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.

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.

Sometimes I miss
the way we would talk
before we knew each other

so completely and thoroughly. Back
then, though it seems eons
have passed, we would only skim
across the surface of the other, touching

lightly, the dragonflies of our questions
creating the smallest of ripples
on the top layer of the pools
that were us, never close

enough to even guess at
the hidden depths. Oh, but we
were playful, back then, glistening fliers
chasing one another, sometimes-

rarely- truly touching, throwing up wings
to dazzle with color, to hide
ourselves, the parts we were afraid
were disfigured and damaged, the parts

that were the only parts
truly us. Slowly, our eyes strengthened,
we learned to see though our flimsy
shields, we embraced, piece by painful

piece, each other’s hurt parts, misshapen
and deformed though they were. As we grasped how
to see, not only look, I think
we both realized we are not truly

dragonflies. Maybe we don’t even know what
we are, yet. But as the murky
expanses of you slowly become clearer
to me, and our waters mingle, I know I truly

belong here. I would not trade you
for the world, but sometimes I miss
the sun-filled, glittering glory
of dragonflies over shadowy pond, touching

only the lightest of touches, playful
and flirtatious and impersonal
and giddy.

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?

How much
did I have to be yours
for that?

i. I've never really believed
those people
that say we are made
of stardust. but the
constellation
of bite marks
you left across my chest
might just change my
mind.

ii. I'm glad a shower
is on my plan, because
instead of me
I smell like you. and don't get
me wrong, I love
the way you smell
but it might drive me
insane
with longing.

iii. being the one to leave
in a way
is easier. but please
don't think walking away from you
doesn't break me
a bit
every time.

Tears under lamplight, so often called silver.
as if you think they're precious, or beautiful.
As if my pain makes me special, or radiant.
As if this is something rare, like it doesn't happen so often.
You think my tears make me unique, like no one else has ever been
Radiant in quicksilver, and no one else's shoulders have trembled
Under the burden of these sharp reflections of light
that adorn my face.
like the fluid sparkle of my eyes in this moment
is unprecedented and will not be repeated
thousands of millions of times over
so many people, so many faces.
So much glistening pain.

But this is not the first time
And it is far from the last
for me, or any of the others.
My tears are not silver, they are not precious.
They are not beautiful.
My blood has turned to water
and life has whipped me in the face
until I have overflowed and I bleed,
staining everything with the liquid pain
pouring out of the tracks cut through my trembling flesh.
You are so close to the truth
     (If I heated silver, if I stuck it to my cheeks
      if I watched the flesh burn and embraced the pain
      everyone who cared to look would see and the marks
      would not fade for a long time
      or ever.)
But so far from it
     (If I heated silver, if I melded it to my face
      if I adorned myself in refractions of glory
      I might be able to walk with pride.
      Everyone could see me, resplendent
      and I would embody strength
      and not hatred of my own weakness.)

Softly, softly
we step into your mind
quiet and reverent
in our solemn intent.
- words I wrote for you
- books I have read
- places I have been, both
with and without you
- a drawing of my happiness
- your words, to encompass
my pain
I find all of these
where you reside, and as always,
as you are, so much
more than I will ever understand.
when I step out, pieces of
you, cotton-soft, cling to
everything I touched you with. Though
I would love nothing
more than to have stepped lightly in
and out, to not leave a mark
to not sully the purity
of what was before me, I know
this is not possible. The shreds
will cling to me, and I
will cling to the shreds, because
even though I would rather take
nothing, change nothing, be
as inconsequential as nothing, circumstances
have led me to the great
and terrible beauty
of the honor to carry with me
pieces of you.

my love fits in
to the crook of my neck
and the palm of my hand
and the curve of my back

my love fits in
to all of my thoughts
and most of my words
and some of my days

and my love knows when
to hold me tight
and grasp me hard
and kiss me soft.

*(there is no point.
there is no punch.
there is just this.
there is just love)

Two magnets holding on
they won't ever let go
fit together so perfectly,
every groove aligned. Every broken shard, painful
and sharp when alone
somehow compliments, strengthens the unison.
(With every minute) they pull each other in closer
continue to intrigue and enchant one another
until they're all the other can see.
It's not possible to be near them and
Not feel their pull
And wish to be part of something magical
even though it might just be science.

These magnets, so perfect, so fitted.
And between them (so close to invisible)
a piece of tissue-paper
so fragile
almost not there
covered in creases and tiny rips
Holding on.
Maybe not holding on
so much as letting the magnets
hold it there.
Hold it together.
Keep it from falling apart (further).
Despite the tiny holes it tears
in its skin
to remind itself it still exists.

But no matter what my nature
I cannot help wishing I was not a tissue
but a magnet, too.
I was not keeping you apart
in such tiny, almost unnoticeable (but not quite)
ways.
I think of pulling away
every minute you get closer.
But the same force that holds me together here,
if I left,
would rip the heart out of me.

There was a time when words
would gallop through my head like
herds of horses, leaving me gasping
and trampled in the muck

of my emotions. Their hoof prints, scars,
on my mind, on my heart,
marking me as “writer,” though I felt
I did not deserve such a title.
How could I, when horses break free

of their own volition? As weeks
passed, I
began to
learn the ways
of the herds
of my mind,

the strangely
rhythmical
cadence of
their hooves on
the insides

of my skull.
Though I could
never run
with them, I
learned to ride

fast; I learned
to decide
which would run
today; I
learned to guide

their forceful
direction,
while clinging
tightly to
the first horse

I wanted
to work to
a lather.
Sometimes, when
I am weakened, we fight

for control of my pen, my horses
and I, but they
are always
just that- my
horses. Now,

though I am
only starting,
I feel I
can somehow
finally

lay claim to
the title
of “poet.”

I don't think you understand
what I mean, when I say
I am a fifth wheel. I don't mean
I am always on the side,
I don't mean
I am completely unnecessary,
I don't mean you don't want me here.
All I mean is that, much like a car,
where the fifth wheel is backup,
I am your insurance
against having less than four.
Essential, but not inherently an essential part
of the basic structure.

Though your love is a
truth, it remains one that I
need to hear from you.

When you are not here
to help me fight my fears, I
run from them- and you.

I am losing this
battle, the one to stay here
against my instincts.

You set off every
alarm bell I have ever
rigged up against pain.

Every alarm bell I
constructed against the world-
never intended

Irony-
after leaving, I ran

back

to take
my
things.

Don't ask me to be ok. Don't
your ******* dare ask me
to be ok after everything I
have done and am still doing to hold
the world together. Don't tell
me it's fine it is not fine I
am whirling around my room throwing
myself at the walls I am
hunched over, rocking in
my place and moaning at the world to
shut up shut up shut up I am
stepping into the scalding shower and watching
the marks parading
down my legsarmsbackchestneck turn
the color of blood I am
huddled and screaming at those
I love dearest to go away goaway GOAWAY a rising
crescendo of static I am
gripping myself in my talons I am
scrambling for any kind of hold I am
crying with the water on so they
can't hear me I am
having nightmares where she
is devouring me I am
plastering a fake smile on. I am
asking you, how are things? I am
politely apologizing for the state of the bathroom after
my ****** showers. I am
inquiring cheerfully as to the music. I am
having nightmares where she
is devouring me and I can't escape I can't
run downstairs she
lives there I am
perfectlyfinewhydoyouask.
don't
you
*******
dare.

Time is trickling
and flowing through my fingers, the grains
of sand in the hourglasss
of my life are filling my veins, minutes
clotting the hours that construct
my ventricles pumping seconds making
my head swim. Time is holding me
up and time is somehow
my prisoner, as well, my element to play
in, as I wish. I conduct myself
upon my own time, though you
think your time is logical and ask
of me to yield to you. No, no, time
flows in streams through the air
around me, I breathe it freely
as I wish, blowing soap bubbles into crystalline
moments, that will catch the light
but pop, leaving your eyes stinging
when you try to reach for them, to catch
me. In another life
I was Dali, in my life now I
am Dali, painting and bending clocks
as to my will, making your logical early mornings
my glorious late nights, full of colors
those who do not truly know me
will never catch in the shadows of my laughter
and the turn of my eyes, I
will always be Dali, as years
are trivial and decades can pass
more quickly than the blink of an eyelid, I
will always be less than the great artist
and more, I am constructed, not only of time, but
of something just as fluid and so
my every cell will exult and change
as the symphony of the universe's timekeeping
glitters and twinkles  in its constant state
of effulgent musicality.

my skin is a
minefield don't
touch me don't
touch me I said
DON'T TOUCH ME can't
you see the prints running
around contaminated ground and
the few going through that
blew up in my face?

But maybe you'll catch me
on a day like today
when the world is languid, when
the very air hangs around us, stifling all
words but mine. You see, today
I am glorious. I am filled with fire
and purpose. Oh, you
who I have not yet forgotten
or know, wait till you catch up
on a day like today. My laughter
is bright and my eyes are clear
and I am so full of energy you will
ignore the one off note
in my symphony, the one aftertaste
you can't quite place.
Dearest
on days like these I am
effulgent, magnetic, insanely, wildly tempting,
I am the siren call in the storm, promising
a safe harbor from the tempest you have
failed to notice I am creating.
On days like these I will beckon
and you will come, ignoring the bitterness
I leave on your tongue
and the clamminess I leave on your hands and
the dead look in my sparkling eyes.
On days like these I am running headlong
blind, willingly unseeing, heady with unspoken promise
to my distruction. If you want
you can come along for the ride.

The safety of you
makes me realize just how
almost none else are.

As a small child, the straps
that held me in my carseat
were the worst torture
imaginable. I remember straining
against them with all the might
in my tiny body, knowing
it was hopeless. Your silences
have become the car-seat-straps
of my life now. From the outside
they waited, beckoning in sheer
inevitability, and from the inside
I can see no way out
without ripping you in two.

When I talked to you and
you agreed right away
I was not prepared. I had been ready
to explain why I was right
to demonstrate and persuade
and flatter and wheedle until you
relented. But you decided
in your much greater wisdom
not to play
my game. I did not let it go, I kept
trying to prove my point.

Did you see what I couldn't? Did you
hear the desperation in my tone? And
did you know long before
I would realize? Maybe
you did. Because now I sit
watching reruns of my day and
the realization comes
It was never you
I was trying to convince.

And then I was there-
but still, perpetually,
I am so helpless

And on the stairs leading up
your foot catches
and once extricated
catches again. Every stair
the same, every step
an effort to lift
your feet, every inch
of the way a journey.
Every stair
indented, marked
the middles pressed down
by thousands of feet
that once were here
and are no more.

Lying next to you, you recite
your graceful words, chosen
with precision and care, every one
captured in your memory, בור סוד
.שאינה מאבדת אף טיפה Lying

beside you, on my back, I sneak
a quick look at you, your face
serene, and struggling just a bit
to place every word correctly, and

to be so amazingly honest. Looking
over at you, I catch a glimpse
of your stunning eyes, overflowing
just of you, and feel like

with your poetry, you have gifted
a piece of your soul to me. Abashed
and flattered by the beauty of it all, I
have to drop my gaze.

I hear you say that
the skyscrapers are Ugly and that you
can't see the stars now
for the high, empty buildings
Devoid of soul.
I hear you say that those girls
the ones on the street corner
smiling into their Cellphone, blinking
when the flash Blinds them
are Self-Centered and only
think about themselves.
I hear you say (faintly) that i
am Escaping reality
when I plug my ears and
listen
only to My Own music.

The moon is glimmering like an alien sun
off a distant sea
on the windows of your soulless skyscraper.
The girls on the corner are
so Alive and so full
of celebration for This Moment
and i
am providing myself
with a Vibrant backdrop to these flashes
of Life. I will not be
like Hamlet's father, accepting. i
am not listening
to the poison you are trying
to drip in my ears

This is a white room
with tiny pencil drawings marching
around the walls in childish lines, telling
so many stories. Try
though I may, one thousand of my words
is worth less than one
of these drawings, and so
I think this space
is a place that needs
to be kept safe
inside your heart.

Two inches
between us.
I am

dancing

through this
minefield.

I love you. This is an incontestable fact. You talk about how you want a real, strong connection with me, one where we talk a lot and are involved in each others lives, and I want to cry. Because I never thought I would hear you say that so bluntly, because I didn't think I was that important to you, because as capable as I am of giving and receiving love from so many people, you will always be special. I absolutely believe there are people we meet that are meant for us. As best friends, as guardians, as lovers, as the homes we build. I don't know which you are yet. I know what I want you to be- I can hardly see past what I want you to be, when half of my heart is still jagged and sobbing and in your unknowing hands. But I love you enough that if you would have me as a friend, I would smile a smile of porcelain shards that look like perfect white teeth to make you happy. I would dance the dance I've learned of the masks, letting you see my face but not enough to see me. I would sit next to you, and you would be the sweetest, sharpest thing my heart could hold, and I would hold you all the same.
Because I love you. That is my incontestable fact.

I am not going home.
You can try to pull me back
Tell me all the reasons you love me
Remind me of all my duties and obligations
Call to the moral compass that never points north inside of me-

The one you planted in place of the heart you stole.
But I will not come back, not to the house
That is called "home" through sheer force of habit.

Name a wolf "sheep"- he will turn on his "brothers"
Name a devil angelic- he will cause the downfall of heaven
Name a leopard a lapdog- his spots will not change.

I named you loving, tender, gentle.
I called you moral, caring, I dared to try and call you mine.
I have spoken falsely, the sheer force of my want
Making me liar, a false prophet.

I am not going home-
My home is in my own heart
And you are not in it.

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?

A field of stones-
impassive
grey.
If I did not know
what they hide-
thirty three mass graves-
I would not think
to be horrified.

4 AM is the only hour
when I will ever allow myself the luxury
of crying for you. This reservoir of brine
I have dried into desertland painstakingly, siphoning
the smallest tears from their ducts,
has suddenly sprung up again, surprising
overwhelming everything-

The only thing worse
Than hearing a child gasp
If only to breathe-

Parents' hushed whispers
Tucked away in dim corners
'Whose turn is it now.'