Four simultaneous calls unknown number familiar area code
I clicked all the necessary buttons to block you yet still your voice
penetrated my messages made my entire body contract into a fraction
of myself I tried to delete them but they never stop

I pleaded with my mom over salted mall pretzels to help her
understand why I wanted a restraining order against you without letting it slip
that your hand had slipped across my face before but secret scars
faded without photographic proof it was you
'there isn't enough evidence against him'

I did planks in thirty second intervals until I felt remnants
of when you pushed me too hard into the freshly mopped floors
wine splattered counters I lie awake listening for a motorcycle
that I am almost certain will never come roaring around the corner
I can't be sure if you ever watched me input the new garage code

I am suffocated by the thought of you I hardly remember which arm
is tattooed with what you're a reoccurring tumor I can't get perfect margins on
I beg myself to cut out the malignancies you have seeded once again
but it doesn't work
it never works.

I.
I thought you were the one.
I imagined us flying to Manila, meeting the entire family,
you proposing on the pristine sands of Boracay or
in the small village where you used to play with spiders.
I thought of possible baby names pronounced beautifully
in both of our families' native tongues.

II.
We grew together, abandoned defenses until you were my only confidant.
I still haven’t recovered from the way you used that against me:
Sealing my confessions into bullets in a magazine and making sure
I was centered in the crosshairs of the scope,
a different kind of target practice.

III.
You were my special kind of poison, the kind that slipped through my veins
unnoticed until it corrupted my cardiac muscle and collapsed my lungs.
I ate away at myself until I was small enough not to threaten you,
and even that wasn’t enough.
I finally got the courage to leave you, but I formed a thick cocoon
around my chrysalis of secrets to protect myself from you
and the next.

IV.
It’s been two years and I still have you, your mother,
and every Carlsbad or Mira Mesa area code blocked.
You realized you could invade my voicemail so you rang in 2019,
screaming whiskey-soaked wishes for a better year for us both.
I honestly believe you want that, in your own way.
I wish you the best too, but
I have outgrown you.

Trauma cemented my secrets deep within the crevices of my core,
yet he cracks my chest and I am a chilled corpse
drenched in formaldehyde, slowly decaying,
laid open for all to study.

Ordinary organs on display, hiding the scars of past mistakes:
bruises from an ex-boyfriend don’t tint the epidermis,
wine that splattered the walls and my white t-shirt
have already left the liver, the folds of cerebrum
unscathed from the demons that scratched
away at my sanity.

He’s seen me naked, vulnerable, and now I’m terrified
that he isn’t interested in understanding –  
just observing – my anatomy.

You were slightly delusional from handfuls of sleeping pills with
high amounts of diphenhydramine which led to hallucinations.
I tried to reason with you but when you punched the wall,
I felt my entire body contract out of empathy and
my fight-or-flight kicked in and for once,
I chose flight.

Your phone number popped up on my screen,
I answered, ready to tell you that I’d never come back
to this complex to give you another chance,
and you threatened my worst fear.

I panicked at first, then matched your threat with my own,
but mine was calling first responders to take you themselves
so I forced you into my car and you screamed until the vocal folds
across your larynx couldn’t produce anymore curse words.

You stared at the bleached tiles and refused to talk to the nurse in triage;
I muttered key phrases to get you admitted
intermittently between sobs that caught the waiting room’s attention,
especially when I whispered “ex-girlfriend”.

Protocol called for an observation period and the sitter
in charge of watching you for the moment looked up
from her chart occasionally, slyly listening to you
harshly hissing that you didn’t want me there anymore.
I flinched towards the curtains and I slinked along the walls
until I was able to walk out the door and leave you behind.

When I talked to the nurse privately, he ensured you would be evaluated,
that I did the right thing by taking you in, that I might have saved your life.
He promised that we were both safe now.

Except, I am not safe.

It has been two weeks since I left through those sliding hospital doors.
I am terrified that every motorcycle I hear on the road
could be you tracking me down or I will see you every time
I walk out of the class on the same campus as yours or
that I will never be able to open up the walls you made me build
around my secrets that you used as ammunition against me
to validify your anger in arguments that you started.

I imagined a life for us so different from this and now,
I’m not even safe in my own thoughts because
they’ve already betrayed me so much.

My voice shrank and my entire body sclerosed to stone
when you lifted a hand because I was never sure
if this time would be the time
you took it too far.

The air left my alveoli, travelled through my bronchioles, trachea,
and out through my clenched teeth as you walked out the door,
safe to escape from my lungs because fear
had paralyzed my diaphragm and
overstimulated my amygdala.

It was always a vicious cycle:
My limbic system remembered the monster that escaped your ribcage
when the rage inside that was instilled in you to win wars
that was never fully extinguished came through
yet the same system processed the love I felt
when you played peek-a-boo with my niece on the grass;
even my brain wasn’t sure what we wanted.

Four weeks had passed since:
I said goodbye to our cat because he was yours now,
I took the trinkets I had scattered to make it our home
rather than your place where I stayed,
I erased sloppy alcohol-kissed love notes from the whiteboard
where I wrote the therapy reminders you ignored.

My mailbox filled with emails riddled with depression and  
post-traumatic stress and worry manifested as a knot in my throat
that made it impossible to breathe so I searched for any spare key
and drove the twenty-seven miles to ensure your safety.  

I grasped the doorknob hard enough to trigger Pacinian corpuscles
throughout my skin, terrified of what was just beyond the threshold.

It had been four months since I started
reading his favorite poems aloud
to crack through congested silence.  

I memorized the way
his nose crinkled up when I stuttered,
his husky chuckle after I read
one of his favorite lines,
the smell of yellowed, dog-eared pages.  

I got to know this man
who had seemingly lost everything
and was just waiting
for his children to visit,
his medications to be dropped off,
to be with his wife once more.

I wore his favorite burgundy scrubs;
it was almost his birthday
and I had a new book to add
to his collection.

They didn’t tell me before I walked in.

It was bare:
the room reeked of bleach,
there were no sheets on the bed,
his few belongings were stuffed
in a cardboard box in the corner of the floor.  

I sat on the mattress and wondered
why his kids were not here  
mourning or making arrangements,
why I didn’t get to see the slight tug
of his lips to form a smirk when
I showed him the new Tennyson
that would now just gather dust.

He left me his anthologies in his will.


*Allison Sylvia
November 30, 2014
4:41:38 PM

I.
I breathed in each toxic
story of relatives
departed or deported
that left you with nothing
but gerbera daisies
next to gravestones.

II.
I tried to diffuse
my scholarly ambitions,
to fill in the blanks
on your applications,
to change your histology
to help you evolve.

III.
My body rejected you.
My alveoli ached
to be free and breathe.
My chordae tendinae
were pulled too taut
and tore.

IV.
I caved into myself
with no other choice
but to detoxify.


*November 13, 2014
10:27:16 PM

Forty eight hours since I sat at my dining room table
The sweetness from the red velvet bundts and
The sharpness of the burnt wax filled the air
I had just blown out the candle on another year
And I looked at my small stack of cards
And I realized that none were signed with your name
But I wasn’t surprised because
Not only did you bail the day before to see us
For the first time in a few months but
You hadn’t even called.
Friends I haven’t talked to in years logged onto facebook
And typed the two measly words
That would have made all the difference.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by both
Your neglectful nature and
Your ******* excuses
But it doesn’t help it hurt any less.
I wonder if you remember the disgust
When you not only lit up in the car with me
But told me the right woman could make you quit
Or recall the weeks I was trapped
In a cheap house with cracking doors
On a dirt road in some small city
With your crazy, thought-to-be witch of a wife
That conned you for all that you had
To split with her drug addict, anxiety-ridden sons.
Even if your memory is that far-fetched that you don’t
You can’t even bring yourself to remember
The day I was born?
Even if you had, the lack of acknowledgment
Is utterly upsetting
And it left the pieces of my smile
Scattered on the shower floor
As I heard my mother yell at your voicemail
Because you couldn’t bother to pick up
The other line either.
The week you wait to apologize
Won’t make me any more eager to forgive
And you best realize
I won’t forget.


*August 13, 2014
9:52:25 PM

I’m a few hours
and minutes
and seconds
away from adding a year
to my relatively irrelevant age
and I contemplate the complexities
of such a small number.

Nineteen.

Legally an adult,
but not nearly ready
to enter the world
on my own.

I cannot even fathom  
               braving the hallways of
               horrendous high school
or
               supporting myself and
               being on time for my insurance
               all while balancing a career

I’m stuck in the middle
of this whirlwind
of emotions and numbers
and candles and time
and homework and paychecks
and everything else
that comes with the titles of
student and teenager
and adult and employee.

It’s minutes before
I can blow out the candles
on eighteen
but I also extinguish another bit
of dependence.


*August 10, 2014
9:13:43 PM

We were a little too formal
as I gave you the usual tour of the house
that my mother would not approve of
and we were a little awkward
as I laid down next to you because
I was ready to jump into whatever this was
but at the same time it made me hesitate
because this was the first time.

The first time:
we’d ever gotten this close
and
I’d gotten to really feel
the way your muscled arms clenched
a little when you put your arm around me
and
I looked into your eyes
and you were looking straight back at me
without telling a joke or jabbing my sides
and you were serious
and I was nervous
but I kissed you anyway.

We were still slightly sweat-glistened
from mopping the dingy
and eternally sticky floors at work
but I liked the way
that I breathed you in
and it was a mix
between your quick spritz of cologne
when you thought I wasn’t looking
and your natural musky scent
that was exactly how I imagined you would smell
when I sat just far enough away
in the passenger seat.

We were a little too eager
and
your hands were a little too fast
to throw my tank top to the floor
and unhook my favorite bra
and
you were a little too fast
to get me exposed
despite our hesitations initially
but
I was a little too fast
to kiss you harder
to let you know that
I didn’t give a ****
about the lipstick that lingered
on your slightly swollen lips
and I wanted more
than just to rub my clothed body
against yours.


*August 5, 2014
11:55:19 PM

Becoming an adult was more like
reading an extremely long book
that takes a few pages
to get interesting enough
for you to read more
than ten pages at a time.

Each flip of a page
was each step
into becoming a woman.

At first, it was slow,
like when a book caught your eye
but you haven’t memorized
what each character would look like
first thing in the morning
or what their sense of humor is like.

Then, all at once,
your eyes are glued to the page
and even though they droop with exhaustion,
the pages flip fast
with an eagerness to know more.

As for the trek into independence,
each change to décor and organization
happened all at once.

Childish trophies were chucked,
zebra print comforters were replaced
with tasteful black and white
and blood red accents,
the clutter of collages and magazine pages
was torn down leaving my walls
more mature and bare,
espresso soaked furniture was ordered
on express to compliment
both the dresser and the desk.

And as I introduced
my newest person of interest to my house
and I surveyed my room from his eyes,
it was the ending I had imagined.

*July 10, 2014 5:03:37 PM

Written about a car accident on May 21, 2014

The phone only rings once
but I don’t even pause for that
I just sputter out the sobs
and sloppy descriptions of a flipped car
and cross streets where she can find us.

I remember to assure her
that me and Cyra – yes she is with me – are fine
and we turned down the trip to the ER
in the cramped ambulance
with the neglectful girl
that might have a broken arm,
probably from the nearly fatal
death grip she had on her navigation
through that red light.

They ask me the same questions
at least four times
but I can’t possibly remember
which direction I was driving
because we flipped twice in the air
and shattered my windshield in the process
and I’m not sure how we got all the way
across the intersection
because now I’m sitting on Walnut
but that’s the opposite of
the direction I was headed.

I reach for her hand because I’m just glad for two things.

I took most of the impact
and the seatbelt abrasions
and bruised bones
are mostly on my limbs
and not hers.

I looked over to my passenger seat
in fear of what I would find,
and saw her looking back at me,
scared, but alive.

May 23, 2014 3:48:40 PM

We met outside of a dingy doorframe
of a hotel room and automatically blurted out
introductions at the same time,
pinking our cheeks and
slowing
us
down.

The way you breathed out your name
as if it was the lingering smoke
from the last drag of your cigarette
captured my attention and
kept me hungry
for more.

Three days passed
and we were caught wrapped
in the white sheets of Room 243,
whispering compliments of the craft
of my soft lips on your bare skin
in between green apple
Smirnoff-soaked kisses.

You didn’t mind
when I desperately needed to find
my best friend wrapped in the arms
of a half-naked frat boy
by the bonfire flames,
just to tell her she was
the best friend I have ever had.

I didn’t mind when we ran
through the hotel hallways
to find your best friend
on the brink of arrest,
barefoot and broke,
giving the shuttle drivers a hard time.

We said goodbye outside the dented door
of the shuttle we coincidentally took
together the morning after,
leaving behind our two a.m. talks
of improvisations and dances
to stupid songs by the DJ
in the other world that is
Lake Havasu.

*May 5, 2014 4:17:28 PM

Some associate a tickled pink
with either her favorite
ink-stained pencil case
that is torn at the edges
from overuse
or her favorite undergarments
adorned with lace,
but not enough fabric
that perfectly accentuates her curves
and casts out any thoughts
of innocence.
Personally, I recall my flushed face
that holds a shy smile
that just barely escapes  
when he compliments the equally shaded
but excessively swollen lips
and the way that they travel his skin,
as if begging for more.
We shared a moment on those
fluorescent white sheets
on our wild spring break getaway,
wishing that certain forces
of nature had not come early
and we could be doing more
than taking trips exploring
the contours of each other’s
collarbones with our tongues.

*April 16, 2014 9:58:17 AM

Some associate a faded mint
with either the speckled mint chocolate
chip ice cream from their nearest shop
or the chipped colors on her fingernails
that were the perfect spring shade.
Personally, I recall the sign
at the café down the street
from my cramped two bedroom
apartment that the three of us shared
after they separated,
soaked with nostalgia and resentment
and appreciation for the new home
I share with our new addition
in a much nicer city
where all the houses are beige
cookie cutter resemblances,
but I can take refuge in my car
for the night and not fear
what lies outside the frosted window.

*April 14, 2014 8:54:27 PM

Some associate a rich red
with either the color of a deep wine
that is bitter and sinfully indulgent
after an impossibly long week
at a ceremony that is supposed
to be religious
or the blood that seeps out
of the fatal wound of the victim
on the most recent re-run
of that crime investigation show.
Personally, I recall the stain of
my newest lipstick that looked
like that spoke of in the fairytale
on his swollen lips
as I told him my final goodbyes
and added up his bill
for the months he spent
adding to his tab.

*April 12, 2014 9:56:46 PM

Some associate a light purple
with either the initial bruising
after an accidental run-in
with the blunt edge of her bed
or her favorite eye shadow shade
from the palette she received
as a gift a couple months earlier.
Personally, I recall the violet-kissed moons
that decorate my eyelids
to further the appearance
of a lack of sleep
due to nightmares
of accused genocide by organizations
and rejections
from university programs.

*April 12, 2014 9:52:57 PM

The morning chill tickles my revealing skin,
travels up my thigh like the secrets
you confided in me between the sweet sheets
of our ****** escapade or your fingers gliding up
until it isn’t my leg anymore.
The cold leaves me missing summer
and missing everything that came with it.
Heat that allowed me to wear cute shorts
and left you wanting more, then the heat
that left us sweaty, parched, and ecstatic.
Discounted date nights at the bowling alley,
free try at the batting cages if we had the time,
and a carefree attitude that made every adventure
as special as the last.
I’m dressed in that new leather skirt
you haven’t seen in case it actually warms up later
and attempts to fill the void that the breeze
and the winter and the breakup brought
and left.
The sun peeks through my window
and the day begins anew, much like myself,
and I’m anxious to see what is ahead in lecture
and in life.

*January 22, 2014

It’s unwavering and waits until everyone has
forgotten the sting of the last fallen warrior
to rear its hideous head and take another.
Its speed is unimaginable, unpredictable,
and unforgiveable. It brings both relief
and sorrow so encasing that the depths of
the Pacific could both marvel at and fear
the capacity to which this monster can bring
someone down. It leaves us gasping
for breath and wiping our salty-rimmed eyes
as we try to imagine a more cheerful face
and try to wrap our heads around the fact
that our last family dinner really will be that:
our last. It takes time for us to forgive this
natural force that breaks apart families
to only bring them closer to unite in
the passing and the rejoicing of a well-lived life.
It will come, yet only once the initial stab
of shock and sadness fades, slower
for the ones most closely knitted.

I am extremely saddened at the unforeseeable fall
of your fatherly image and warming smile.
I recall the swims in your backyard pool as we
laughed and played marco polo as you watched on
with your wife, embracing in the happiness and warmth
that summer brought us cousins. We may not have been
related by the blood that ran through our veins,
but we were related by love, matrimony, and
a warming kindness that radiated from you.
I thank you for allowing me to know you,
the Christmas gifts despite the distance between us,
the grey of your hair that signified years of life experience,
the wrinkled fingers that signified your wisdom.
I will look upon the family you have left behind
as you move on to whatever waits for you past mortality
and make sure they remember your laugh and the time
you feel asleep and snored through the Thanksgiving
football game you were talking about earlier that morning
and the kindness you gave them and the happiness you
continually brought to all of them.
I mourn your death and celebrate your life because
although we wish you could have stayed here
with us for a longer time, you were here
enough to truly live.
We will continue to hold onto happy memories
and reminisce to hold you close to our hearts.

Rest in peace, to you, and look down upon your loved ones as we remember you.

*March 1, 2014 1:08:46 PM

I look at the clock as it metaphorically ticks
The minutes and seconds that turn into hours
Of being awake and not being able to escape
Into a world of dreams filled with happiness
And hopes of a man or test grade or smile
Because a better tomorrow is cliché and
Broadway and it can’t possibly capture
The true desperation for some type of
Improvement in the lengths of the white
Tips of my fingernails or the miniscule
And unbearable numbers that line my
Bank account number or the instances
Where the light in the top left corner of
My Galaxy blinks feverishly a yellow
That signifies any type of contact from
These distant co-workers or former peers
But I don’t really expect much because
I’m sure everyone knows about my
Love triangle escapade and skanky
Tendencies so I just blast the 808s &
Heartbreak with the bass beating into
My skin like it’s a part of my inner
***** allowing me to revel in my
Loneliness and try to embrace mine
And Kanye’s similarities

*February 22, 2014 3:49:41 PM

I.
I lean my head on your shoulder after reading
one too many sentences from my history book
and it tickles the back of your neck and you laugh
which I love to hear and you don't
move away so I'm hopeful that maybe you like
the way my head feels on your shoulder or
the way it tickles or the smell of my peppermint gum
that reaches your nostrils because of our closeness
or the fact that I chose you over the table in the purple room
to rest my head on.

II.
I ask you to dump out the bucket of dingy mop water
because it's too heavy and the storage room is small
but not too small for two that want to be close
and you almost don't want to but I give you a smile
with hints of seductivity so sweet that you can't resist
so you agree with just the traveling of my fingertips
across your chest and the unmistakable look in my eye
and we are comfortably cramped in this broom cupboard
but we hear keys so we keep closing.

III.
I walk out into the parking lot and the initial breeze cools
my sweat-kissed skin fresh from cleaning and I look
for your car and you smile with your adorable dimples
from behind your dashboard and I get excited
because there was tension we both felt but
once our manager drives away we can be alone
and you can prove you could win in a fight
that we know will lead to something else.

IV.
I walk up to your window
and your bromance enveloped best friend
is burning your hookah in the passenger seat
and at first I contemplate just returning the name tag
you let me steal and driving down Harvard to go home
but I'm hesitant because the promise of something
of anything is better than nothing so I ask to sit next to you
because the breeze is biting more now.

V.
I start to pick up hints after listening to talks
of football and strategies for fifteen minutes
and that certain promise becomes more like a facade
but I wait for you to tell him you're gonna get going
but instead you whisper that to me
and ask if he wants to go get food
as I'm getting up from the seat
so I ask for a hug as I'm leaving
and you ask if you can let go now
and I get it.

VI.
I hand you back your name tag
and you tell me to get home safe
and I don't even bother to sigh or look back
because I already hear your car running.

*February 13, 2014 2:39:47 PM

The adaptive abilities of the human body
allowed the crescents of my feet to feel warm
underneath the black and white comforter
that was chilled with the post-rain cool of
the night that seeped through the frosted
window. However, no matter the previous
warmth, a single rustle of the sheets or
tossing of my toes left them feeling
more like miniature icicles dangling from
the ceiling of a crystallized cave than
appendages tacked onto my foot.
So I was left to lie down, facing away
from the unimportant reality tv on the
practically fluorescent screen, and wait
for a newfound sense of comfort underneath
the cold, ironically named blanket that
encased my corpse. It was difficult at first,
for I yearned for the sense of safety I
unknowingly felt once the reflex kicked in,
for a warmth only possible with time.
I reminisced, but still remained hopeful
for the heat that was to come.

*February 6, 2014 11:07:38 PM

I.
I speed down Jamboree,
away from you,
almost without feelings.
The only thing I am really drowning in is
guilt.
It pulls me under the surface,
Leaves me gasping for breath that I can’t seem to grasp.

II.
I have validations, but they don’t excuse this behavior
that won’t just hurt me, but others, too.
I can imagine her face when she finds out,
a mixture of hate and disbelief.
Maybe a double-date to Disneyland is
not such a good idea anymore.

III.
Cheater.

IV.
I had the option to go home but you tempted me.
Stolen kisses like whispers in the night,
forgotten fast without a trace,
except your smell, your taste.
That smell that should choke me, but is inviting.
That taste that should be foul, but is sweet.
You’re familiar.

V.
There’s a history between us.
It’s hidden amongst the ruins of our secret romance,
kept within our tight-knit group of comrades
and left a mystery to anyone outside it,
including our “other halves”.
No matter their title,
they don’t know,
and they won’t.

VI.
I know you.
I know the number of wrinkled shirts on your
backseat that reek of gasoline from the go-karts.
I know the way your ankle cracks when you wake up
from an accidental nap on your charcoal couch
during a “Two and a Half Men” re-run.
I know the nightmares of funerals and too many
baked goods for a son and mother in grieving.
I know too much,
and that terrifies me.

VII.
You’re like an addictive toxin.
You’re bad for me,
yet I find you in the worst and most unlikely places
and embrace your killing qualities,
breathing in your broken promises and
injecting myself with your reminiscences.
I thought I could quit
cold turkey
yet here I am in your cold Accord
wearing your work sweatshirt
and wondering where I tell him I am
since he knows what time we closed.


*December 3, 2013

The subtle rumble of skateboards on cracks
matched with the continuous strides of students
rushing to class
nonchalantly strolling
taking their time
or feeling trapped by it

The slight breeze slides my hair over
as it caresses my skin and brushes my face
tickles my cheeks
reveals my laugh lines
leaves me smiling like an idiot
because of a light wind

The sun warms my skin and everything else
making the day brighter than the chilly morning
the temperature rises
it’s too hot for this sweater
oversized maroon and wooly
paired with dark blue jeans at that

But then the weather mirrors that of the morning
and it’s cold enough so I appreciate my outfit’s warmth
I sip a pumpkin spice latte
sitting under the big tree in the lawn
watching the people
and wondering about their lives

There is a beauty of heat unseen throughout the year
the brightness and warmth brought by the hot sun
but then there’s the colors
changing with the seasons
and there’s beauty here too
if you look close enough

*October 3. 2013 4:13:47 PM

Our absolute strongest body part here,
My body’s weapon against the wild
Or the carnivorous utensil. Hear
The sound of someone’s lone crying child,
Our true reason. These pioneers make us
**** with teeth, **** with the strength of diamonds.
The sound of tearing flesh brings no disgust;
Because, for our village, we need violence.
We are a forgotten tribe, struggling.
Yet, they come looking for us, civilize
Our people, pacify our suffering
And encase our lives with their ignorant lies.
So, we are left with only one defense,
**** them and eat them, then feast with the rest.

*November 25, 2013

I feel like I’m drowning
Suffocating under the immense pressure
Of water in my lungs
Yet I can’t get to the surface
I can’t break the ice
I can’t inhale
When I do
Liquid floods my mouth, my throat
Until nothing is left
No air, emotion, laughter
Just stillness, awaiting the end

Then, reality crawls back like the chill
You get in the middle of the night
After you’ve kicked off your blankets and
The only thing keeping you warm
Is yourself
But I’m not really drowning
Not in water at least

Your lack of ambition
Our difference in goals
Your unfinished education
Our disagreements on food
Your focus on construction
Our focus on going out
Your lack of focus on algebra
Our lack of focus on saving
All of these things
Are pulling me down
Under the ice, under the water
Until it’s hard to breathe
And every time I log into my account
A little more water trickles in

*October 21, 2013

Time and necessity
puppeteered its temperature to better suit
our appetite,
left it to linger in our peripheral vision
as if it was no longer a true masterpiece of  
the wild.

It blazed through forests,
pioneered and conquered,
destroyed.
Then, no longer mighty
and no longer feared,
was put into a box
to be mastered by a mother
lighting the neon colored wax candles
on a child’s blue birthday cake
or a woman
adorned with stockings slightly torn
and makeup slightly smudged
lighting a cigarette on a street corner
while waiting for the 8 o’clock bus.

Instead of burning,
it melted.
Instead of demolishing,
it decorated.
Instead of blazing,
it burnt out.

*October 10, 2013

Even from across the room
Violet crescent moons age her youthful face
Black makeup smudged under her eyelashes
And hair in a messy bun but still slightly curled
The only remnants of the night before
Evidence of a snoozed alarm and
Lack of sleep

Exhausted
Both mentally and physically
She tries desperately to grasp full consciousness
As she begins her work

Earbuds submerged in her ears
Leaving the world around her behind
Engulfing her into a world of art
Both visual and musical
Where sonnets become songs
And bars of notes start to form beauty

Eraser shavings everywhere
Either on the paper or pushed aside
Her hands move swiftly to the beat
For once just let me lose myself
And she does
In her art

She glances back and forth between papers
One a model and one her masterpiece
Not fully formed
Precision is key
Perfection
Ruler to ensure exactness
Eraser to rid of mistakes

She draws one line perfectly straight
And leans back
She contemplates and shakes her head
Then omits it
Goes back again to draw another
A twin to the first

The process is endless
Striving for impossible perfection
When true imperfect goodness is there

Underneath the frustration and complexity
Is simple and utter beauty
What is perfection
When you can have art?

*December 2013

After Pamela Sutton’s “Forty”

Since when are words lost, numbers dominating?
Until today, it was vernacular, not mathematics.
All changed at 18
when numbers engulfed my life like a tsunami.
1 life.
1 drive to school, traffic on the 405, 25 minutes;
10-minute parking; first class at 8.
8 dollars per hour x 3 day work week = no shopping.
Under my parents’ life insurance,
for now.
One life.
One dream of commencement, a sea of black and gold;
students as adults, graduating, growing up,
careers: the only things that matter now.
One dream of wheeling a patient into the OR
and he grasps my hand.
One saved life.
66 specialties for a nurse.
8 stories in CHOC Hospital;
279 beds.
One goal for everyone; nurses, patients, families—
disease-free, healthy.
One hospital specializing in children;
one in Orange, thousands of facilities.
One late night in Riverside the kitchen fluorescents
slowly brings the eyes of two, one father, one daughter,
to a close.
58 notecards, handwriting messy and smudged.
12 prefixes, 37 roots, 9 suffixes.
44 years: 1 student: Dad.
The point where my future was clear.
One goal, one career,
one life.
The subtle hum of the white lights lulls us to sleep
as the room slowly darkens.

September 2013

The air is thick, words stick to my throat like tape.
The house, filled with objects taken for granted, feels empty.
Nothing’s out of place, except
                                        my balance

The picture frames, lined with silver, glint in the light.
The laughs of past memories echo, haunting the silence.
Nothing’s out of place, except
                                       our happiness

The corners of our cerulean couches are torn,
Broken by the claws of Chip and Cookie.
Nothing’s out of place, except
                                       their home

Justin and his chunky legs run back up the stairs,
Oblivious to the change coming for us.

*September 27, 2013 5:47:50 PM