I am a collection
of half-watched movies

End yet to-be-determined
Stuck in the middle bits

An unfinished  biography
of a life put on-pause

The characters have no future
Just like I have no future

My library remains full
An over-whelming archive

When will the master
finish the piece?

The follow through
is the most important part

The neurotic longs to discover
the treasure at the end of it all

Though sometimes the final destination
is only death or tragedy

Only pain and no closure
And nothing meaning anything

And maybe the movies are
half-finished because

I already know
I'll be disappointed in the ending.

My Life is screaming at me because
I am not really living it

I am eating
and sleeping
and acting this part in this play
in this Life

but I am living galaxies away
I am living and breathing
other people's lives
in this nostalgic way

While my body is lazily
flipping pages
my mind is racing
my soul is crying out
for these people
these stories I can
hold in my hands
and caress in my mind
but never truly live.

I am alone
clawing at dreams
and wishes
wanting to just be held
as reverently as I hold these words
but remembering it is
this room,
this bed,
these books
that are holding my body
back
....while my mind still wanders

he has consumed me
every inch of my body has been ****** in
to a funnel of death vapor
like smoky remains of a battlefield
our non-stop duet
of push here and choke there
all the air has escaped me
been ****** out in an instant
leaving me gasping
the sear of your touch left me with scars
like iron-burned flesh
you feasted on my grief
a too-proud arsonist
with loud words and strong hands
closing in on my throat
why fling me against the wall
when you have already impaled me on the knife?

the observers never lend a hand
they never say that they see
their eyes flicker away as quick as they land
this is just between us
me and you
no one is my savior besides myself
hook me with your barbs
they won’t come
crush me with your feet
they won’t come
tear in me down to bone
they never come


and i wonder
who was the sun in your atmosphere?
it wasn't me
but you were mine
when you were mine
you scorched my earth
i got too close to you
and like hell, it burned
it was passionate
but not romantic
heated
but not joyful

i watched you over my shoulder
one look and you caught me
glued to the scene
a crash waiting to happen
you never let me pull away
so we were pulled down together
down, down
the deep pit of darkness
endless like black pitch
with only death awaiting
and piles of ****** ashes
the game never stops
just like i thought you’d never stop
and the smoke stinging my eyes
clouding my vision
would never stop
but it did, didn’t it
because i stopped falling for it

enough with reflections
i'm not water
water cannot save me now
it's too late
instead i will stand tall
rear my shameful eyes
and broken body
up to giant size
and face you with a power
you never saw coming.

You love energy drinks like they're a drug
smug
you gulp down the last drip
that drop
that you can't resist.
In favor of the rush
touch
like nothing ever felt before
you want more
and I...just wanna go to sleep.

I love sleep like a it's a drug
lug
that pain away with one intoxicating dream
between
the warm blanket and the duvet
where my meditation
station
begins.

Why,
pray, try,
do you throw away the gift of sleep
sheep
so easily
Instead you waste yourself away
like prey
drinking those drinks
with the caffeine that'll shock
mock
your system
without care.

You feel the energy
elementary
you think it means you’re awake.
What a fool,
tool
as your eyes droop behind the garish grin
and your head aches
takes
but you thought it was the boredom

I’ll take advantage of my sleep,
keeping
my head up high
because I’m the one really awake
take
your energy drinks far away
from me

Sleep is the ultimate friend
sending
yourself into a deep relaxation
can’t find anything better
my love letter
to sleep

O sleep, never leave
deceive
me with your dreams
awaken me with true energy
memories
of a good night with you
is better than any man.

clever girl-
you jumped through hoops
and look where you are
on the edge of escape
yet still trapped between
responsibilities like the ant
in my window
you are pinned
though you have flown for miles,
stuck between the mountains of
heartache and disappointment
and have the scars to prove it,
you do not know
what the finish line looks like
you can no longer mindlessly climb
with nowhere to go
there are things blocking your path
they disguise themselves as
victories
and here you are
hanging over the boiling ***
and the chains are melting
you have already escaped once
can you do it again,
clever girl

and Hallelujah
the sugar burns my teeth cavities
like I knew it would
and I laugh at the bottle label
because 270 calories
for one small drink
is a joke-
a trick I should've seen coming

the caffeine isn't even worth it

And I see a life’s-worth of
expectations craning their necks
up to stare at me, my dog

at the treat jar, the neighbor
at my running shoes-
the ones built for courts,

customers below my eye-line
impressed. They ask questions
they think they know the answers to.

I paint myself pastel so they’ll forget it:
my hair, my clothes,
my Brittney voice.

I hand out my secrets like
candy, or a gag gift that’s only funny
because we all know it's bad.

How can I give him so many secrets
and still have a mask on?
I’ve started laughing in place of

the weight of it, when he looks
at me that certain way, when
the teeter-totter lifts too high

towards the sky.
I can’t look him in the eyes-
he’ll see I’m lying if

I do; the cringe at a kiss,
the shrinking from a stroke
of the thigh, the arm.

I’ll pretend to see something in
the distance instead.
It’s better than looking down.

I say "I don't mind" a lot.
"I'm fine" and
"It's alright"
practically overload my vocabulary.
But I do mind
and I'm not fine
and it's not alright
I don't want to keep those words in my vocabulary.
Though how am I supposed
to stop lying little lies?
I catch myself telling them
but I can't hold them in.
My words protect me
from confronting the truth
Simple truths like "You know what, I do mind"
and "I'm not feeling well"
and "I don't think that's right"
should be easier to tell.
But I'm a storm on the inside
The hopes and dreams
and wishes crash around
twisting and turning with
the fears and the doubts
and the depression
I can't stop it
it keeps building up!
.........until I've had all I can take
and it's another day
staying home "sick"
when I could be out living life.
What am I doing?
I ask this question everyday
and all I get are more lies.
But these lies hurt more
because they're to myself
and the truths are easier to tell
but also easier to ignore
and at the end of the day
all that's left
is one girl telling one boy
the most known lie in the book
and him walking away believing it.
"I'm fine".
Are you serious?!
You're walking away on that?
It practically begs for more attention
I am begging for more
more questions, more caring,
more thought and less gullibleness.
But you...
And I could yell or scream
or be disappointed
but really I have no right
for it is me who can't stop saying
"I don't mind" and "I'm fine"
and "It's alright".
It's me who can't stop
lying the little lies.
It's me who's not fine.

I can tell by the way the paper smells,
like day-old rain, wet earth, the dank
aroma of the window box soil stuck
to the edges and in-between the dulled ink,
and if I was there, I know my eyes
would be tearing up by now,
itchy and pink like a newborn,
leaking softy—a garden hose that
sprung a hole— without much worry
for the powder that was applied
just before, which is not unlike
how you kissed me the first time,
without much worry about my lip-
stick staining your lips; after, you looked
as if you’d been bobbing for apples
in a bowl of strawberry jam, and
when I laughed at you, you said,
“It’s springtime, baby”.

This memory keeps coming back-
us under the dining table,
our knobby knees banging together
as we whisper secrets in each other's ears
and giggle about how sneaky
we think we are being
I don't know how many of us there were-
maybe five-
our prepubescent girl bodies
hunched beneath the wood,
digging our toes into the carpet
We were neighbors,
adventuring friends
the kind of pushed-together pals
that didn't know the nitty-gritty;
the most deepest of secrets about each other
But now we shared one
I can't remember if we all kissed
or just paired up
but I'm pretty sure we never talked about it again
Shelby had said it was just practice
Erin claimed she had already done it with another friend
Let's just try it
I don't mark this moment as the one where I knew
because I didn't
but I'll always remember the way the
giggling sounded in my ear
and how the teasing that came later
stung a little too much
It had nothing to do with s*x
we were innocent children
playing kiss the girl
and my heart was happy to be with them
It wasn't even a crush
It wasn't a describable feeling
but something felt right
I always come back to that memory.

It's funny that I can sit here and say
that my life is something, when I was lazy today.
I stayed inside, watched a movie or two
Cried my eyes out, feeling rather blue.
But after it was over, reality came back
and I realized that I... hadn't done jack.
Sure, I had felt, I had feared, I had wished,
I had procrastinated, and stuck up my fist.
In today's world, however, what does it mean
if you're not an athlete or mathlete; you're just unseen
Unseen because you have blocked yourself completely out
from the world, from danger, from the coming drought
of people who  actually cared about others
and not just their next Friday night lovers.
Can I call myself accomplished at  high
when all I've done is weasel my way by?
Using the bare minimum of my brain power.
Waisting little energy staying up for hours.
I've been lazy.
I AM lazy.
But should that validate anything I've done?
Should I waste away a life that's only just begun?
Or should I stop being lazy, here and today,
turn off the device, take a look around at... May?
That's the month, isn't it so?
I can't remember, do you even know?
I have been stuck in a grave mindset
that blocks out every responsibility or threat;
but I think I should awake
and see the world for it's mistakes
yet still embrace it 's wit
and never ever never quit.
I'm lazy, yes, but I can make my life something.
Because after all, we all started as nothing.

I hug my mother most in the kitchen.
She reaches up to wrap her arms
around me, and I lay my head
on her shoulder. We breathe
together, relax into one another.
The oak wood under our feet creaks
with each shift of weight. The kitchen is

warm like her. Though that dead plant sits
in the window, we are full of life.
My mother’s fake green grapes and strands of
ivy weave above our heads;
our own personal jungle.
The red-brown cabinets and
bright yellow lights
shine down around us as we sway,
rubbing each others’ backs with a soft hum.

We fit together: mother, daughter.
Since childhood I have not been afraid
to run to her soft speckled skin and be held
by her, even when I was tall
enough to do the holding myself.
We have the same nose,
same smile,
same droop to our right eye.
Same tendency to accidents
like knife cuts
or oven burns
or trips over nothing.
Who am I
but a part of her?

My sister pads into the kitchen
on tiptoes— a habit she could never break
since a child. I see her quiet eyes
flicker downward,
see her scoot herself away from
my mother’s arms
see her close into herself
instead. She stares at the dead plant.

If her skin were a costume, she would
tear it off and never wear it again.
Instead of my mother’s nose,
she thinks she sees
my father’s stubble.
Not my mother’s dimpled smile
reflected back, but my
father’s Adam’s apple.
When we tell her she is
beautiful, she fiddles with her men-sized shoes.
We cannot convince her to
touch us when she is afraid to touch
herself.

We fit together: mother, daughter, daughter.
We sit at the island counter, playing
MarioKart on the kitchen TV,
talking about nothing really,
but to my sister it is
everything.
Our mother laughs like bells.
Who are we
but a part of her?

What is behind that is also below
my window?
That lingers and creeps and edges its way in and around
with no sound,
and you cannot hold
and you cannot smell
and you cannot fathom

it is darkness

And within that darkness,
what lurks beneath the surface?
That hides and finds such triumph
in being out of sight,
and you cannot bargain
and you cannot run from
and you cannot lose

is it fate?

Regrets fill my spoon like alphabet soup
spelling out my unfulfillment
with tiny little letters
nagging at my mind

And conflicts own me
except there’s no angel and devil
it’s just lesser evil versus lesser evil
No winner- I’m pulled apart

What if I say this
no- I can’t- too risky
but then I’m miserable
is it better to be miserable?

my daily thoughts
when it didn’t use to be
Tears are more common
than going out to eat

I am ashamed
and also ashamed I feel ashamed
I don’t want to be fragile
but I let myself fall into a crater

And people see it on my face
and I see it in the mirror
the way I once was
all entangled now in another

we don’t choose to fall
that’s the point of falling
it comes out of the blue
after you’re tripped up

And then the hurting comes
always after- like a scraped knee
and they say time will heal it
but how does that work when you keep tripping

a spinning cycle of get hurt, feel bad, tell someone, feel bad
goes on repeat, load never unloaded off my chest
The worst part is letting the hope build up
and getting let down, time and time again

Why? out into the oblivion
we ask ourselves
and How? do we keep moving
when the daily routine feels heavy

I thought my Achilles Heel was the fatal flaw
but really it's my heart, the hope, the love
when conflicts dance around
the only thing to do is write about it

I imagine you standing there, flicking your hair
and the red glow of some sign backlights you
so your silhouette is dark, moody
like the leather jacket you always wear-
but to be ironic
because you're like that
My eyes can just make out the flicker of your pupils
under spidery lashes
and you give me a smirk
because you know I'm watching
I seem to be always watching you
You're leaning in that funny way again
like up against a wall, only there's not one there
your head cocked to the side
as you wait for something to happen
I am the one to make the move,
because I always am,
and you don't hesitate before grabbing my elbow
and we race off into the night
the puddles soaking your scuffed boots
and the cuffs of your jeans
You smell of smoke and that cologne you always wear
and I am desperate to keep you with me
because you are the closest thing to perfect that I know
I imagine you grab my waist
and you tell me all the things I have always wanted to hear

and it isn't enough.

Lips gummy and dull
as they part
If sound comes out
you are the only one hears it
Back arched forward
as if it is not enough to be tall
You must loom over
Close to others
but still above
Thick sweet smell-
that cologne no one likes
just because you wear it,
and have worn it out
Room of only one-
two including you-
and yet
Beady eyes gaze pointedly
around the space
An imaginary audience
must hold on to every word
Scene not new
So you say,
you've said a thousand times
The room learns to place it
as background noise
Do you know no one listens?

Can you imagine what it feels like
To in one moment be so content with everything you have
And the next be ripped away into a moment of utter despair

I can imagine.

And can you imagine the wicked claws that grabbed you
That once were delicate long fingers, tools of pleasure,
Now squeezing the very life out of your soul day by day

Oh I can.

And you are afraid, of course
You can only go on so long while being consumed by the darkness
If only someone would light a match to clear the air

If only.

The smell of grass in the
air was undeniable. I could
hear the lawn mowers
simultaneously roaring
away, disrupting my dog-days
peace. A blue blanket was
overhead, the white fluff
barely disrupting a
blazing ball of
heat. Smiles and laughs
left spirits high
and ears ringing.
Everyone and their mother
was enjoying the day.
I went back inside;
I think I’m allergic
to Summer.

It's hard to say if the climb was worth it

I know they push and press convincingly that
the climb is always worth it, but is it really?
I am left scraped up and battered
from all the boulders
and the wolves
and all the **** thorns
and left wondering if I really made it out better on the other side

There's always another mountain

And is it worth it?
To what end do we climb?
To what purpose do we trudge tirelessly up the mountainside,
wondering when we will reach the top?
I have reached the top many times
And there is always another **** mountain to climb
on the other side

So it's hard to say if the climb was worth it

And that is not to say I am done climbing
Though I question, my body falls back into the rhythm of the climb
ignores the scrapes and bruises
ignores the way the wolves nip at my heels
because I too always feel there is victory at the top
believe the nicks come with the climb
believe that if I just reach the top, then I can be free

But there's always another mountain

And what did I gain more than experience?
More than scars, and disappointment
Does it even matter that I have beaten the mountain
if nothing ever changes but my own weariness?
It is insanity, the very climb we repeat
over and over
as if there will ever be a different outcome

It's hard to say if the climb was worth it

In the brash brassy light you stand,
shaky, on two feet
like a lethargic elephant

swaying---always swaying
and the light keeps blazing
and your head keeps spinning

You are beyond the point of exhaustion
there is nothing left
no trace of the self that was

If it is time to sleep
Sleep will not come
She is mad at you

you have refused her
for too long- an accident,
really- but normally

she welcomes you back
normally she is happy to
see you, and you float into her arms

not this time

so you keep swaying under that light
until crawling into bed
and the waiting begins

-------------------------------------

While the world sleeps
you turn and turn
worn from the hours
of thinking about anything
but sleep
the comforter brings no comfort
the pillow does not ease the strain
of your neck, the weight of
your head or
of that racing mind

the worst part about being awake
in the middle of the night
is that there is time
to think about all the thoughts
you pushed away before-
they creep up
and turn into waking nightmares
beastly what-ifs and why-didn’t-I’s

the insomniac is most insecure
with nothing to do

during the day you may
busy your tired body with tasks
ignoring the ache of the eyelids,
the pounding of the head

but at night you cannot
make yourself move
a house is sleeping
the world is sleeping
and you have to pretend
that you are as well

so you stare up at the ceiling
(you have memorized the cracks)
or you count and count sheep
(you have reached 100 and back)
and it’s all so pointless
don’t you see?

The Insomniac is fighting a battle
that never ends

a battle that makes you weaker everyday

how long till your body gives out
and will not fight
anymore?

They said you'd never make
it unless you followed in the
footsteps of your family, because
that was safe; that was
secure. They always assumed
because of this or that; believed
not just in stereotypes, but
in the principle of enforcing
them. They waited for a
chance to say, “Ha! I just knew they
would end up that way”


But they pretended what they
did was more than simply just an
excuse to hate on others for
something you couldn’t control. Sure,
it wasn't all hate. Some of them
didn't even realise the repercussions
their actions would take, but
it didn’t matter. The words
still stung, and their voice still
echoed in your head. You were left
thinking, “What did I do to
deserve this?” They never
stopped saying and
assuming and believing, and
I don't think they ever will.

I rear my God-chompers like nunchucks,
there to swing back at men devils
who pronounce holiness. I bite the tips
off their waxy hair beds.

I see evil everywhere I look.
Luminescent atrocities whisper suggestions,
point fingers at the hypocrites;
I return with raging atheist responses.

And as I go to do my feeding,
I wish I believed in Hellfire.

The poet examines her work
leafs through the crumpled papers
watching handwriting change
from entry to entry
sometimes within poems
as if emotion dictates scrawl-
lighthanded, looping, or harsh and flat

She stops on a few
drawn in by memory
or lines like dreams
where she imagined sleepless nights
or the end of a life
anything her mind could imagine
fleshed out with the fluidity of a stream

The words had always been in
her brain. It is impossible to know
if they would have disappeared
with nowhere to go
if she hadn’t guided her pen to paper
everyday, writing about whatever
or whomever. Like the sketch artist

she has gotten better everyday
the words appearing quicker and quicker.
This might be due to English class
it’s hard to say
regardless she has grown-
like a tree budding in Spring
learning everything has a purpose


The poet is not just a poet
she catches snippets from novels-
the dialogue or introduction or
internal stream of consciousness
clanking around her brain
She once wrote a fairytale
about a boy who spoke to trees

All of them are precious-
they are pieces of her soul
spread out on lined paper
calling out for a life that imagines,
wonders, feels free,
does not stand still-
floats on the breeze like the eagle

She has learned a thing or two
from Sylvia Plath:
the good stuff
the quality of dissonant language
the stanza-length-decision
Before she would write whatever
sounded nice- she might still

The poet, satisfied, closes the journal
imagining that one day
her poems would reach into the
minds of the world- gently
drawing out dreams-
inspiring words like she has been inspired
And she closes her eyes with an exhale

Spring feels like dying this time.
I usually feel like withering,
but because of the allergies.
People used to be able to laugh
at my sneezes; now they feel like
quick triggers. How do I know which
it is? My phone says it’s a Friday.
The calendar says it’s April.
I know it’s both, but it feels like neither

because spring feels like dying this time.
When I go outside I can relax for a little
in the warmth, but I know it’s a false feeling—
that nature is living. No one I know is really
living, but the mosquitos don’t care.
I go from bed to table to bed again,
wearing the same clothes; it feels maybe
like being mummified. I know I’m in a
tomb, with the same walls haunting me,

and spring feels like dying this time.
Not even the loose sunlight pooling
in from the window can draw me out
from my blanket-cave where the screen
light burns fleeting images into my retinas.
I let myself lie there until the hours fade,
like everything’s just one big dream,
another reality where my body is nothing
but goo. It helps me to forget the truth,

that spring feels like dying this time.

She kept tripping over her feet
because that was the thing to do
and everyone laughed
and she laughed with them
and no one else tripped
Or danced without music
But she was ok with that
For that was the year she was "bold"
As she decided it would be
And when she woke up groggy and sick
She thought, "this is living"
And gulped down whisky for breakfast
to dull the headache

She wore short skirts and lace bras
because that was the thing to do
and all the men stared
and she let them
and no one asked permission
Or questions of value
But she was ok with that
For that was the year she was "confident"
As she decided it would be
And when she woke up in another stranger's bed
She thought, "this is living"
And gulped down a plan B before breakfast
just to be sure

She cried herself to sleep every night
because that was the thing to do
and she didn't tell anyone
and no one ever asked
and no one ever questioned her sour moods
Or the shadows under her eyes
But she wasn't ok with that
For that was the year she became depressed
As she found out it would be
And while she laid in bed
She thought, "this is dying"
And she downed medication for breakfast
to make it disappear