Most days I wear flip-flops because I am too lazy to wear socks,
and I like the feeling of summer somewhere close to me,
and I like to watch my feet move. Do you know, there
are so many small little bones in there! it amazes me.

My mom used to massage my feet to wake me up.
She's been the best foot-massager of all, better than all the friends
and the boyfriends. Better than the early morning
sleepy-satisfying stretches, better than the feeling of sunlit
warm wood on my bare feet. Better than grass. Her calloused hands,
and softly hummed melodies. Tattooed arms, faded turquoise. Sun on her
skin. If I could see my mom in myself every time I looked in the mirror
I think I would be relaxed. I would play more music. I would spend
my next paycheck taking a day off with a pina colada and
tattooing a turtle, on my foot, just like hers.

Flexing my feet. Cold night air. Flip-flopping on the concrete. I wish
I could dive into the ocean, ice-cold, something worth laughing into
the nighttime. So much seriousness all the time, I think that people
need to eat more butter and not take skin to mean so much.

Silly, really, I guess. But a Mom-massage might just mean the world
sometimes. And smiling with someone is like a Mom-massage, right when I need it most.
To everyone who's been there, thank you.

Tastes of metal. Tastes of rust.
I take wisps of music from the air
to try to fill up the hole.
I am not whole.
I ******* own limits,
my own blossoming self-doubt.
I am afraid of learning to hate.

I want to be the answer to somebody's question.
Is life so short that love will
evade my outstretched fingertips?
Water droplets and flowers on the ground,
and peaches.
Hugs that end too soon. Can
I ask for it to stop? Can I take
a breath?

Do you draw your own lines or
watch them form around you?
Or did you not notice them at all?

I want to be someone's wispy,
wishful thought,
drifting to touch the ground,
back in the air with the wind,
I bet it would taste like
freedom.
Having no choice.
What a paradox.

We're a little hiding
in our heads.
All of us.

Running on thunder,
how I loved you.
Even in your blueness
and in the quiet,
I wanted to touch your
soft blonde self, you
were so soft you were
bound to blow away
in the wind so
soft I could melt
at the knees and stay
on the ground with
my heart ahead of
my thoughts,

dreamer.
I'm still sighing
on the lightning,
unfazed even in
your lemon-yellow
love. Sunshine to
see a drifter fall
so perfectly.
You were always
going to be something
rain-like, drizzled
into my memories,
beautiful crystal
clear eyes, silent
somewhere, ghost of
your voice on my
grass-green heart.
Best wishes.

I'm back in the fast lane,
I didn't want to do it
but I did, furious yet proud

Now all I want is the music, I want the tears,
the face of the drum
is bruising my hands

wanting to see myself hardening
calloused fingers, calloused mind
trying to feel from the inside out
sand myself down and raw and red
writing on the walls, remind myself that I
am black and wrinkled up inside,
not a speck of sunshine about it

if only as a reminder to look up,
and be inspired
because there is this thing about people,
they take the black bits
and plant a garden

I have a secret, too
...do you want to trade?

The night

is for discovering by feel
instead of sight