I had a dream the other night,
                   I visited an old friend
                      who had died last Halloween.

He drank himself to death,
wet brain, liver failure,
the whole nine yards.

In my dream I asked him
    what it was like to be dead,
he said "Oh it's okay....
can I borrow five bucks?"

I don't know I said,
    "How can I be sure
               I'll get it back"

"Ah come on" he said,
"I'm five bucks short for a case"

I relented and we called a cab.
       The cab driver comes
            and he says to Barry,

"What's it like to be dead?"

The reinvention of woman
will be the test of man
To see if he will follow
as steadily as he can
For if the world
becomes unbalanced by the two
There might be much conflict
between me and you
The test of man is not simple at start
it searches deep and turns on reality...
Their morals are shown and intentions burned brightly
they're soul-***** in all actuality
But the goal of we women is not destroy
nor embarrass the league of men...
It's simply to encourage and shelter and feed
through love, as best as we can

"You aren't going to find Mr. Right at a bar"
That is what I am told
Of course I believe it
Where else shall I meet him?
Should I wear my hipster dress and sit at the local coffee shop,
Drinking herbal tea from environmentally friendly cups,
And hope the man of my dreams comes up and says,
"I love that book also you're intelligent and gorgeous and will you go out with me?"
No time for lounging at coffee shops
So maybe I'll frequent the....
Nope. Can't think of anywhere else.
Back to the bars I go!

you said you had been a mess lately.
i ran my fingers through your tangled hair and agreed.
the unorganized chaos in your head sent me into a whirl.
you said that old wounds dont heal,
i said that im just cleaning the cut.
ive always had a habit of disturbing things better left in the dark,
and i don’t think that there is any part of you that i left untouched.
childhood memories and things you had long since forgotten stirring in the dust
i took the paint splattered across your heart
and turned it into a masterpiece,
you said you had always liked abstract better than realism.
the neat rows that i stacked you in feel heavy on your tongue,
and you told me with words that i had already prepared for you
that the messiest thing about ocd,
is that nothing can ever be left alone.

1.** black coffee

lipstick stains I always have to clean,
not from mugs
but
from his shirt collars when I forget the cream
“Two creams babe. Why is it so
******* hard to remember two creams?”
I don’t have an answer so
I continue to scrub the lipstick stains and
swear I’ll get it right
He’s messing up worse, no one is keeping count
So I swear I’ll get it right

2. wrinkled shirt sleeves

my favorite time is
in the morning before he’s up
when I get to take time and iron his works clothes
Today is not one of those times
He’s up early, and he’s risen irritated
He has a meeting
he told me, I needed to wake him up early
I forgot
He grabs his shirt and pants
whining incessantly about the shirt sleeves
I missed them because I was
not finished
He doesn’t care, “You’re worthless, so why should I be surprised?”
I don’t leave the bathroom all day

3. dog-eared pages

sometimes,
he has to “work late”
and I get time to myself
I’ve been reading a memoir about Vivaldi
I flip to find the most recently creased page
and settle into the soft couch
He thinks it is ridiculous and childish
that I don’t use a bookmark
I told him it makes the books
just that much more personable
He isn’t one for sentiment so
he laughs
and asks if I want him to pick me up one on his way back from work
I don’t say yes, but I don’t say no either
The bookmark he bought me
makes a really nice
coke liner

4. ivory piano keys

when I was younger
before the addiction
I played piano
In the basement of my great aunts
four story Victorian
sat the most elegant baby grand
it was out of tune, and dusty
but that never stopped me
from clunking out thunderous melodies
and driving the cats insane
now, in the emptiness of this apartment
I dream of that piano
it’s long white keys and low, low seat
I hear its music
never a note right but
it never sounded sweeter

5. crooked lip liner

“we’re going to be late to the banquet, babe.”
erratic nodding, yes yes yes I know but
I’m shaking again
he knows why he always he knows
“I need more.”
I don’t say of what, he knows
there’s no time is what he tells me
I know that but
god, I can hear my heartbeat in my ears
ragged breath and it feels like my skin wants
to be separate from my body
I hate when I’m like this
he’s so responsible
I hate him
fingers twitching and teeth itching
red lip liner was such a bad idea
I don’t bother filling it in neatly
if I’m to play the role
of cracked out wife
well goodness, I must look it
he doesn’t lay an eye on me all night
whispers let me know
if the people aren’t aware, they’re guessing
I don’t bother to uphold
one semblance of normalcy
knock back one glass of the
fancy bubbly champagne
the shaking subsides
knock back a second
my vision no longer whirls
the drunker I get
the more normal I feel
my outward appearance is a mess
but
I feel good inside

When men leered at me and boys glanced down my shirt and when I was invited into a bedroom or down an alleyway I always said no because I had a boyfriend. But now that I don't, what's my excuse for not wanting someone to want me?

all my life I’ve been burning things to the ground
I left my marshmallow over the flame too long
forgot the popcorn in the microwave last night
too many friendships have gone up in smoke because
I had too much oxygen in my heart

I learned yesterday that abracadabra means
“I create as I speak”

I was never afraid of fire.
three years old, I held my hands
close to the flames and cried
"Daddy, Daddy, it's magic!"
and to this day,
I often wonder if
I might be magic, too

I never believed in magic until I met her

she taught me that I am wildfire.
beautiful from a distance
but if you get too close, I might burn you
not to worry-
wildfire brings new life
I promise I’ll help you begin again.

you try to breathe fire, but you are not the magician here

you attempt to extinguish me
you throw water on my flames but
underneath the blackened exterior is
a still-burning ember
full of white-hot anger
I have been ablaze for too long
to be put out

and now, I pull the rabbit out of the hat.

illusion is key to telling the perfect lie
smoke and mirrors turn your gaze the other way
while I turn you to ashes
a magician’s final trick.

I have always had a hunger for words
seven years old, I was reading at a college level. I was amazing. A little freak of nature. They said, "Grace, you're so smart" "Grace, you're a genius" "Grace, you're going places in life" but now i'm not so sure because
I was extraordinary then but
this is high school now and everybody reads at a college level and all of a sudden I don't feel so special anymore.
10 years old I was required to write 13 poems for the "Bluebonnet Young Poet awards"
I submitted them but
I'm still waiting for the letter that tells me I've won.
And so I wrote poetry all through the sixth grade
I was threatened and
pushed around. but no one could know because if anyone knew
they would hurt me worse and so I took the liberty of
doing that for them.
but there was a boy. isn't there ALWAYS a boy?
and I tried to write about him but (shhhhhh) he was a secret and all of the things he did to me were (shhhhhh) (shut up) (be quiet) (don't make a sound)
once I was free from him the words poured out of me like a bird released from its cage finally finally finally I could SING.
but there was a boy. isn't there always a boy?
he let the words come and come and they were about him, always about him. they were beautiful. every day there seemed to be more words about him, for him, to him. it stopped being about my words and always about his but his words were empty so he stopped saying them. I wrote for him and hoped he would see it but I guess he never did because sometimes I still write for him and wonder what he's doing.
sometimes people like to tell me that my poetry isn't "appropriate" that it's "too emotional" "too adult" and I shouldn't be writing things like that, am I depressed?  who are they, who are any of you, to tell me what I can and cannot feel?
who am I, to be standing here, telling you what I feel?
I have always had a need for words.
it's about time I started treating them right.