Don't belittle your pain.
Don't bottle it up
Unseen
Unless small parts shove
           themselves out
Like a collection of knives
Inside a (breathing, living)
           carcass.
When the knife
Breaks through
With its harsh, sharp gleam,
Don't push it back in
Deeper
Or say it's nothing
(with a pain(t)ed smile).
I see the stains
of denied blood
Against the shine
of cold steel.
And if you say
it's nothing
How can I fix you?

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

Sometimes I forget that you
cannot absorb as much
as you like to say you can.
I forget that you are human, and not more,
not the impassive statue that you
would like to be.
I have seen you
in your weak points and I
have helped you through
some bad days and I
somehow forgot
your true form.
Forgive me, I
am so full of words tonight that
I overflowed and nearly
drowned you, even as you stood
ready to try and help me safely swim
the dangerous currents
of my own disintegrating being.
Forgive me, I
would mop up these streams and
plug up these holes and even
divert rivers in the tradition of Heracles
to clean out the accumulated grunge
of everything I have dumped on you.
I would let my mind
stop burbling and my words run dry
if only you will
forgive me.

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 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.

My words have the power to cut
and sting, and draw blood
from all your hidden wounds.
They are glass shards, hidden
in plain sight, on the paper.
Thorns, wrapped around your heart, pull
tighter to the sound of my words. And you
mistake this pain I inflict for
intellect and the pangs
I cause you for
sharpness and wit.

But now, I find that my own wounds
are healing, and the words
which I previously wrote
in my own blood, do not come, flowing
as they once did. My ink
is running out. And some of you, the ones
I love dearest, are like me
But you keep your ink
pouring, even as you suffer. I
cannot be like you, I
am not so strong. My nature dictates
that my wounds must heal, and I,
in my weakness,
must let them. Your sharpness comes
at the greatest sacrifice
a person could give.
I know this. And yet, I still
Aspire towards you. Bleeding
myself as I do so.

And now that I see
growing scabs
decorating my wounds, and my blood
clotting and drying, I just
wonder- now that I
resemble you no more, will you forget
the formerly vibrant colors of my pain?
Will you forget my brief stint
as one of you?
Will, much as my wounds are,
the gates close? As I lose
this sharp tang of
my perceived brilliance,
will my alluring, painful glitter
fade to you?
You, who are strong,
(or maybe in my foolishness
I only see
your masochism as such)
Will you leave
Me
Behind?

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 often see you look at
me, your sidelong glances out
from lowered eyelids, as if wondering
where I suddenly
appeared from. Not the girl
you once had a chance of loving, before
she started living her life with
a bang, an explosion
so strong it shattered all
of your expectations, this
is not quite a woman, but you
do not know what she- I
am. You look on, dumbfounded
for only a split second
when hurtful words hurtle
out from my lips, whizzing by your straight back
and stony face, wondering
who put them these. I
am more brilliant and sharp
than you had ever
thought I would be, and you
do not know how
this could be.
Listen to me
when I tell you that this
is all to your credit. My words
are only being said in the style
of the master, she
who taught me to build bombs
of truths, to throw them
at the chinks she taught me to see
in the enemy's armor, to know
unerringly before whom
I stand. My brilliance
was a gift, too, this
is my outer shell, shining
with my blood that I tried
to keep in, but I couldn't, so I painted
myself and called myself
Red. My sharpness
is not originally mine, I
am removing the harpoons
you struck into my flesh, and
throwing them back, casting off the lines
you would hold me with. You see,
mother dearest, I am not truly, originally,
a shining star. I merely
follow the leader.

I miss
those two hours we stole
that night, the way the road looked
under lamplight, stretching out
until after our eyes
would stop seeing, until
after where the circle of electric radiance
met its border, maybe
until forever. I miss
the enthusiasm, your nodding
when I would explain the way
my psychological manipulation works, how
our metaphors, for that feeling
that seems so normal, and yet so terrible,
matched perfectly. And the cold,
the gravel road, the aching feet, all that
I would gladly take for some more time
with you.
I miss
that hour we took unapologetically
the next day, even the time we spent looking
for the right spot, long as it was,
the gentle rocking of the hammock
and the snap-snap-snap
as we both pulled twigs apart
to keep our hands busy. I miss
that one particular moment
when I made you laugh, an inane comment
about getting my shoes *****, and how
your head dipped and skimmed
my shoulder, for just a second.
I guess, though I miss
all of these moments, mostly
I miss
you.

"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.

I never tasted so sweet as when on your lips a
screaming kind of sunlight, honeysuckle, breathless
summer came early and I with her, I couldn't
catch my breath for the glory of you, blown away
stripped of pretense, of self consciousness, of
consciousness, nothing
here but you I caught
my breath hiding on your lips I tried
to take it back and all I got
was nectar

What I love in talking to
you are the subtexts. Constantly running
around all the words we speak, roads
support me when others fail, hold
when others will crumble, you stand.

When I was younger, the world
was my playground. Any place,
if I believed hard enough, or even
if it just looked comfortable and I
was in the right mood, became my own.

Little fouryearold, fiveyearold, sixyearold
me, would automatically case out
the joint, scan any room, looking
for places to fit my tiny four
fivesixyearold body, comfortably.

Today I was sitting in a museum, where
benches lined in carpet lined
the walls, and a quiet voice
I had forgotten once lived inside
whispered "you could sleep here."

When I was younger, I still believed
in the power of family, of love, I
still believed we were all
alright, these things happened in every
house, and my house was the best for me.

Little fouryearold, fiveyearold, sixyearold me, little
voices whispering "you could be safe
here," little nooks and crannies to hide
your fourfivesixyearold body, I wonder
were you, even then, looking for a home?

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 your door
down the hall click
and know
you're awake once more.
Wild-eyed, chased by
ghosts that never leave
you alone, you emerge
from the fleeting
warm cocoon of sleep.
I am not
A ghost-buster
But I wish
I could be.

you reach in with your
grabbing fingers and
rip
fiber by fiber tear
it out sever
every last bit of
my ******* ******* heart

take it take it take it take it it
was always yours

you are not traveling far away you are not
taking a bus or a train or a plane you are not
riding on horseback or walking miles you are not
sailing a ship over the sea you are not
moving yourself further away by any measurable distance.

and I know that this will end and I know
that everything will get better and I know
this is for the best and I know
that you will return triumphant and I know
that we are strong.

But you are still leaving.
And I am still crying.

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.

after I kissed you
brushing my teeth suddenly
became a sad chore

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?

this song is the slow burn
of fire through your veins, it's
the long glance across the room
that send you tumbling straight
into the unplumbed depths
of her eyes, it is exactly
the feeling in the pit of your stomach
when he turns and smiles
right at you, rustling forests
you were unaware you had,
until flocks of birds take off,
filling your insides with fluttering
wings, and nothing but their song
will come out, when you open your mouth.

(hands in glass are like
a heart trying
to let go. bare skin and
sharp angles- even when
you put down the shards, pry
your fingers open your
hands will glitter and
sting like unshed tears with all
you grasped honestly, nakedly, all
that you can't leave behind)

my mother built this
child's gravestone with
(her child's gravestone with)
her own two hands. she lifts
the glass and places it in
the mold, bending, and shifts
her arms and twists
her hands to let go. This
is her penance, this
work is not swift she
plunges her hands in, looks
for pieces to fit while
the glass tumbles with
a tinkling 'chisk'
but her hands
are protected
by gloves.

Hey, remember
when you and I sat in a field
and I found an interesting rock
that may even have been pretty
and you smashed it
for fun?
Hey, remember
how you and I sat in a field
and I held that interesting rock that
was once pretty
and tried to put it together
until I gave up?
Hey, remember
that you and I sat in a field
and a rock was just a rock
and not foreshadowing
and not a metaphor
for us?

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.

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.

There's always this stage, later on
after you have realized that you
actually can live without
this person, though it is a continuing
source of pain. At this point, everything
you were so scared of saying
for those long many months, somehow
has been said. You both know
how much you mean together, how
your conversations will go, what
the subtext clearly says, though not
said clearly. I know you miss
me, just as much as I continuously
miss you. After some point, I will know
you love me just as much as I
will try to show you how much I love
you, though I didn't believe it before and
I couldn't tell you so for old fears.
At this point, the wound of you
not being here will start to scab
over. The very essence of your unbeing
in my presence will dictate that you
cannot heal me, that I must live
with this pain and your vacancy. I will not
tell you I miss you, taking a knife
to my healing holes. Against my will,
I am pulling back. After the thrill
of "I miss you" has worn off, it only
brings pain with every utterance. I miss
you, I miss you I miss you I
miss you, and you are missing so profoundly
the very air around me sings
of your absence, whistling through emptinesses
that echo the ones inside. But sometimes
I would rather not remember
that you are missing.

"I think he started
his Sylvester's a bit
early" my father jokes, as
the motorcycle swerves
in front of us. "Stop," I want
to scream. This
is insanity. Three tons
of steel under your command and
a man on a motorcycle
is so vulnerable. We continue
blithely on, my father won't
see how his jokes
paralyze me.

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.