It's days like this I wish most
your existence could occur closer
to my own. The wind is blowing itself
teasingly through my hair and the sun
is shining like rain was never even
thought of, the sky soft and deep and
so blue, with clouds like cotton buds
smeared across the great expanses. Today
it would be so simple to turn and smile
at the person you're walking with, walking
to nowhere in particular, and then
suddenly whisper in their ear, "Run
run run run run," taking off down this street, winged
feet pounding the indifferent pavement,
bright laughter trailing behind us.

You are treading dangerous waters, and I
have been entrusted with your
care. Though I wish to be only
impassive bystander, I must guide you
through this new enviroment, ******
upon you so quickly and without
any warning. Though I wish to harbor
only sympathy towards you, a single look
in your direction renders me completely
empathetic, until I can feel the waves closing
over my own head, remembering vividly
my own drowning, so far away and so long ago.

You are treading dangerous waters, and I
have been entrusted with your
care. More than anything, I wish
to throw you a life-preserver, but
I know you would rather fight
independently, and so to rescue you
would not be forgiven.

Weeks ago you asked me what
I would write about January. I
don't think my words fit
here, not when we are all just watching
her recovery and praying it
continues smoothly. At other times
I think, though, that though this month
hurts more plainly and less in ways
that lend themselves to writing and
delicacy, it could never accurately be called
any less painful.

It is in the small hours like these
that I feel like destroying myself. You
all think you want to die, one of you calling out
to me in your pain, the third one of you in
few weeks. I beg and I plead and I shout and
when you cannot see me, after (or maybe
in the middle of) guiding you through this crisis, I
will break down and sob in terror and anger
at my helplessness. The glue I use to hold
you together is harvested directly from my own
disgustingly weak being. As I am trying to solidify
your world, I myself am dissolving. Please
don't die, none of you, your loss and my failure
would create a monster to devour and utterly
destroy what is left of me.

Words like ants, running
up and down my arms, scrawled
blindly in the middle of
the night, when ideas come calling to tap
in my tired mind. Black ink, blue
ink, green ink, brown ink, colors
seeping through my skin in a rainbow
of painful letters until my blood
sings the lines of my poetry, mixing
with my ink until I think words
must flow naturally though my veins. If ink
is to become my blood, how long
until my ink runs out and my blood
starts to become only my red ink?

Like a sponge, latching on
to anything.
Squirreling everything away inside
Its heart, porous,
with all the holes. Maybe
They can be filled like this.
They can't.

Eventually, we put the sponge under
Pressure.
And then watch,
Sickened,
As everything hidden away in the
         porous heart of a sponge
Comes gushing out.

I miss you the way
          that the sea, who tries
          so hard to stay, misses
          the shore, even though she knows
          it's impossible and even though
          she knows they will meet again
          soon, she tries to rage against
          the tyranny of the moon.
And some days I
          miss you the way the moon
          inevitably pines for the sun. Although
          they will never meet, she waits until
          the sun's warm rays will touch
          her face and she can pretend
          she gives off her own light
          while she glows. And even
          so, half of her life
          she cannot see the sun
          for the earth.
But most days I just miss you
          the way the earth longs
          for the stars. They are so
          far off and they glitter seemingly
          so impossibly. Like the earth I
          cannot come to you and
          like the stars, you
          are so far away and
          so beautiful, but
          you are
          so cold.

I can count on a single hand
the number of times words
have made me cry. Not angry words, shouted

from shuttered faces and bitter hearts.
Not heartfelt words, whispered fervently
or pulled out of someone's mouth

by sheer force of need. The written word
has always held me in thrall, and yet
many words have always been required

to even come close to making me weep.
Your poems are a fraction of the length of books
that have touched me and thousands of lines shorter

than scenes that have made my tears
flow like water, until I tasted their salt, fresh
upon my lips. Your poems contain

an iota of the so-called literary genius
great authors possess, and less planning than their great works
of prose. But your poems are pain,

presented as gifts, doorways into your world.
I could count on a single hand
the number of times words had made me cry

until I read your poetry.

Maybe music is just
an abstract form of
water. It dances and
flows, currents swirling
over my head until I think
I will either drown or become
one with this element. I don’t
think I could live without
these ringing melodies, like when they
say I'’m impossible and must
need water to function normally, I
return that I think rather
music must be what I need
in order to lose myself and so
stay sane.

Tiny dots line up on
my screen with the flick of
my finger. Right now I could
be reading and expanding
my knowledge, I could
be writing and expressing
my feelings, I could
by doing anything
worthwhile, but I couldn'’t
care less.

When I am
tired or
sad or
hurt or
drunk my
thoughts start
to appear in
my head with
line-breaks.
Strange for
someone who
never thought
she could
write.

So many words of mine
will never see the light
of day because I don'’t think
they'’re worthy of anyone’'s attention
or the ink wasted on writing
them down on the clean paper
that just might have been used
for something more worthwhile.

Give a man an
inch and he'll take
a mile, give me
an unwilling iota of
yourself and I
will push further until
the blind force of
my need will push
you away altogether and
my inadequate words of
apology that will never
be enough or ever
reach you are all
that will remain in
your absence.

Because who in
their right mind would
ever want to be
an open book,
a worthless shell,
a tag-along?
Who would ever
want to be weaker than
they seem, not as good as
they appear, so more utterly
unnecessary than their friends
seem to think? Why
would anyone ever want
to battle demons long dead, cry
into the night, jump
at every stranger
that gets angry, have
skin that aches
to be destroyed? Why
would anyone
ever want
to be me?

If I left now, if
I just disappeared, if
I popped out of

your existence like a
forgotten memory if
you saw no more of
this person you

think is good, you
might hurt for
a bit but
your scars also

might just heal. If
I left now, I

don'’t know if
I would be leaving
because I want
you to be strong, or if

I would be leaving
as a preemptive
measure, before you
could leave me.

Is this it, is this
the final sign that I am
damaged beyond repair? Not
only am I now scared
of her blows, I'm sitting
frozen in the middle of all
the what-ifs. These cuts
you riddled me with in
great swathes of pain, aren't
healed as I thought they were, they
are now bleeding and
stinging me years later. Learning
that you are so much weaker
than you thought and so
much more broken makes
you ask whether
you will ever
be whole.

And as the bombshells of
my daily fears explode they
hurtle into me with the
exact force of
her fists and leave
bruises, invisible (this time) and
knock me down until I
am drowning under
the waves and I
can't breathe under
the weight of all
these memories because as
the bombshells of my daily
fears explode I know how to
trace them right back to
my youth and I am
scared of still
being young.

Years later, after you think
you've outrun all your past fears,
you will find yourself sitting
on the edge of your bed,
unable to stand up and face
the world. It's been years
since it happened, since she last
exploded and you let yourself
come close enough to feel
her shrapnel burn through you, but still
you're huddled on the edge
of your bed, scribbling desperate,
terrified words into your notebook
unable to go downstairs
because she is still there.

I'm sitting on the edge
of my bed, trembling and
     flash [I'm huddled in the
                kitchen corner, she's
                advancing on me, blocking
                every way of escape]
wishing I could be ok again, wishing
I wasn't damaged beyond
     flash [I'm on the
                stairs, crouched over so
                she can't reach my
                stomach because I'm already
                crying hard enough to almost
                be throwing up, gagging
                around screams]
any kind of repair that I
can foresee, praying that
     flash [I'm curled on my bed like
                a foetus, I ran away until
                there was no further
                to run and still
                she followed me. Hit
                my back, it hurts
                the least there]
the terror will pass, and I
won't have to remember
     flash [I'm thinking desperately
                around the thumps of
                knuckles on flesh and the screams
                I can't contain that next time I
                will hit back I won't
                be frozen in place, wishing
                bitterly I wasn't shamelessly
                lying to myself]
this.*
     *flash [I can't breathe.]

i.   My mother's elbows. They
     are too sharp and they twitch
     in the direction of your ribs
     when you invade
     her personal space.

ii.  Needing anything too much. Cutting
     or writing or even
     my own friends.

iii. Fast rides down mountains. I
     remember each one, looking
     out the window, wondering if
     tonight was the night
     finally we would go
     plunging over the tiny
     railing.

iv. Gangs of little kids. Don't
     tell me they don't know
     what they are doing. Children
     are cruel.

v.  Metaphors of fists raining down
     all over your body. I'm
     sorry, I cannot listen
     to your metaphors, when
     they make my skin tingle and
     my hackles raise and
     my heart play out the dance
     of old fears.

vi. Anyone having leverage. Too
     many times, showing caring
     for a thing has seen it
     confiscated. Also, anyone knowing
     I care at all.

vii. Discovering that the scars gifted
      to me are not healed and
      long car rides and
      her elbows and
      cruel children and
      impending addictions and
      openly loving and
      your metaphors make
      me bleed along
      old fault-lines.

Is this to be my anger,
then? A dormant dragon,
slumbering until woken. My blood

flows hot and fast and full
of dragonflame, just waiting
to singe anyone that might dare

come closer. For years I gave
the dragon free reign, incinerating
as she pleased. And for years

after that, I have placated and drugged her
with love and self-control. Being
around you brings back our long-suppressed

memories, old ways of burning
bridges and scorching foes. I never
wanted to hurt you, but you
are playing with fire.

Eventually, I think I'll become just
A pair of eyes. I won't judge and
I can't speak, all the words I might
Have used are being erased. This
Simple act of seeing and remaining
Mute, may dictate I be
Permanently so.

There are no words I can write
about my jealousy, without them being
ugly and twisted. Jealousy
is not a poetic feeling, jealousy is
sick and petty and deforms
everything it touches. I cannot beautify
my jealousy, as I do my pain, I cannot
make you look at me differently
through such a warped glass and think
that I am something special. Jealousy
does not lend itself to writing poetry, when
all I want to do is hate you
but I can't.

The void is in
the grittiness of your eyes and
the weariness of your limbs, in
the way your lungs cannot
draw enough air because the emptiness in
your stomach is crowding
everything, taking all the space inside
of you. The void howls
throughout you, calling out in
a twisted imitation
of your voice, bitter and begging
by turn. Your own personal black hole
has devoured you until not only
the light you radiate is swallowed, but too
your vision, and you cannot see
yourself past this abyss.

I am the prodigal daughter that
will not be returning. I have squandered
your forgiveness, if ever
it was, on small sins

that I probably
could have avoided. Tiny ways
Of asserting my individuality, my
independence, my unwillingness to follow
anyone blindly. The food

I eat, the friends
I have, the actions
I take, the people
I love, they
are not as to your
specifications. I am the prodigal

daughter, the one
that stopped believing in your
(supposedly) everlasting love, your
(apparent) watching eye and protection. I

am the prodigal daughter, I
have given up on trying
for your acceptance, trying
to hurt myself to earn
the warmth and love I never
saw. For so long you
made me feel unworthy

of you, ineligible
for your embrace, and now
I finally know that I
truly do not deserve
the iron bars
of your acceptance, disguised
as a structure to hold
me up. I now know

I deserve more.

Your religion is
an earworm, curled around
my feeble brain. All day I
find myself singing praises of

your god, my
former salvation. Your religion dances
around my tired mind, enchanting

my ears even as
my heart rebels. I am
in the shower, trying
not to sing my love to
the cold tile walls, the
streaming hot water, the

house as my family listens to
the notes pour out of
my open mouth. טוב
להודות ל' ולזמר
לשמך עליון they

sing in voices like
brightly feathered birds circling
the light of
His countenance. Your god
is strong, and gives of
his strength freely to those

who can follow him faithfully. I
find myself incapable, and yet
your melodies ensnare me. This blessing
of musicality, gifted directly

from hours of sitting rapt, in
your house of worship, is also
my curse. I cannot forget
the source of my love affair
with the rise and fall
of your adoring exaltations
and all music.

"I think the
dynamic might just be
problematic." I said and
I didn't think but
what I viewed as manifest
destiny may just have been
a self-fulfilling
prophecy.