"A new person.
And she used to be
Me.

But...
Her hair is shorter..."


I've always wanted to be different.
I got sick of being compared to
Other girls that all acted and looked the same.

I CRAVED being different.
I craved being the weird one.
I craved doing something unexpected.

Because the world needs a splash of color.

And with that splash,
A ripple effect will come.


It's been my dream to influence others to be themselves,
To be different.

And this is my chance.
At least...

*For now.

Praise ye the Lord. Sing unto the
Lord a new song, and his praise
in the congregation of saints.
2 Let Israel rejoice in him that
made him: let the children of Zion be
joyful in their King.
3 Let them praise his name in the
dance: let them sing praises unto him
with the timbrel and harp.
4 For the Lord taketh pleasure
in his people: he will beautify the
meek with salvation.
5 Let the saints be joyful in glory:
let them sing aloud upon their beds.
6 Let the high praises of God be
in their mouth, and a twoedged sword
in their hand:
7 To execute vengeance upon the
heathen, and punishments upon the
people:
8 To bind their kings with chains,
and their nobles with fetters of iron;
9 To execute upon them the
judgment written: this honour have all his
saints. Praise ye the Lord.

In the windowpane of a well-lit city bus at night, this is where I want to be. New York City yelling yelling two days awake at 5am. Chaos.

People die and people die and things happen but we just want to dance dance dance. I dance on the graves of my forefathers, I dance on the graves of the lace-laden aunts. I dance dance dance.

He smells like the wrong thing, like 2002. Like a coffee shop conversation gone wrong, a first kiss never had. I smell my knees as I sit at my computer, I take half-**** photos of myself and send them to people I barely know. I flirt and I lie (awake on a Saturday morning). All of my sentences start in the possessive.

When she found out that her toes were different sizes she just near threw herself off the building. When the phone never picks up, the people up the list from her. She gets a wrong feeling about the place she's in. But she still asks for the space on the floor, still wants to be there. 5am and the traffic continues, cop cars disguised as taxis. We had to convince her to hold back-- no one wanted blood on their shoes.

When you get frowns and one word answers from your heroes, when you read too much into everything. When 5am rolls around. Maybe sometime, sooner or later . . . but I don't think I'm ready yet. I just don't want to, I'm not feeling up to it. The sun is rising too fast. The earth is spinning and I feel like I'm ten years old again. Holding hands in the grass and denying kisses, what has happened to me? I am not connected.

That summer that we wore no shoes? And we danced on the fourth of July? And we listened to your sister's records?

It's just one of those things.

I promise, I swear I didn't,
I mean,
****.

What was I supposed to do?

I'm in the flood waters now.
There's no hazard that could dissuade me.
I remain convinced.
I remain self-possessed.
I remain stolen and broken.
I remain.

And where did you go?
Where have you been?
What happened?
How was that enough?
How does that make sense?
Where am I supposed to go now?

What was I supposed to do?

I didn't feel old or bent or faded.
I didn't feel a surge or a skip.
I felt content, immeasurably at peace
with one foot, two foot, three foot, turn,
turn, laugh, look, smile, turn.
I avoided the touch of gaze
and the strange, knowing smile
because we both saw how years and months
could compress into a few hours
as if they never happened at all
and neither of us wants to know
what that means.

I'm supposed to ignore it.
I'm supposed to not let it touch me.
If you don't irritate them, they leave you alone.
And you can't even touch it.
You're afraid it'll fall apart.
You weren't sure it was anything at all
and you weren't sure it mattered
and you weren't sure it counted
and you start to doubt yourself
and you start to see things
and wonder if they're real
if they're anything at all.

I remember that night,
slipping on Chicago ice and laughing out loud.
In a broken snow globe the glitter still shines,
though it's slowly slipping away.
I caught the drops in a tiny bowl
with lilac blooms and melodic metal double kicks.
I'm packaging it up, wrapping it in cellophane and tape
cellophane and tape
to deliver to your future home.
I'll pass it over our shared picket fence,
hold my fingers on your wrist for too long,
and you'll look blankly or you'll smile wide.
I'll close my eyes and turn around,
walking back to hand chimes and north arrows,
my invitation hanging in the damp air.

You do not know, my friend, you do not know
what life is, you who hold it in your hands.
You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see.

I will dance a borrowed dance
and walk a borrowed line
and sing a borrowed song
until the words return
and I can control my knees
and the squeaking butterflies shut up
and the ferns are cleared from the path
and I can move forward with grace and intention,
with an open hand
and tenuous direction
and a starry smile
and a space for you next to me.

I'll be waiting for a second chance.
A way to correct my mistakes.
And a way to make it up to you,
Isis, Gaia.
Mother Earth.
I have counted the days
That you have been kind to me.
Calmed me or Enlightened me.
Gave me the knowledge I needed
To make it through.
Thank you,
Goddess.
You have showed me,
But I still await my rebirth.

I will not reach it in this lifetime.
But in my next, I will
Reach, Achieve
Enlightenment.