there are thousands of things
i want to say and i can't
find even one way
to say one thing

so sometimes i tamp
them down and mix
them with syrupy sweet
sludge in my mug

and other times i remember
bits and pieces of them and
write them on scraps of paper
and abandon them

lost and found
whatever is shoved
into the bottom of that
cardboard box

was only lost
never found

nobody knows where
they come from or
where they will go
after the lost and found

lost and found
waiting
the miscellaneous
and i

i'm not impervious to the fact that
if the universe allows
i will grow old and die one day
i know that my skin will draw back from itself
the way picasso drew on canvas
and vines and creases will work their way
into my once fair and smooth skin
but when i go i want long flowing white hair
that brushes my back gentle as a feather
and lingers behind me like a second goodbye
hair that i can twirl into knots absentmindedly
an braid while bored in church
i want ink stains on my hand from the spilled
ink of writing poetry and stories
notebooks filled with the words that came
out of the sharp movements of my hands
and my hands
i want hands soft but worn
like my mother's favorite winter coat
i want hands that have held and let go
i want hands that know what the hell they're doing
i want toenails painted the most obnoxious
shade of red and mascara packed on like a
suitcase going on a trip to heaven
i want to be that old lady with the cats
because, let's face it, we all know i'm already
that old lady with the cats
they'll be named names from literature and plays
and i'll hope their names match their counterparts
but if they don't i'll love them anyways and
hold them with these hands that will have held
onto so many things before
when i go i want to have lived
and i want to have lived really really good

(there are three grounds
floating on the top of my coffee
it's too late at night to be
drinking this coffee)

i'm just kind of
irritated is all

spending too much time
with myself gets to me
but other people get
to me more

my friends could tell you i hate
touching butter
surprises
and kisses
three things which tend to be
jarring and unsanitary

they could also tell you
they hate your guts

(i remove the grounds
with my spoon and swoosh
the coffee around in circle
so it hits the sides)

after that stunt you pulled
where you pulled me
too close for my comfort
and kissed my cheek

we're not counting that as
my first kiss because it was
not funny or sweet or
any other sentimental epithet

it was
irritating

(the candle is burning
low but i don't mind
i've got all night
to tap out my mind)

and you can only imagine
how pleased i was to find
a very neatly wrapped
package with my name
all wrapped up in ribbons and
a bow the day after my birthday

i didn't open it for
a whole day out of spite
put it in the lost and found
until you moved it back

it was actually a nice
useful gift which you
presumably spent
$40 or so on

which only added
to my irritation

(its getting cold so i start
chugging it but lukewarm
coffee chugged down isn't the
most satisfying way to drink it)

so i wrote a very
passive aggressive
thank you note about
how nice friendship was

and had a dream that you
demanded to know why
i picked someone over you
i didn't have a good answer

(and there's the bottom of
the mug with two more
coffee grounds stuck in the
pocket drop you never can get)

i get ****** when
i'm irritated

and i'm usually somewhat
irritated with you

red hands
raw meat
up to my elbows
in hamburger

chunks of bread
spices, eggs
just doing
my job

sculpting each
meatball
carefully
in my hands

rubber gloves
metal tools

surgery
why
them and
not me

(blood, gore
shrapnel and death
suffering, pain
alcohol and tears)

they were just
doing their job
i'm just
doing mine

(the voice in my head
says i'm not enough
my glove breaks at
the seam around my ring)

another day
in paradise
cold fingers
meat on hands

as a child my mother told me
i would be a writer someday
because i was always asking
"what if?"

but now i'm twenty
years old and i only
write when i'm
trying to forget

as a child my mother told me
i would be a writer someday
if i just kept asking
"what if?"

but i just grew up to have
an anxiety disorder

it's six o'clock
in the blessed am
and the coffee in
the bottom of my
mug is getting cold
the day is starting

with the familiar sound of
pen caps snapping on
and off sliding back and
forth in their plastic sleeve
she sits in her chair
in the dark only a tiny
blue light to shine on a
sigh here and there

i am fully made up
and totally cold
listening to the furnace
and snores that hum through
walls the scratching
of my own pen on paper

all is quiet before
sunrise
but if you listen
you can hear

what can you hear?
peace and quiet
close to that found in the
middle of the night
only less anguished
and more stoic

and so on this morning
we rise to our grind
rinse our cups
and carry on

today i drew up a
crime scene
out of my thoughts

which sounds
perplexing

unless you're someone
like me who can't think
one thing without thinking
about another

so i drew lines on paper
connected people to events
places to regrets
circled notations
and perhaps little
is relevant

if i wear my heart
and emotions on my sleeve
which i do
can you possibly imagine
what kind of things i don't
admit to thinking?
and for awhile i thought
i didn't have any hidden
feelings but then again
the deeper i dig the more
i find that i do
once i get past the fact
i don't want to admit
they're there

my gut response is
to wait until the
wound itches
grab the
band aid and
rip it off

but this is a much
slower process
of hot steam
and stinging
soap and water
peeling bit
by painful bit

trying not to let the
crime scene thoughts
take over my life
but slowly snipping
color coded threads
until things begin falling

learning to live my life
with less explosions
less catastrophic
breakdowns to push past
and more tears that wash
off in the morning
and less that drip
into open cuts

letting
light in

disassembling my
crime scene thoughts