, the answers wouldn't come, and I was left worshipping the ground I had walked on 10 minutes before;
the same amount of dried leaves and holey socks littering the crosswalk of my bedroom.

I tried to pray once,
to infinity. To a God without a name, without a face.
It always came back to my Ciocia, though.
Who lives in your white house, your whitewashed walls of glory and redemption?

Sometimes, I can't decide:
how to feel, how to act, where to turn, if that red light really mattered.
That red light meant a lot of things to a lot of different people.
Whole foods, a whole lofestyle of bean sprouts and organic milk,
meant to inspire the mind, body, and soul. It only inspires my wallet to get up, shake it's head at me, and wander away for a better life, to spread it's whole grain soul in some other way, hoping for some more dough at another time.
To you, my mind was elsewhere. It always is. Hopping, skipping, jumping, screaming, sobbing, pleading for some rest but ignoring the obvious solution. Always is. The truth just sounds different.
To me, I didn't mean it, I promise. I never do. I rarely know what I want, when I want it, even though all I want to pretend to be is someone who knows the perfect ending to a day, perfect response to a statement, perfect way to elicit spontaneous vocabulary. That's it, really.
To that red light, it didn't know any better. It holds a rhythm, it's own rhythm, one that doesn't change regardless of the same sunset it sees every night, the people's cars who drive by (especially the Jewish ones), the running mothers and the hustling babies. It doesn't change for nobody, no how, no woman, no cry.

Green husks burned
Summer sky molds the fruit to hold its passion;
Probed curiosity of a world above
our atmosphere.
What happens that we, the all-powerful humans, couldn't fathom?
Peeled open, a bright yellow star,
Alone in the fruit filled universe
In a forgotten crate at the end of an aisle
Whilst apples and grapes go on parade
the passion, guava, and star are a scandal.
Bruised sides see the glare of the electric light
(Once the bright orange glow of the sun
kissed these green skins)
The sweet flesh of a bitten star
is covered by black holes
once as bright as stars
The apples and grapes fade
in their repetition

I want the twiddle you hear
in lil guitar songs.
The ones that twist your heartstrings
and make you sigh with relief,
with pain and shame and passion.
They hit you like the music notes that
promise big dreams and whisper sweet nothings:
a ton of bricks with good intentions.

Get the heartache out of the way first:
do the hard stuff first
and take the joyful meanderings, eventually.

Take this beating, breathing, seething, seemingly
lively thing and EXCHANGE it
make it feel and not think
let me follow and follow and not lead me
astray. Show me, don't tell me.

I am your poetry 100 class, and you
need to constructively criticize my
existence in to sense.

Ancient
Monsters under
Uncle's bed. Quick, run, hide,
Under the  covers to dreamland we go
Safe.