give us this day our daily
emotional breakdown
and forgive us our
blackout binges
as we forgive those who
starve themselves for perfection

and lead us not into
inherited obesity
deliver us from
the mental ward

FOR THERE IS SO
MUCH ******
BREAD IN THIS
HOUSE I CAN'T
TAKE IT ANYMORE

on mlk day i shut my eyes
and see scenes of
squishy white rolls and
pats of margarine

bread
leaden
deadened
feeling in my stomach

i can't eat any
more bread

but here it is
in baskets and
coolers in
toasters and
cupboards

my daily bread
made to sustain me
but turned into
the enemy

deliver me
from risen
yeast in
third degrees

a flour coated
tyranny
mind control
through sesame

swallowing
emotions
down
down
down

quietly settles
until spring
somewhere between
my hope and skin

you can see me
smile and stand
straight and tall
but what you can't see
is this shouldn't be
my body at all

*give us this day
our daily bread
and give us the strength
to chew meat instead

and i pray
someday
the pain
behind
your eyes
eases

that peace fades
your scars

and your heart
finds hope

dear friend
i pray someday

you learn
to live
without fighting
yourself
and the fog
lifts

but until then
i pray

here's to hoping
i keep coping
or maybe just sleep
all this away!

the term is spiral
but it's more a
plummet, a drop
on a rollercoaster

a downward spiral
sounds like a waterslide
all smooth splashes
bubbles of laughter

but it's more like
the cutoff when your
heart jumps out of the
hole in your stomach
just hold your
hands up and scream

when some get sad
you spiral slowly
things pile up and
they slip and slide

when i get sad it's
freefall but i guess
i'm used to
bumps on rides

but it's all in the
way we fall

i want a silent
night tonight

the radio
creaking out
old songs
of cheer and

red
running
down my
arms and legs

a silent
night

all the static
noises and voices
that never
shut up

quieted
just
for
tonight

the world
asleep
while my skin
weeps

a silent
night

eerily quiet
night

fluffy snow
on the ground
blankets over
my head

over my
thoughts

peace on
earth
no fear
no hurt

silent
night

the radio
plays on
through the
twinkle lights
paper bags
golden bows

as loud as
every other
day of
the year

and i can't
just lie here

i need a
silent night

just one
night
without noise
without a fight

once in november
a late afternoon
sunbeam
managed to slip
its way into the
windowless kitchen

it hit me in the eye
and trickled down
my flannel shirt
i held it in my hand

remembered it
for days like this

days when i am
tired
and the coffee won't
come off the floor
or the stains out
of the sink
or the grounds from
under my nails

and i want to cry
but all i've got is
creamy egg wash
monotony
mixed with
chocolate chips

i keep that sunbeam
for days like this

cold and frozen
can't feel my fingers
wind blowing
down my neck

there's a tiny little
sunbeam in my
back pocket that
i'll never forget

my true form
is that which lurks
in the bottom
of my mug

a shiny
distorted face
similar to a
monster

sleeping under
coffee and milk
only caught in
bottom-half swigs

and shiny cold
confessions to
myself so near the
end it doesn't matter

the me at the bottom
looks the same as
it has since i was
just a kid

only difference is
now that i'm older
i know better than
to think it won't hurt me

there are two floors
in my house
an upstairs
and a downstairs

separated by a
gray and green
concrete stairwell
where the footsteps
echo and voices bounce
against the fluorescence

i like the stairwell
it's transient and
i spend a lot of
time just running
up and down it
down and up it

there are two floors
in my house

the upstairs doesn't have
a roof. it has a white
background and blue
skies. the carpet is the fluffy
enough to sink your toes into
the wood floors are
pale. there are parachutes
hot air balloons. birds.
paper planes. kites. all things
aerial swirling around my head

the downstairs has black
ceilings and a cold concrete
floor. it stains your feet black
and sends chills up your legs and
up your spine when the chains
and cages rattle. chains. cages
are mostly what's down there
and they rattle. they rattle a lot

the upstairs has a piano and
polariod pictures. soft blankets
sweaters and a coffee fountain
right in the middle. there are
puppies and yarn and the puppies
play in the yarn. but the yarn
never gets tangled or linty and
there's always a sunset or sunrise
a fresh start or a peaceful end
depending. hot tea twinkly lights
candles and old movies or shows
oh and a lake. my very own lake
and the colors! there is every
color imaginable upstairs

but the downstairs is very quiet
very dark. no windows or sun
and the only creatures playing
are the ones in the cages
knitting shadows into gray
monochrome striped ski masks

there are more things upstairs
things even more pleasant than i
even just described. like fish tanks
and umbrellas. bicycles and
brightly painted cows. but i often
forget the lovely tableaus up there

when the groaning and clanking
from the basement echoes up
the stairs and i creep down
to see what's happening

and the black
begins to seep
i get trapped
down there sometimes
down in the musty damp
with the ghosts and fear

and i wish i had
a yellow helium balloon
tied to my wrist
to pull me back upwards
back to my safe world
of fresh paint and denim

there are two floors
in my house
an upstairs
and a downstairs

where shall
i sleep tonight?

i always relate more
to the songs about
not having someone
than having someone

yesterday my therapist told me that it didn't do any good for me to beat myself up over my anxiety. she told me that if i felt anxious that was my body's response to what it perceived as a threat and that feeling guilt and hate towards myself for the natural instinct of wanting to keep myself safe wasn't the right way to think about it.

does that apply to depression, too? or just anxiety? because i can't keep denying how much guilt and hate i feel towards myself for just feeling. or a lack thereof.

there's no way for me to deny it -- i want to die. that's it, there, i said it. i want to die. cue the part where i immediately regret saying it because every time i say i want to die people don't seem to think that's an acceptable thing to mention in passing conversation. and then the guilt starts. i shouldn't have said that, now they're worried, i'm just selfish for wanting an out. around and around and around. and the more i think the more i feel guilt and the more guilt i feel the more i just want to die because obviously i'm not a good enough person to be here and i really should just die because --

if i had infinite time i could let the sentences run on and on forever around in my brain without cutoff or constraint. i don't have infinite time and they still do. and they build and build and build until sometimes i feel like i'm just going to explode if i don't let them out. but if i mention it, even think it to myself, the guilt starts again. don't let anyone know. don't tell them, you're making a mistake. it's getting old here, they've heard it before. so maybe i don't mention it. so then what? then it hurts worse, stabs me in the chest and twists the knife around until i start fiddling with my own blades on the outside. if only i could cry. but i'm too numb to find tears inside.

if only. if only. if only. if only i could shut the guilt and regret and rage and anger and hate up for ONE MINUTE maybe i could use that minute to grab onto something besides what i've got now.

oh well. it doesn't matter. nobody's reading this anyway. it's just me for one second of not pretending. so hey, here i am, i've said it. if you've made it all the way down here, i'd like to introduce myself, because i made closer to the end and i'm not yet dead.

hello, nice to meet you, i'm b and i want death.

did you use your
credit card today?

does your card
have a chip?

in the time it takes
your card to process
i have ample time
to look out the window

i look out the window
a lot and i'm sick
of looking out the window
and if every time i
looked out the window
i wrote just one line of text
pretty soon i'd have a novel

i'd better do something
because i'm sick
of looking out
that same old window

it's been another year
my hair's a little longer
the soles of my shoes
a little smoother
scars a little
deeper

the dip in my mattress
goes further than
where i sleep at
night it sinks to
where i spend some
long days too

i mostly try to keep
my depressive
indulgences
to a minimum

(not that
it works)

but some days only
come once a year
and what better time
to feel sorry for yourself
than the date of
your own death?

i am the
crockpot
on the
counter hot
above my rubber
bottomed feet that
scrape when
you move me

something's bubbling
around my edges
is it soup
or discontent

how should i know
i'm just the crockpot

something's burning
on my sides
is it chili
or my confines

i can't tell you
i'm just the crockpot

leave me out on weekdays
say you need me
say i'm useful
to keep things warm
all afternoon
but before you know it
touch me and
you'll get burned

i've been thinking about
a second tattoo

this time
across my forehead

I KNOW I'M NOT
GOOD ENOUGH
SO DON'T *******
REMIND ME

and every time you
started talking at me

i'd point one *******
to my face and then to yours

but somehow i don't
think you'd notice

teeth shouldn't
lie on pavement
and blood shouldn't
run down your face

and as i dragged
myself along the
side of the road
i thought to myself

this is the lowest
moment of my life

flat on my back
staring into the
12 o'clock high sun
and sobbing

i wanted to die before
this moment but now
it's only reinforced
cemented in place
that in fact i can't
do anything right

some wise woman
supposed sage of ages
once told my mother
that for every great emotion
a person needs a physical
container to put it in

but what should one do
when their container
has always been a retainer
that now doesn't fit?

hit where it hurts most
my mouth
years spent suffering
so i can wake up
every morning with a
fresh twenty dollar smile

and now that's
all gone i suppose

maybe i'm vain
or maybe i'm dumb
but the smile makes
the woman and mine
is looking like i'm
not so human

penny for my thoughts?
i'd give a lifetime of
change jars to get
back my perfect teeth

how do you start a
poem
it's been so
long

i remember how to let
the colors do the talking
textural inflections of
what's internal

except i have a hard
time expressing pain
and sadness in color
because i love colors

and that has left me
with a lot of ends i
can't weave in so
now i'm trying to
remember how to
write a poem

guess i should
start like this

spinach has blown
down my neck
and drifted gently
under my ribs

(i'm the salad fork carefully
rolling coffee beans
in drippy melted
warm dark chocolate)

i'm hungry but
not in the way where
my stomach growls
in the way where
i want to cry
but i've got to keep my
$20 teeth fresh and
minty at all times

the mirror
is broken

cracked in so many places
i'm more jagged lines than person
a mosaic of pieces that don't match
and parts i don't like

the truth is i
am flawed
and i will always
be flawed

and i may never
stop looking in
a broken mirror
wishing to smash
my body on its
sharpest edges

but i'm slipping
into a comatose
state of control
and loathing

(the more dead i get
the more alive i look)

when will i snap
out of this
when will i snap
out of this

(I DON'T WANT TO
SNAP OUT OF THIS
I DON'T WANT TO
SNAP OUT OF THIS)

stir the greens
rip the chicken
orange stings
the minty sores

chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew

swallow

take a bite
leave a bite
too much
too little
still hungry

always hungry

but it will all feel better
another ten pounds down

when did the
mirror break?

a different angle
for every mood
sharper lines
and harsher truths

jaggedly cut through the glass
same stripes up my sides
personal lightening storm
down my shoulders and thighs

when did the
mirror break?

when did fat stop
being a feeling
and more of just
a state of being?

we were two
hands wound
tight as we got
our first tattoos

and last week i
was the arm
stained with
your tears

(the last time i remember
seeing you cry was the
night last summer when i told
you i was planning to die
and you told me it was
selfish but you needed me)

it's not selfish to need
someone its selfish to
think you're strong enough
to make it all alone

you
are
strong
oh you
are so
strong

but sometimes we need
someone to give permission
to let us be weak and i know
that for you i am that someone
and for me you
are that someone

yet i'm sorry that i am
not always so strong

(and now comes the point
in the poem where i feel
guilty for a few stanzas
but we both already know
that part by heart so
this time i'll skip it)

a long time ago you
fell off the face of
the earth and i still
don't exactly know where
you went but there are parts
to every long and somewhat
dark story that eventually
become so hazed over with
dust and grime it's better to
forget them entirely

but i wrote you a letter
and i don't remember
what i wrote and i don't
know if it changed anything

but i know after that
you came back and
i don't know much
but i know maybe

you didn't need me
to have the answers
you just needed me
to be out there somewhere

i can't promise you
perfection or
good advice or
stability or
anything helpful
like that

but that's okay
because i'm human
and i can't promise you
i won't cry but i
promise you i'm not
going anywhere

our relationship
lasts because
it is both
selfish and selfless

(you told me asking
someone having a
panic attack to "breathe
for me" triggers guilt
which causes them to
be willing to do it
for the other person
i know it works because
you've walked me out of
enough panic attacks
and because sometimes
i'm over here staying
alive because i know you
need me to which is probably
selfish for both of us but
it's working so hey)

and staying alive is
the hardest and in the end
most selfish thing
i've ever done but
for you i'll try.

don't cry because
i'm gone

laugh because
my whole life
was a complete
******* joke

some children were raised
feet dug down into sand
dreams washing back and
forth with the saltwater waves

others were raised
with their hands dusty
nails and hearts stained
from red dirt and poverty

but i was raised
with a translucent blue
heart and clean hands
the bottoms of my
feet black from plum wood
that touched the sky
and gray concrete that
sunk below the earth

(for some summer meant
freedom
for me it meant
dried grass

for some fall meant
leaf piles
for me it meant
the wind and rain)

in winter i was raised
under white lights
and strings of garland

in spring i was raised
under blood red cloths
of death and resurrection

life cycled on
around and around
while i grew
up and up

(the hardest part
of letting go is
the wondering why
you even bothered
the wondering why
you wasted your time

the hardest part
of growing up is
the learning that no
matter what broke
you nothing is wasted
that shapes you inside)

in the meantime
i was raised
and raised
but a child can
only be raised so far
before they fall

it's that kind of morning
you know the type
where you leave your
eyeliner wings crooked
and spend the time you
would have wasted to fix them
sitting on the bathroom floor
feeling sorry for yourself

(i can't distinguish between
what i say and what
i mean and apparently
neither can anyone else)

there's a gallon of
grandmother's bleach
next to my feet but it
has 9,000 calories of
pure sodium per cup
and i'm on a diet

(see i could say i was
just making a funny joke
but there's nothing funny
about that joke)

iwishiwasaperson
iwishiwasaperson
butimnotaperson
butimno­tbulletproof

(are people bulletproof
or is it just their hearts?)

guess all that's left to do is
cry if i've lost what wasn't mine
yoga in the middle of the night
showers in the afternoons
and laugh if i'm still a believer
in second chances (circa 2002)

a random lady once told me
there's arsenic in the
town water supply so i'm
trying to drink it every day

the dishwasher is running
sandwich cooler is cooling
and i'm curled in a ball in
the dark on one of those
square cushioned wood
framed couches

and if i shut my eyes
tight enough i'm a kid
again on a lazy saturday
afternoon but i don't
want to be a kid again and
it happens to be monday

i've met a boy recently
and he's a person
unlike i who am one
part girl to one part
shaking hands to
one part arsenic

i'm screaming into
the void that i
hope this works out
hope this works out
hope this works out
but i have a feeling in
the pit of my stomach
that i might ruin it

or maybe that's
just the arsenic

suicide is painless
but injustice isn't

it's not fair
it's not fair

i've had a migraine
and a song to match
stuck in my head
for two days

and now
i'm crying

it's not fair
it's not fair

and oh but every war
is in color blazing
bright calfornia sun
soundstage color

he was so close
so **** close

but i don't think it
was the war's fault

you see some people
just aren't destined
for happy endings
and that's not war's fault

wars are needed
to keep things
balanced
too much calm
leaves mundane
trenches in us

but it's still
not fair

not fair he had
to die and not fair
that had he died
another way
it would have
been painless

take or leave it
but do i take
or leave it?

he didn't get that choice

suicide is painless
but death still hurts

i hate aretha franklin
(except for her hat)
and i hate old ladies
who leave lipstick stains
on otherwise perfectly
clean used coffee mugs
(i'm looking at you joan
because i know al, bob and ray
don't wear lipstick and kayla
drinks ***** chai so it's not her)

and i hate sunshine and
i hate rain and i hate people
but i also hate being alone
and i hate how loose these
jeans are but i hate how big
they make me feel

i hate dishes and potatoes and
***** floors and daily specials
(except the jambalaya but i'll
make exceptions for mckenna)

and i hate being tired and i
hate feeling down and i don't
hate myself more than usual i
just hate being in a funk
(why does caryl have to go and
leave me with only one coffee cake
i'd like to throw a long handled
spoon like a harpoon through the
biggest window available or just
the one with pedestrians outside)

i don't want to be pretty
not today

i don't want to put on
the makeup and put
up my hair i want to
shave the back of my
head with a dull razor
rip my eyebrows out
with my fingernails
and cry
ugly
tears

want to dump the coffee
i use to keep me alive all
over my cold skin and let
it burn me awake
want to clothe myself in
dried blood and *****
and sweat and screams
and everything else vile
in the world and tears
lots and lots
of hot
angry
hateful
tears

i don't want to be
needed don't want
to be loved i'd rather
be just another greasy
cog in part of an
industrial machine

do you know how exhausting
it is to be irreplaceable?

i don't want to be pretty
not today
just for now i'd like to be
hellfire in ripped jeans
a halfway house for
my own heart
a tornado of destruction
ripping through hopes
and gardens to make them
look as godforsaken
as i feel

i don't want to be pretty
not today
i want to be
ugly

it's valentines day
and there's this boy

he's got blue eyes
wears olive green
and this monogrammed
color pooled scarf in
red heart mexicana
that his grandma knit

(i'm also wearing olive
green with denim and
lace -- a skirt?? but
diggity **** he's looking!
i picked this outfit not
knowing it was the precise
shade of green made for
storming beaches on v-day)

i've been making his
espresso since last august
but today he came around
the back of the counter
to make it and chat so
i gave him some pie

...pie
many successful
relationships have
started with pie

(mental note: 2/14/17, 11:30
underbaked coconut custard)

it might be the 8oz
***** chai with
three shots espresso
making my stomach
flitter or it might be
him not the oven

that's got my cheeks
spotted with lightly
browned freckles and
cinnamon flavored blush

(he's a cook
i'm a baker
doesn't that
work somehow?)

***** it
now i've got a
heart shaped
pink polka dotted
sugary royal icing
cookie cutter crush.

i guess all of us get
scared sometimes

some in front of
raging bulls and
snarling lions

and others in front of
crosswalk signs and
slightly raised expectations

either it's the flight or fight
response gone wrong or
worse yet a symptom
of the human condition

i wish my parents had
loved me enough
or just had enough
good sense

to put me on a diet when
i was nine years old

because now that i'm
older i can say with
certainty that i would
have rather grown up
thinner and slightly
worse for the wear

than grow up the
way i did
(fat)
and be the way i
am now
(fat)

because i ended up
distorted and
unhappy even though
they told me i was lovely

and i would rather
have had me miserable
and skinny rather than
miserable and fat

i only wish they had
told me the truth
instead of letting me
discover for myself

it's not me
pushing you
away except
it actually is me

it's the kind of
morning that the
wind is blowing
just right so that
the open flag
flutters in front
of the window
where i can see it

the kind of morning
i don't need coffee
and i try not to
think about

it too
much

(i just wanted to
be the girl in
an owl city song)

pacing back and
forth in straight
lines and gritting
my teeth against
an onslaught of
small town gunfire

(i'll bet annmarie
never had scars
or scratches
brielle didn't cry
and shake for
hours thinking
how to end it all
it turned out
okay for anna
and vienna probably
knew how to dance
between the snowflakes
and underneath her regret)

i've never been good at
drowning out thoughts
they just get louder the
longer time rolls on

good at rolling out
cookie dough and
good at drowning
in dishwater when
the brownie batter's
baking and the bowl
needs washing when
nobody's looking

(i've had moments
here and there in golden
sneakers and navy blue
lace covered dresses
but i'm not the girl
in an owl city song
not something worth
writing dreamy poems
about not so lovestruck you
replace your words with dada)

girls like me wear flannel
khaki too much day old
eyeliner too many day old
scones have half heads of weird
colored hair and spend valentines
day alone watching tv

so maybe why i'm bitter
as the inside of a lemon is
that i'll never be able to change
to someone drenched in verbena
spinning through the sunny
skies between your fingers

it's back
the urge to cry
gone only for
three short days

the lump
in my throat
my family thinks
i've got a cold
my coworkers think
it's allergies

but i'm lying just
trying not to cry

because crying makes
me feel weak and if
there's anything i can't
stand it's feeling powerless

i'm trying not to let
myself have emotions
trying to stay strong
trying not to scratch
at the wounds and
trying not to cry

but there aren't
many pills left
in the bottom of
the bottle and i
don't have refills
so i don't know
what i'll do
when i run out

trying
failing.

and so what
if i give up?

the world will
keep revolving
without me

everyone i
love will
someday

forget they
ever said they
loved me back

and they too
will someday

find their ashes
mixed with mine
floating on
the breeze

and the earth
will keep
hurdling through
time and space

and so what
if i give up?

their faces
come back in
my dreams

i still feel
the knots in
my stomach

a choke in
my throat
when i wake

and it doesn't
make sense yet

it may
never

but the skin
is starting to
seal the
splinters in

and before i
die hopefully
i will learn to
stop asking why.

it looks like a
striped afghan
but now i'm on
the fourth or so
to me it's just
another set of nights

i'm in stitches
wound and
pulled to hold
me together

three seasons of
hogan's heroes
the first season of
mash (twice)
hair bleached
plus the dog
and three cats
several candles

i'm trying to
keep it together
but it's hard
because every day
is more of why
i can't get it together

pull the string of
emotions together
and let the obsessive
paranoia continue

i don't cry
i stitch.

as kids we used to go out in
the cold holding pretzels
between our fingers and pretend
our frozen breath was smoke

(funny how
kids grow up)

we rang in this new year
with a half gallon of last
year's apple cider just turnt
enough to bite and fizz

half glasses of
questionable mango juice
mixed with a stranger's
thick cream ***

and a full season of
mash but after
this year i know
suicide is not painless

(it burns and stings
chokes and screams
leaves friends
crying at five a.m.)

stood on some kitchen steps
cat-scratched hands red
from hot dishwater and icy air
stomping cold feet

(the plan is to get me addicted
for just a couple years while you
*** them off me until i prove
i'm strong enough to quit)

and you held out the zippo
lighter you got for christmas
i handed you a cigarette
and you held it between your
fingers and tapped away the
ashes like richard dawson would

(there's something poetic about
historical self destruction)

it burned my lungs
enough that i coughed
but then again it
felt right

natural
like we had been
practicing for this
new year all our lives.

my internal clock is
hard wired to get
up early on thursdays
but not this early

(i can't sleep but
then again i could
just sleep and sleep
and sleep)

and after i stumbled
into work at six sharp
i discovered at nine
that i never showed up

*(i'm tired of
being alone
tired of empty
tired of snow)

my legs itch

the fat little
kid who lives
upstairs wants
to borrow a knife
to cut apart boxes

i give him scissors

and scratch one calf
with the other foot.

my legs still itch

i think it's dead
skin until they
sting up where
i've scrubbed

or tried to scrub
away the past

my mom always
told me i was a
good artist but
she never knew

i'm picasso in
his blue period

and i paint in
one color alone

salt.

the kid hands the
scissors back and
i try not to scratch
try to smile through

cracked winter lips
and split skin
beads of december
sweat all over me

swallow the smell
of burning meat
swallow secrets with
my morning meds
and a glass of cold
heartless blood

and don't ever tell my
mom she was right

that it feels good to
be a ******* artist.

my teeth have hardened
into straight lines and
sealed the rows together
so i can't open my mouth

(i should be
better by now)

and i'm afraid of what's
beating its wings in the cage
of my well-padded ribs and
i'm afraid of it escaping

(they're back again
even with the drugs)

i can't sleep
can't eat and
can't think
straight

but of course somebody
else has had a worse day
than i and of course i'll
be okay after all i've

cracked before and
made it out alive

so i guess i will
this time too

but the wounds
bleed to differ.

head for
the jeeps

i'm scrambling and
crawling through
bushes over the
sand dunes

head for
the jeeps

just in front of me
a potato masher
detonates and both
the jeeps explode

head for
the jeeps and
if you don't
make it try
for the half
track on the hill

but before i
reach the half
track they've got
me surrounded

and i'm alone
with the enemy

in war there
are only winners
losers
and prisoners.

i can picture it
dusty desert roads
old motels when the
sky opens up and the
holes in the tent leak
the empty rooms and
bare mattresses of a
creaky single wide

a patch of wall where
a cross once hung for
so long the wallpaper
holds its faded image

payphones and
diner booths
card games and
cold pews

(sunbeams dreamily
landing in your eyes)

i can almost taste
cola flavored slushies
cans of beans and
cigarettes and coffee

and smell burnt pancakes
egg casserole the way grace's
mom made it at home
secondhand smoke a bonfire
made from incense and an
abandoned white church

i can hear the songs
the laughter tears and
screams to heaven over
rumbling rubber tires

i know the way they
talk and theorize
argue and laugh
cry and pray

i've felt it before
somewhere here
and there in
twinges of time

but nobody ever claimed
you could wander the
world in one day or that
writing a gospel was easy.

they will not always
agree with you and
they will not always say
what you want to hear

they'll hate and they'll
love right alongside
where the lines of right
and wrong don't blur

but at the end of the day
if they stick around
they'll stick around
through hell and back

and you'll know you have
an ally steering your back
with one *******
offered to those behind you

and until you've had a
judgemental friend
you will never know
how comforting that is.

no
i do not
have my
driver's license yet

please stop asking
how that's going

please
stop asking

because if you continue
asking i will be forced
to hedge on the truth
that i'm scared

of accidentally crashing
even just getting distracted
annoying other drivers
of not knowing what to do

(of having a panic attack
behind the wheel or losing
control of myself and
intentionally crashing)

that i only feel
safe in a moving
vehicle when my
mom's driving

and that i intend to move
to a city where the bus and
my own two feet take me
wherever i need to go

so please stop
asking me
or else i'll have to
say i'm scared

and i'm also scared
of telling people that.

(twist my neck around
180 degrees to the past)

they're back again
the doctor calls them
"dark thoughts"
i just call them hell

it probably didn't
help that i stopped
taking my medication
but i was feeling better

and i often forget
about my pills and
what i'm saying in
the middle of a sentence

and i often can't sleep
or something i don't even
know anymore i just know
if it's sleep it's disturbed

(i love my job but i would
love it more if i didn't
completely disassociate myself
from reality while i'm there)

"having two managers
with chronic illness was
probably not the best idea
i'm glad we've got you around."

i smiled at her and
choked a little on
what's always in
the back of my mind

why i didn't come in for
months last fall and what
haunts me when i turn
off the lights lock the
doors and sit in the dark
by the front window
watching condensation
run down the glass

(last night i dreamed
i had a panic attack and
they found me in the
back by the potato chips
and i had to explain that
what i was really afraid of
was the fact there was a
church next door)*

i know i've changed
but i just don't know
how i could have
changed so much so fast

it all seems like a blurred
dream in my past
of computer screens and
carpeting and cold
winter mornings drenched
in vanilla and scarves

and if it weren't for the
fact it shattered me
i would miss it in the way you
miss a rose-tinted window
that was always cold as ice and
cracked clear down the middle

so i twist my neck around
180 degrees to the past
from 110 to -19 but that
leaves 51 unexplored degrees

of summer and cold concrete
of winter and colder concrete
of who i was and who i wasn't
of who i am and who i will never be

i twist my neck around
180 degrees to the past
before i realize that
something's gone askew

i called it love but hindsight
calls it something else.

i guess mark and linda
drive a range rover now
because i saw them through
the windshield turning the corner

i'm choking in the
heat blasting from
the vents of the van
and sleeves of the past

i used to wear scarves
to infiltrate them
but then i found we
were still sharing shirts

(i'm keeping the scarves i
never wear so that someday
i can tie them all together and
hang myself from an upstairs beam
but if homocide were more
my style i'm unsure if it
would be more a matter of
revenge or personal tastes)

"you don't have any
reason to seek revenge
on your old church
or any other."

odd
that you no longer
want recompense
for the past

and odd
that one should
need recompense
from those of the cloth

i want to scream
that i need help
I NEED HELP NOW
but don't want to sound ridiculous

don't want to say that
i'm having nightmares
flashbacks
panic attacks

over something like
sunday mornings
sleeplessly reversing
to saturday nights

but on the other hand
i don't want to die of
whatever's keeping me
scared and awake

i just know that
the medication
isn't putting me to
sleep anymore.

(i'm afraid of
sleeping now)

last night i dreamed
the warm white church
walls were all painted
army green

and the kids were
wearing orange jumpsuits
as the youth leaders
screamed orders

(flashbacks to
calisthenics and
lock-ins that i
usually skipped)*

and i was
scared

so i hid
but they
found me and
i was suspended

i woke up wishing
for my sleep back.

i had a nightmare
two nights ago

that i was running some
kind of winter errand
and had my family
and friends behind me

when at the top of the sagging
brown stairs before the darkly
scratched door i encountered
an unexpected sight

holly
spinning and twirling
in a black and white
polyester dress

curls bouncing as
she danced
she sang and
pounced on me

i tried to pull the
red scarf on my
head over my face
but it was too late

she was after me with
an aggressive laying on
of hands and smearing a
full bottle of bubblegum
scented anointing oil all
over my face and clothes

i was hoping for
some kind of backup
but my friends were gone
like we were fourteen again
and it was my job to
make a pastoral request
or deal with the questions
except this time they were
somewhere further away
than just behind me

and she was pulling
on me and my parents
were pushing me
further into the room

which was lined with
a dozen folding tables
and a single woman
at each one

gigi was there
and judith and a
lot of other people
whose faces i can't
recall and they were
all carrying on a
great deal and as
soon as they saw me

they all converged
on me asking how i
had been and what
i had been doing and
trying to make me
dance and praying
and shouting and
singing and hollering
in tongues and
my parents were
insisting this was
what i really needed

and i couldn't breathe
the side door was
cracked open car
outside but the more
i fought to get away
the more they held
me down i could smell
the cold winter air and
was so close and yet
so far from escape

i had a nightmare
two nights ago

and you might
call it a dream but
i call it a nightmare
because i woke up
gasping for air and
twisting in my sheets.

"this is what is
going to send us
all
over
the
edge!"

somebody's worried
about falling into
the saint laurence seaway
and i'm worried about
falling into a waterfall just
past the edge of the blade

(all the money in the
world could probably
buy me my peace of mind
but it couldn't buy me
happiness and it
would leave everyone
else in the world
without any money)

and this life
my friends
is what is going
to send us all
over
the edge.

s m o t h e r
me in fresh snow
m u f f l e d
through notes to self
s c r i b b l e d
on scraps of paper to
a p p o i n t m e n t s
i never met

and call the
weekend a stanza

just one stanza in a
poem of months and time

(to be one person and
lost is not much to
the world but it is one
person's entire world to be lost)

break my back
split my heels
**** winter
except don't because
i like winter i just
want something
anything
to curse at

blame my
mood on

scuff my
cash on
knit my
apron on
***** my lid
on so tight

that someday
i'll explode

this is what is
going to send us
all over
the edge

*(i don't live
in a vacuum
but neither
do you)

it's november 21st again

2016
the snow is piled
up on the tips of
the tree branches
mounded on cars
blown down my neck
and through the sky

i know it didn't snow
seven years ago but i
can't remember the
weather of every anniversary

2013
just a dusting on the
grass and on my
braided hair
red plaid tunic
i have selfies and
pictures of the dog
my legs covered
in red plaid wounds

today would have been
three years clean

2011
windwhipped trees
black walnuts naked
it rains all month
and never seems to stop

2010
dress me up
take me out
fall back in love
with life but my
past is starting
to bleed

i just can't remember
the weather
i just remember
the date

things get burned into
our minds so we can
never see them the
same way again
we remember moments
and faces that don't even
matter they just stick
in our memories

it's november 21st again

2009
we're all afraid
of dying and
we're all afraid
of changing
terrified of
growing up

i don't know why
it scarred me why
it changed my
family but maybe
i need to stop asking
why and just move on

it's november 21st again
and i'm not saying anything about it

now i wake up at
five a.m. insuring i've
sufficient time to paint
my face on kind enough

my hands
smell like coffee
i taste blood
from blisters breaking
down and around
my smallest joints

(in control
stay in control
i have to stay
in control)

smile until my face
aches in a kind of
competitive way
because my pain will
bring no gain if i can't
seem nicer than the next girl

(i keep saying that i'm
dead inside but the irony
of the joke is that i'm actually
too alive to want these thoughts)

and i'm sure if i told anyone
that anxiety keeps me wide awake
and depression keeps me asleep
they just might not believe it

(i don't think it sounds
reasonable to say i've
got a physical and chronic
pain in my head from the
pressure of my darkest
most brutal thoughts)

when i was thirteen
i told myself never
ever to use my mental
illness as an excuse

so i plunged forward
through depression deserts
anxiety avalanches
forests of fear
tired old towns
migraine mountains
warped wastelands and
suicide swamps

and just last week
i realized my downfall
in not letting my pain
tell me when to slow down

when what i would not
allow to be my excuse
became my
disability.

i don't feel very
whole these days

that specific sticky
dusty feeling all over
my palms neck tilted
sideways running the
tips of my fingers down
rows of plastic cases

"oh are you over
there looking at
music again?" you
sigh but it's not
the kind of reproach
i need to defend
myself against because
you know i always do it

and i don't think you
really mind how long
i take because once in
awhile i'll find one that
you like or that i'm so
excited over you can't complain

and then we wander
through rows of
scratched dressers
winding our way
around old doors and
molding strips that had
a better life once
chairs and desks
dinette sets and hutches
a little bit of this
a little bit of that
a little bit of something special

laughing over
strange items
ugly clothing
even art pieces

and for an hour or
two i can feel the
stuffy secondhand air
between us clear

we usually don't
buy anything or if
we do it's not much
because neither of us
happen to have very
much extra cash

but once in awhile we'll
find a fifty cent mug
potato coasters
a solid wood end table
or a nice cd rack
a piece of someone else's past

and i'll load the
furniture into
the van if you let
me keep the change

i like thrifting
because looking at
items with unknown
history puts the
present into
perspective

gives us a reason
to go out something
to laugh about over
the dinner table

to agree about how
nice that cabinet is
or to disagree about
how ugly wicker is
instead of what
the other is feeling

because everything
is subjective whether
it's trash or treasure whether
it's mine or the next person's

and i don't feel very
whole these days
but on the other hand
i'm not yet in
the attic of the salvage
shop on the corner
and neither is
our relationship

two men who i used
to know but who i
never knew knew each
other were sitting at
a window table as the
sky lightened to barely gray

both making a yearly pilgrimage
to the mountaintop stomping
grounds of when they were young
when they believed in revolutions

two ships momentarily run
a coffee ground on cold
october air and a well
buttered chance to catch up

"there's no replacement for family"
said the tall and pompous
actor with the demeanor of
a shark in a hawaiian shirt

"you can say that again"
replied the wiry bible
toting snowbird who used to
scramble around on roofs

somewhere through the
seven a.m. haze over my
conscious and the
florescent lampposts
the toaster popped up
two sesame bagels

("yes there is"
i wanted to sc
ream "maybe
nobody's fou
nd it yet but t
here has got t
o be some kind
of substitute to
people who w
ill only cause
you pain for
your entire l
ife longer th
an anyone e
lse you'll e
ver know")

let the doorbell
hurried goodbyes
of two rekindled
acquaintances
passing in the
morning fog
bring me back
to life

(nothing's real anyway
surrounded by how
alone i really am in this
big world small cafe)

let the rising smell
of espresso and the
bubbly hiss of 140
degree steamed milk
wake me up to something
i still can't put into words