Rough tactile callouses.
Jointed mischief collaborators.
Twisted knuckly punishers.
Wrinkled hills and valleys.
Capability embodied.
Sensuality expressed.
Love experienced.
Life recorded.
Dancing Phalanges.

It's taken me awhile
To catch my breath today.
But when i eventually did,
I realized it was because
My brain was not thinking of you.
All of your problems,
All of your wounds,
All of your insecurities,
All of your doubts,
Were not at the forefront
Of my waking consciousness.
I'm not saying I don't care about you,
Because I verily do.
But honestly, it was good to take a break
And forget it all,
Even if it was only for a few breaths.

Why do I love to
Peel the skin off my sunburn?
Such satisfaction!

Gross it is I know.
But it is like when you start
Healing: chuck the past.

The dead skin itches.
It's annoying and useless.
Peel it off--new skin.

Old wounds--offenses--
Keep us irritated, mad,  
Instead of thriving.

Peeling dead skin is
Satisfactory because
Then I get new skin.

10 years, 17 days, 5 hours, 29 minutes and 48 seconds.
But who's counting?
I mean isn't that a super cheesy thing to do?
To count how long it's been since I realized
That I was over heads and heels
In love with you.
I guess I'm a cheeseball. shrug

38.2 times an hour.
Sure it's just a guesstimate,  
But I don't think I could actually count
The number of times I think of you.
So I should really just say "infinity".

7 out of 10 "Thank you's"
I say a day is to you and for you.
To you: you saved my life that day.
To you: you save my life every day.
For you: you are so...AMAZING.
For you: you're the best man I know.

26 years of struggling with the human life.
20 years of a broken, beaten body and soul.
But...
6 hours of willing suffering.
3 days of death.
Then...
1 "yes."

To the Man who knows my heart
Better even than i do myself,
To the Man who loves to bind my wounds
When i can't bear to look at them,
To the Man who makes me laugh
When i least expect to even smile,
To the Man whose broad shoulders
Have been the hanky for my many tears,
To the Man who loved me
Before i ever knew He existed,
To Him I say,
Yes.

Remember when we used to play
With boxes and dolls all day
Making up stories with ridiculous names,
And never getting tired of this game?

We took ourselves to faraway lands
Where our fortunes were in our own hands,
And we could be the richest clown
Or the poorest chump in town.

Our worlds were rich and thick with lore.
Because nothing else mattered to us anymore
Except for the things we could dream in a day
Before we had to go in and stop our play.

Oh what times of great fun!
The imaginary worlds and tales we spun!
And when the moon rose through our windowpane,
I knew even then I couldn't complain,

For though as sisters we fought and battled,
And at the time, we may have seemed frazzled,
There was a certain unity we possessed,
Though it's existence we've never confessed.

We are very different people today.
We don't go off in backyards to play.
We work for our livings with measured stress
And sometimes in the midst get a bit depressed.

But what I'd like to change right now today
Before our adult lives get too underway
Is the forgetting of what used to be
When we needed each other terribly.

I may not need you to save me
Or fix me or change me
But I do still need you
For the occasional rescue.

Just like you used to take me away
In our backyard when we would play.

Sometimes it happens like
Butter on toast,
Smooth, creamy, and delicious.

Most of the time, it's stilted
And halting.
Like hobbling through a parking lot
On crutches with a full leg cast.

Sometimes it comes from
The haunted recesses
Of the traumatized human mind.

Other times a frog
Or butterfly
Or other passing fanciful inspiration
Invokes the need for

Rhyme,
Meter,
Syllables,
Phonemes,
Morphemes,
Words,
Language,
Prose,
And poetry.

We write to describe the world around us
But much more, the universe within us.

Our words give life and tangibility
To the impalpable things,
And they take away some of the fear
And pain and grief and unconscionability
Of the corporeal things.

And in the weaving
And shaping
And forming
And rhyming
And jotting
And sketching
And rapping
And moulding
And writing
We find emancipation and satisfaction.
And thus...scrumpdillyumptiousness!

He was born in 1924
And at 17 went to war.
Parachuted over Sicily,
Wounded, sent home to live in civility.

One day he met a Ryder,
Tall and elegant and regal.
Married her and made a home,
Though the front lawn lacked a gnome.

He died before I could really know him.
But what I remember is this:
His heart was good and full of love,
Tender, strong and not at all rough.

He pulled quarters from my ears
Whenever I saw him.
He and Shadow walked the beach
For miles before a swim.
He smoked cigars and drank beer
While playing cribbage.
And he was my favorite person
When I was four years old.

I'm sorry I hurt you.
I never meant to.
I thought the lies were for your own good.
I didn't know they'd be misunderstood.

You were my best friend.
And you'll always have a piece of my heart,
Even until my most bitter end.

I'm sorry.
Goodbye.

SLAP.
My muscles tense.
SLAP.
My jaw tightens.
SLAP.
Sounds begin to dim.

Inhale.
One, two, three.
My pupils dilate.
Exhale.
Four, five, six.
My hands form fists.

Inhale.
Seven, eight, nine.
My heart hardens.
Exhale.
Ten. Ten. Ten.
It'll be over soon.

One, two, three, four, five.
Slow your heartbeat.
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
Be still, still as stone.

"You're basically a good daughter, but..."

Words can penetrate the stone hearted.

Words uttered a lifetime ago,
Yet I can't escape their ringing in my ears,
In my stone-hardened heart--
The center of this stone statue.

Walls of silence,
Of guarded wariness.

Walls of hesitation,
Of experienced caution.

Walls of distrust,
Of practiced isolation.

Walls I put up intentionally.
Walls you tore down unknowingly.

Walls I found crumbled,
The door of my heart opened.

Walls I found breached,
And you were just sitting there.

Walls I had never lived without,
Suddenly seemingly unneeded.

Walls I was glad to let down,
Until you shanked my heart.

Walls I should have fortified
With anger and hate and experience.

Walls of "I know better."
Of "There are NO exceptions to the pattern."

Walls of protection,
Of much needed security.

Walls of insulation,
Of broken-heart bandaging.

Walls I won't let down again.
Thanks to you, I've learned my lesson.

He was the perfect height for her.
Tall enough that her head fell
Right tight under his sculpted chin
But not so tall that he was called "giant".

She was the perfect shape for him.
Not so skinny that he worried
About breaking her bones with a hug,
But curvy in all the places
That made him say a throaty "whoa".

She was a bookworm who loved TV.
He was a chef who loved Mac and Cheese.
They both adored animals,
Though he might have loved reptiles just a little too much.
And they both hated politics,
Though she might have set fire
To one too many campaign signs.

They argued about music, money, and kids.
They debated the merits of dancing in the rain.
They held hands in the moonlight,
And kissed at midday.
They grew old together and never strayed
Too far from the home they had built.

Then one day his chin wasn't high enough
For her head to fit snuggly below.
Her dresses, though comely,
No longer made him say "whoa".

But they still held hands and kissed
And remembered the days of their youth
When they were still learning
What being perfect for each other meant.

It wasn't until the night her heart gave out,
That she realized how he was perfect for her.
It wasn't his charm and dashing good looks,
Or his witty retorts and clever touchés,
But the simple fact
That through all of the years,
He loved her,
And that made him perfect for her.

It wasn't until she took her last breath,
That he understood how perfect she'd been.
She was perfect not because of her curves,
Her smile, her laugh, or her intelligence.
She was perfect for him because she loved him.

They'd been perfect in each other's eyes
Because love is blind.
And sometimes that's not a bad thing.

How many times have we wondered
What's waiting for us
Right around the next corner?
How many stories have we imagined
Scene after scene after tired scene,
Wishing for what will never be?

Yet still with this unknown comes a journey--
One we cannot but desire to take.
The good, the bad, and the ugly lie ahead.
But for now, whatever awaits round the bend
Will just have to wait.

These leaves are so green.
These lights so warm.
Let's take a slower step
As we move forward round this corner.
Let's enjoy this.
And wish nothing else would come
To break our fragile hearts again
In this long never ending journey.

Darkness shrouds
The four corners
Of my tiny room
And I don't move
To flick on the lights
Because I like
Sitting in the dark.

When dusk settles
And the orange fades to violet,
When night falls
And the moon rises in the sky,
When children slumber
As the stars twinkle in the distance,
I finally let my thoughts drift to you.
To balconies littered with African violets.
To macaroni and cheese with cherry tomatoes.
To your ever raspy voice
As it wove into my imagination
The sepia-toned memories of your youth.
To pushing your wheelchair
Up and down the hills of the zoo.
To saying goodbye on that windswept hill
Overlooking the city you so loved
And will forever watch over.

When trains rattle
Across iron-wrought tracks,
When dreams ensnare
My subconscious during the day,
When someone calls out
My full untruncated name,
Your face rises unbidden to my mind.
The baby blanket you sewed for me
Before you even knew me.
The gameboy you kept for me
To play with on our "special days".
The letters you penned faithfully
To the seven-year old me,
Though I was no longer "officially" yours.
The pain at having to say goodbye
But not knowing where you are.

To the great- and step- grandmothers
who had no obligation
Towards me to love or care or cherish
But did so anyways every day
You were in my life
Before the Fates cut your threads,
I love you, and I thank you.

Buzz Zippy Buzz Buzz!
Sunshine orange blossom nectar...
Sweet summer honey!

“If you could be anywhere in the world

At this exact moment,

Where would you choose to be?”

I choose the easternmost point

Of Acadia Maine at sunrise.

Cold, salty ocean spray in my face,

Warm thermos of cocoa in my hands

And the promise of a new day

Being made right before my very eyes.

What could be more reassuring?

What could be more solidifying?

To know that no matter

What happened in the days or weeks

Or months or years or decades

Before,

Today, right now, at this exact moment,

It is all behind you,

It is all in your past.

And that sunrise you’re watching

Over cresting crashing white topped waves

In the cool breeze of morning

With the scent of dirt and earth and trees

Carried on the wind that also brings

The call of the morning dove and thrush

And Phoebe-bird,

Is the promise you’ve been waiting for.

The promise that you’re gonna be okay

Because today, today is a new day.

"I lost her to mental illness."
It just doesn't produce
Quite the same sympathy as
"I lost her to cancer." Or
"I lost her to a car accident."

People look at you strangely
As if you don't understand
What it means to be alive,
That you don't know a person
Is alive and well if they're breathing
And talking and living.
They try to correct you and say
That you're just not in contact
With her anymore,
Not that you've actually lost her.

People think mental illness:
"Can't be that bad, right?"
"At least she's still alive."
"You could still talk to her,
If you wanted."
They think being sad about it,
Being broken hearted over it,
Being depressed because of it,
Is just exaggerated hysterics.

But I lost her to mental illness.
I lost her to mental illness!

It IS that bad!
It means she is gone from me
As much as if she physically died!
I CAN'T talk to her
Even though I do want to!

There is no going back
To the way it used to be.
Every day of the rest of my life
Will be missing a key person
Whom I can never get back.

She abandoned me,
Chose to walk out of my life.

But it was the mental illness
That stole any hope I had
Of seeing her walk back in.
It was the mental illness
That orphaned me.
It was the mental illness
That "killed" my mom.

So please don't trivialize my loss.
Don't depreciate my pain.
It's just as valid and just as real.

I lost her to mental illness.

When I was ten, I dreamed
Of being in a uniform on a ship,
With a purpose in life.

When I was fourteen, I dreamed
Of being in love at a young age
With my ever-after man.

When I was seventeen, I dreamed
Of going home to the place
I had been sent away from.

When I was twenty, I dreamed
Of a family reunion twenty years away
Where everyone smiled and forgave.

When I was twenty-four, I dreamed
Of happiness I had already lost hope in,
Love I had no faith in.

Now...I dream
Of sleep--
A full night's sleep,
A more-than-just-a-couple-hours sleep,
A physically healing and refreshing sleep...

A sleep where I don't dream.

The first time you saw
The white streaks of healed tissue
That ran across my arm, you said,
"I'm surprised but proud of you."

You were proud that I wore them
Like a badge of honor not shame,
That I didn't hide them like others
Did with their own.

Later, we talked about them again
And you revealed how you thought
I seemed to be used to them now
And I didn't notice them anymore.

Want to know what I notice?

I notice how strangers hesitate
When they see me or meet me.

I notice how mothers distract
Their kids when I walk past.

I notice the whispers then silence
When I move my arms.

I notice judgement from people
Who don't know the first thing about me.

I notice the looks of sadness or pity
But never acceptance.

I notice how my heart constricts
Because they don't know my story.

I notice how I hate myself more
For the fact that I am so messed up.

I notice the fact that I'm always aware
And completely unused to them.

The death of a loved one:
You don't get over, just used to.

This--these scars on the body and soul:
You don't get used to, just live with.

People keep asking me
Why I'm living alone
And friendless and not married
At age 26...

Well, when every member
Of your family,
Both blood and adopted,
leaves you,

You kinda develop a complex.

I bet you don't know
How I waited for you
To come home,
Scared I'd never see you again.

I bet it never occurred
To you that I was frightened
Of how quickly
Your eyes would turn black.

I bet you don't understand
Why I had to go to bed
After I heard everyone
Come home and the front door lock.

I bet you didn't hear
Me wake up hours earlier
Than everyone else
So I could make sure everyone was still there.

I bet you don't know
What is was like
For me growing up
As your daughter.

I bet you don't know
What it is like
For me as an adult
Without a mother.

Every time you walked out
Because you were angry
At my dad or me or my sisters
I sat by the front window.

Every time I saw your eyes
Go from greenish blue
To cloudy black
I steeled myself for the beating.

Every time I went to bed
I prayed to God
That if He was good
My family would come home safe.

Every time I woke up
I went from bed to bed
Checking that my family
Was still there and alive.

Growing up I was
Proud and honored
When people would say
"You're HER daughter!"

As an adult now
I avoid any talk of you,
Association with you,
Knowledge of you.

It was good,  
For the most part
"Basically good,"
Having you for a mother.

Even though missing you
Hurts my heart every day,
I have to say resoundingly,
"Not being abused feels better."

I wake up and take a deep breath but most days it barely helps to ease the sharp stabbing pain in my heart.
I get up and stumble to the bathroom where I’ve written “Cheer up, Charlie” on the mirror to remind myself that all is not lost.
But when I get there, my head is hung too low to see the mirror and the words that are meant to support and encourage.
I get dressed slowly but not because I care about what I’m putting on.
Most days I grab something from the hamper and make sure it’s not too smelly.
By then my morning ritual is almost done.
I’m just missing one last piece.
I look up at the clock and take another deep breath.
Here goes nothing to start and get through another day.
With that breath, I slide the mask into place and walk out the door to go to work where no one will notice the pain, the sorrow, the brokenness.
The mask is my savior, my hiding place, my peace from all the chaos, for even though I know what it hides, I choose to be disillusioned by it.
I choose to see myself as whole, as untouched by you, as loved, as happy, as friendly, as…as me.
And for twelve carefree hours in my day, I can believe the lies I’m telling to the world:
That I’m ok even though you’re gone.
That I’m just fine even though the person who said they’d never go abandoned me too.
That I’m fit as a fiddle even though this ulcer is eating me from the inside out and I just don’t care because you don’t either.
That I’m happy living on my own even though I confessed to you all my fears of living alone, but that didn’t stop you from up and leaving.
That I’m strong enough to pick up the pieces of my broken heart and somehow put them back together even though I don’t even know where all the pieces are.
But then the end of the day comes and I find myself standing in the middle of my bedroom again.
I begin the evening ritual with dread filling every pore of my being.
I change into my pajamas, I brush my hair, I wash my face.
And then I take off my mask.
That last piece.
I fall on my bed exhausted from the pretense of the day.
I fall on my bed exhausted from holding back the tears all day.
I fall on my bed exhausted from missing you.
I fall on my bed exhausted from still loving you.
And then I cry.
I cry for the girl who never knew the life she dreamed for could be this painful.
I cry for the girl who thought she had finally found someone she could rely on only to find her judge of character was grossly wrong.
I cry for the girl who wanted many things from life but now would give all that up just to have you back.
I cry for me.
I cry for you.
I cry for us.
And then in the midst of my crying, I sleep.
I sleep with dreams of you and me.
I sleep with nothingness.
I sleep only for a short while as has become my habit.
And then I wake up and take a deep breath.
A deep breath and it begins again.
Did you know?
No?
Well…now you do.

A thousand summer suns
Could never melt my heart
Like a day with you in the garden.

A million working ants
Could never carry me away
Like watching clouds with you on the lawn.

A billion drops of rain
Could never whet my thirst
Like a night with you neath the stars.

Wherever I go, I see you.
Wherever I am, you are.

We may fight and struggle,
We may bicker and spar,
but at the end of day
I remember this:

A thousand summer suns
Have not melted my heart;
Yet a single day with you has.

The world outside bustles
As everyone rustles
Through their busy lives.
She sits outwardly still and calm
But waiting for some balm
To come soothe her tired soul.

Soothe the sting and burn
Of having to relearn
How to live and go on.
Soothe the fear and pain
Of having to refrain
From saying what she wants to really say.

If only they knew
If only they saw
The little child
That hides within.

If only they heard
If only they sensed
The trembling babe
That cries at night.

But a grown woman
Has perfected the art
Of painting on masks.
The lines, the colors,
So perfectly drawn on
To hide the imperfect reality.

So the world bustles
With everyones' rustles
Of living their own lives.
And she...
She waits, paralyzed.

Leaves falling slowly
The cold wind bites me gently
My heart longs for heat.

Oh child, be not dumb!
Hear what I have to speak:
Don't look back ever.

There is more than this
I promise and guarantee
Just keep pressing on.

To be warm, I am
To be safe, I know I am
Can't you see I am?

Safety net beside
Now; awhile I’ve been longing.
You contain my soul.


Cold nights make me warm.
Cold nights remind me of you.
Now I am alone.

got a lot on my mind today,
as i write this letter to you.
all the words that i wanted to say
but never had the strength to do:

now that you're gone,
i can finally breathe again

sigh

**It feels good to breathe.

There's a Mexican saying,
(I'm Chinese American and yet i know this;
don't ask me how or why,
because if you knew how much
i talk about you, i think i'd die.)

There's a Mexican saying,
"It's a small step from hate to love."

I hated that you pulled me up
in front of a full room
and pointed out my ****.
granted you weren't saying
anything about my ****
but more the fact that we were wearing
the same style of checkered shorts.

i hated that you didn't make sense
when you told our friends
about your grand scheme
to start a library with two books.
who starts a library with two books?!?
YOU CAN'T!

i hate that at dinner that night,
i actually enjoyed talking to you,
bantering and bickering
laughing and smiling.
and then "you two are like an old married couple".

i hate that you started calling me
when your granddad passed away
because you couldn't talk to anyone else.
and we'd talk for hours and hours
because we actually had that much to say.

i hate that you wanted to spend time with me.  
i hate that you wanted to see me.
i hate that you wanted to help me.
i hate that you wanted to get to know me.
i hate it because i wasn't expecting it.

and the hardest thing is that we're just friends.
i don't know when it happened and i don't know how.
but i can't just be friends with you.
i don't want to be just friends with you.
because i took that small step…
from hate to love.

ok, so i don't love that you pointed out
to a room full of friends and other people
that my **** was in a pair of shorts
much like yours.
but i love that you noticed me.

i don't love that you think a library is two books.
but i love that you like what i like.

i don't love that people think
we're an old married couple.
but i love that i want to be
an old married couple with you.

i don't love that you used up
a lot of my cell phone minutes,
but i love that you didn't want to talk to anyone else.

i love that you want to spend time with me.
i love that you want to see me.
i love that you want to help me.
i love that you want to get to know me.
and i love that i'm in love with you.

i wish i could tell you.
i wish i could say it out loud.
I'm wishing my whispers at night
on the first star in the night sky
come true because i'm wishing for you.

For awhile now i’ve been trying to find some sense of solace
or some place of serenity in a haven that only i know of.
I’ve filled countless pages with the ideas and notions
that would shape and build those walls of my haven
to keep all the things that would render me broken
and hurt away from my world and sliver of sunshine.
It’s gone now. That haven i claimed.
pushed aside like an unwanted fly,
someone else claimed my haven.
My haven of words, of language, of prose and poetry.
The only escape i knew i not only loved but was good at.
The only thing i ever felt a sense of pride in doing.
The only place i ever felt i belonged. My haven.
it’s gone.
she took it. just like she’s taken so many other things from me.
my strength, my joy, my self-worth, my childhood, my soul.
without my haven, i’m an armadillo continuously rolled up
so as not to feel the sticks and stones raining down on me.
the armor thickens and the bones stiffen in place.
It’s not so easy for me to be gentle now.
It’s not so easy for me to unroll my armor.
All i know now is this life without the walls of my haven.
no sense of joy in words, in language, in prose or poetry.
outside the sunshine, outside the haven, there is only numbness…

it's all these feelings
welling up inside me
that make it impossible
to sleep at night.
it's all these memories
of what you did to me
that make it impossible
to cry for you.
it's all this confusion--
am i supposed to or not--
that's making it impossible
to let you go.

i wish it wasn't like this.

22 years old.
but sometimes i feel
the childishness rising within
to the surface
and all i can do is
be a child again.

i scrape my knee:
it's bruised and bleeding.
i cut my finger:
it stings and hurts.
i'm scared of the dark:
I sleep with my Sock Monkey.

Children don't have insomnia.
22 year old's do.
i do.

it's like that song.
"i'm waiting in the dark/ thought that you'd be here by now."
no one's here. you're not here.
i'm alone.

A phone call from someone who loves me
and i love him.
never a call from you though.
never a card, an email, a note
that says you're ok.

and i think to myself
all those years
all those months
all those weeks
all those days
all those hours
all those minutes
all those seconds
all those moments
all those slaps
all those kicks
all those lectures
all those screams
all those punches
all those kisses
all those "i love you"s

i think to myself
i don't want any of it back.
you took all that from me
and i don't want it back.
i don't want you back.

i don't want the pain
i don't want the abuse
i don't want the beatings
i don't want the worthless feeling
i don't want the constant failure
i don't want the loneliness

i want to be happy.
i want:
moving on.
moving past.
forgiving and forgetting.
letting go.
i want to sleep.

i wish i was strong
resilient and fearless.
i wish i was okay.

and i wish you were here.

but i have to stop wishing for those fantasies.
i have to stop dreaming fairytale endings for this story.
i have to stop trying to rewrite unwritten history.
i have to let what is be.

so watch me closely. listen to the sound of my voice.
hear the strength and the surety.
let it fill you with its honesty and truth.

i am walking away from this.

i am not turning my back on you.
but i am walking away.
this is not the life i want.
this is not the life i choose.
if you want me i'll be there.
but you'll never get me like you used to.
i'll never give you all of myself again.
the trust is gone.
and i can't bring it back.
i'm tired of the lies
so i'm walking away.

i never dreamed of this day
i never expected its coming.
i never thought anything like this could happen
i never imagined i'd be saying
Mom, goodbye.

When days pass in slow succession,
And the comings and goings are all repetition,
My mind wanders aimlessly to
All the days I had in a bygone youth.

How my sisters and I were mischief incarnate,
How the vilest words we uttered were “**** it!”
How the world seemed bigger when we were small
And how I believed I had a chance at it all.

Friends who came, went and never left.
Beloved pets whose death made us bereft.
Homes we helped to build with our own hands.
Times when we dwelt in far away lands.

But there is always a catch in the back of my throat;
A wish that my thoughts could fully quote
A man whose poem is so finely crafted,
I’m convinced it was never once redrafted.

For it catches by its words in near perfection
The very soundtrack to all this: my reflection.
This particular poem is quiet and mellow;
It was written by a Mr Henry Longfellow.

I write it now for you below
That you may enjoy its beauty also.

“The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.”