they say that
if you imagine
something
vividly enough
so many times
you'll begin
to believe
it really happened

(example
a. blood)

but believing
something
without it ever
having happened
doesn't give you any
extra lessons learned

(example
b. blood)

and you've seen things
in your mind's eye
enough times
to know

(a steak knife to
the throat or a
pile of pills
down the hatch)

that you haven't
learned anything
except how to
lie awake for half
the night while your
brain plays tricks on you

(a noose in
the woods
an overflowing
bathtub in red)

it starts hurting
physically
after awhile
a tightness in
the chest that
just won't go
an ache behind
your eyes
a twist
in your stomach

(the yellow line
a pair of headlights
in the middle
of the night)

it keeps you up
just imagining
mental pictures on
the screen of your
eyes that you
can't shut off

(a railroad bridge
the scene of some
prior and future
disappointment)

flashes around the
bathroom mirror at
four in the morning
on a saturday night
when you can't
breathe

(example
c. blood)

worst of all
you're afraid.

i had a houseful
of old friends
milling around
a lakeside town

their summer was
my half of a winter
and they spoke things
that i believed in
but had absolutely
no reason to say.

they were
alive to me
more alive
than anything else.

i don't know where
they went
trapped somewhere
inside a screen
buried alive under
my own problems

are they still
sleeping
in a graveyard?

or is she in jail
and is he seeing
someone else?

they were my
friends
just pieces of
fiction

and i'm hoping
that somewhere
inside me he's still
strumming a
ukulele and she's
standing on the side
of a waterfall and
looking down
i hope they're
alive and well

(knowing them
he's probably
sad but fine and
she's probably
just as crazy as
when i left her.)

but i don't know
i can't promise anything

i lost them
and i lost who
i was when i was
with them.

take me back
a year
take me
ridgeside

i can only promise
one thing

that i haven't
forgotten you.

have you ever
taken your hair
out of a towel and found
it completely dry?

me
neither.

the odd part is
i don't hate life
i only hate who
it's made me out to be

how when i'm simmering
in a soupy soapy bath of
eucalyptus and hot water
i can see my body so clearly

see everything i despise
so clearly

(on second thought
it's only the things i
love about myself that
never come into focus.)

i can't stand how when
i'm sad the tiniest things
feel like malicious jabs
to my stomach

i could feel it
the panic attack
waiting for me
lurking behind
my heavy eyelids
scratchy jeans
mustard sleeves
funeral apron
polyethylene
under my skin.

(i'm sorry if you think
i'm not listening
because chances are
that i'm not
it's not anything
personal
it's just that i live so
completely in my own
head that i occasionally
forget what's going on)

last night before
i fell asleep i gave
the thoughts in my head
names and personalities
let them speak in their
own original voices.

(of course in the
morning i'd
forgotten the details
but they're still up there)

i keep seeing people
who i don't want to talk to
a sick side effect of
leaving the house

if there's anything i'm not
it's bulletproof in an apron
right in the head
or relaxed in a bath.

you've tried
to pinpoint
the exact time
and place in
life that i
went wrong

(not wrong
i should say
changed
depressed)

and so far you've
come up with a
whole bunch of
different situations
you believe
contributed

and i've come up
with a whole bunch
of questions
as to why i can't just
be wrong in
peace
instead of wrong in
pieces.

every night you've
been stopping by my
room and asking if i want
to walk the dog with you.

and i
say no

because i know
what you want

and i am not
giving it to you.

the truth is not
pulled out of me
and lies are just
another thing to try.

the sun hasn't
even gone down yet
and i'm already
just a failure

(i should say
still)

THIS IS NOT
UP FOR
DISCUSSION
I HAVE BURNED
OUR BRIDGES AND
NOW IT'S YOUR
JOB TO SILENTLY
WATCH THEM SMOKE

you're not helping
my mental disarray
because you are
unaware of its existence.

she's out
in the living room
again
ranting and raving
at him about
all her problems

(they say men
marry girls just
like their mothers and
i'm beginning to see it
something about that
obnoxious extroversion)

yes
i just called
extroverts
obnoxious
or maybe i just
called you obnoxious
because you are
a textbook extrovert

(they say girls
grow up to
be just like
their mothers
so i'm sure that
i'm obnoxious too)

now you're back
i can see you and
the dog walking up
the driveway
and now it's time
to trim my thoughts
at the seams and the
corners where they start
unraveling and you start
tugging at the threads

snip snip
stop it.

i miss having an old
plastic box at the
foot of my bed

i miss having
motivation
inspiration

i miss
me

(i'm sorry
okay?)

the only thing
that makes sense
at all anymore
is music

all the black and
white patterns
crawling up and
around my legs

and i lost hundreds of pieces
of transparent music
just left myself
some lead sheets
wrinkled from
artificial humidity.

it just feels
wrong
okay?

i feel wrong
okay?

i discovered
the hard way
the truth

that i like people
on an individual
basis and hate
established institutions

(i'm
sorry
okay?
i'm
actually
really
sorry
okay?)­

i also discovered that
many people actually
like me and somehow i
misunderstood their intentions

(which were undeniably
good but you know
what i've always said
about good intentions.)

regret
regret
flashing neon
regret
guilt
guilt
strangling black
guilt

a plastic box viewed
by me is not a
plastic box viewed
by you

and i want my
plastic box back

the plastic box
i remember
the me
i remember

i want my
plastic box back

i was tripping over it
kicking it for probably
about six years

the yellowed
broken handles
dust in the bottom
it's more than just
a box and more like a coffin
of the last forty years and my past

i remember giving it up
sliding it right under our
old mailbox and handing
over the laptop that was

never mine but always
felt like it and then
walking down the
stairs and out into
the blazing parking lot
like i wasn't a new person.

today i put a laundry
basket full of blankets
where it used to sit
and every time i turn
around i think it's
there again

i'm having
flashbacks of
some stupid
plastic box

(like when somebody
dies or leaves your life and for
awhile it keeps hitting you that
they're just not around anymore)

God and mark
(probably sharons
and kate too)
only know where it is

but i know where
it is not
it's not in my kitchen
it's not in my room

**and i want my
*******
plastic box back.

this isn't
a suicide note
i don't need
to write one

i already have
if you piece
together all
the words scattered
throughout poems
and journal entries
nobody reads and
that i rarely write

if you struggle
through first
and second drafts
you'll see the parts
of myself i don't talk
about and shadows
of people that i
cared about

if you did
all that
you would
begin to see
it's written in
between lyrics
and under
layers of scars

so this isn't
a suicide note
just a memo
that i've been
writing one for
my whole life.

did you hear
the news?
they've
discontinued
mornings

now all we have
is nights
stretched out
too late and
the worst coffee
you've ever tasted.

(put on your
warpaint
or just your
eyeliner
nobody is actually
looking)

now we're all
s c r e a m i n g
before the sun
has even risen.

they've
discontinued
mornings
how does that
make you feel?

(it makes me feel
like absolute ****)

error
error
caffeine
not found

pile your
triangles and
terror into a
text box

the margins are
glaring
your coworkers
sleeping

error
error
**mornings are
discontinued

clean counters
clean floors
dogs
homemade pies
plants
flamingos
privacy and respect
dishes that don't match
a radio in every room
coffee in the morning
iced tea from a spigot
handmade afghans
fresh linen smell
quiet

and how
could i
possibly forget
you?

it wasn't until years too late
that the oceans once painting
your skin into a weepy
vacation canvas finally
dried and made their salty
descent down your throat.

i hope that one day
you find your mind wandering
back to some sunbleached
air conditioned antique shop
a cool and dim refuge of
kitschy proportions

and i hope one day you can finally
appreciate an afternoon that
may or may not have held
your greenesque day of peace

(by greenesque i mean that
not only was it green but
it also held whispers of the last
chapter in your favorite book
the part where all the pieces fall in place
and nobody is happy with the outcome)

you're just a bundle of
nerves and memories
the kind that keep you up at night
and your hair uneven lengths
the kind that flash before your eyes
through grainy old photographs
and pictures engraved so deep
inside a screen you question
whether or not they
ever even happened.

there are gravel roads
somewhere out there
that smell like home and
kind cold water in a july drought

and i sincerely hope
that you someday find
one of those state-parkish
leafy hollow spring hills
settled deep somewhere
inside your heart

and i hope that someday
you drive all alone for an hour
park on the side of the road and
watch the woods for no reason
except to listen to every love song you
ever knew in your youth
and i hope that your breathing stays steady
and your eyes stay dry and starkissed.

i would cross my fingers
shut my eyes and tie my
esophagus in a knot if i knew
my wishes could grant you peace

and i hope that when you're older
your beachside sunburns and
deep fried fatigue are washed away
by all the seasons of upstate mountain air.

we had been mopping
the kitchen floor all day
and the dirt never
stopped coming back

and earlier we had sprayed
the entire front porch
down with the garden hose
and now it was still wet
which made it feel as if
it had recently rained when in fact
the grass was a crunchy
brown carpet of regrets.

the night before we had
drunk orange smoothies
laced with lime and something
aged sleek and dark

(i think it must have been
the reason we couldn't
sleep that night
lay awake in my parents bed
and i told you why i
wouldn't go swimming
until the sun rose
the dog barked
the birds screamed
their morning songs
and my body stopped its
nightly spasms of fear.)

and the next evening
we put on a miranda lambert song
(the one we drank to
in your mother's van last winter)
sat on the wet
porch swing
and cracked open
our first beers

they were
really bad
i gagged
because it tasted
like carbonated
banana bread with
too much stale
baking soda
and we poured half of them
into the flower beds

the next morning
was sunday
and we had milk and muffins
in the kitchen with
simon and garfunkel
then went back out to the porch
drank iced coffee in the
eleven o'clock sunlight
and you said
"if this were a normal sunday
i would have been up at six
at church by eight
and done teaching my first
sunday school class by ten."

(is beer as much
of an acquired taste
as coffee is?
because i can't ever
remember not liking it
i used to think it was
bitter but i always
liked it anyway.)

i didn't say anything
because i didn't want to
say what was on the tip
of my tongue
that this kind of sunday
had become my normalcy
and our variety of saturday night
no longer felt like underage
drinking and more like
the way i was meant to be.

i have this nasty
habit of leaving
day-old sweat
in my pores
and scraping out
years of
hair follicles in
mere minutes.

have you ever gotten
to thinking about
inadequacy?
or the way a
thursday morning is
so busy but you
just feel
fogged over?

not breathing is
really gross
meaning i must be
exceptionally disgusting

and i cried when
i told you about
the fresh scars
and you gave me a
hug like i needed and
i rubbed the back of
my neck where the
humidity clung.

you see i feel
guilty keeping secrets
but even more
guilty when you worry
because nobody
should worry about me

it's not
worth it.

i'm seventeen
days clean now
seventeen
days closer to

closer
closer

**** it hurts
to be a failure

once in awhile i think too hard
about the graduation parties
inserted into forced friendships
and i wonder if any of my
darkest moments had
been felt by the other girls, too.

there are dark moments
that stand out to me
too bright on the
canvass of life.

i was seven years old
and some boys shouted at me
and told me that my pink bicycle
(obtained secondhand from some
nice church family)
was actually theirs
(it wasn't but i can
still see the scene in my mind
and don't know why it still
bothers me sometimes.)

i was a little older
and somebody was slamming doors
running up and down stairs
and i was sitting on my assistant
pastor's couch with some
eighth-grade girls i didn't know
who were crying their eyes out
and i was feeling very bitter and afraid.

somebody was screaming
****** threats and my heart
was pushed into my throat like
pony beads between marbles
inside paisley print just like that
necklace from that one funeral

was it papa's funeral?
i can't even remember.

all i knew was that
there had been a car accident
and i knew that just hours before
he had won one of
barb's stuffed giraffes in a raffle
and christmas had been coming up
i think i cried in the shower
but i know i sat in the living room
stared at the wall and jared said
"you could go downstairs and
talk to somebody"
i didn't.

that was the first christmas
that ever felt truly wrong.

i have never felt so
alone as i sat cross-legged on
a hospital bed in the blue
paper scrubs they put you in
when they think you're a loaded gun
and listened to the world run by
tears barely dried and pen
scratching away

i never would have ended up there
if i had known how to manipulate
the system like i do now
but i wasn't smart enough to know
that saying you have
suicidal thoughts is as
good as saying you've got a plan and
a knife in your back pocket.

i think my arms were still
bleeding under my sleeves
when you looked me in the
eye and slapped me in the face.

literally
i mean that you
literally
hit me in the face
oh but mom
was ******.

i still think about that sometimes
while we're at the dinner table
all eating together and i'll move
my chair over two inches
because you're right next to me
and i know that it only
ever happened once and you
would never do it again but then
again it seems safer closer
to the wall
and sometimes when you're
standing by the cupboard
i walk all the way around the
stove to avoid getting too close.

i was fifteen years old
and crumpled on the bathroom floor
probably had something to do
with exhaustion and blood loss
i was seventeen years old
passed out the wrong way on my bed
brand-new laptop facedown on the floor
a byproduct of the education system

(seventeen year olds should not
have to experience going into a store
and spending the last of their
birthday money on shapewear so
they can feel almost okay about
their body at the dance
but that's just a footnote or a deep
gray addition to my blackest moments)

i remember that time a couple
months ago when you threw
me into a relaxing bath and i was
afraid you'd see my legs

and i was afraid of who
i kept finding myself to be
on sunday mornings at ten
when i was still at home
lying in bed and listening to
ambient instrumental music

(ripping myself away
is the worst feeling
i think i've ever felt
especially when the
questions start coming
sealed signed and delivered.)

hanging on by a thread
watching all the worst parts
of my memories flash over
and over again late at night
when the music hits that tiny
little crack above my heart.

but i've been thinking about
being a failure and wondering
if every girl has had her own
bathroom floor moment

and does the
difference lie in
how late at night she
lets it keep her awake?

summer
makes me sick.

"we're going to
sarah's church
this sunday"
you said.

"you're
going to sarah's
church this sunday"
i said.

and you gave
me that fishy
look you've been
giving me every
saturday night
for the last month
"why don't you
want to go to church?"

well i have my reasons
tucked up with abstracted
pushpin waves on
bible class corkboards
and poked into the corners
of empty white rooms
where abrasive carpet wore
my feet into odd patterns

sitting on my splintered
windowsill and listening to
things i wasn't invited to
something with singing and all i
really recall was sawing off warts
with a pocketknife while i listened

those early days
before the roof was
fixed were when the
trouble started.

"because
i'm not."

that's not much
of an explanation
but neither is
the truth
which by the way
i didn't mention

i didn't mention the
way i felt last night
when i looked at
year old photo effects
or the hitch in my chest
the last time i listened
to dan's cds
the way i ***** shut my eyes
and try to keep breathing
every time you drive by
what used to be woods or
someone else's welcome sign

"i like this song"
you said in the car
and i felt the bloodied swallow
of mismarked communion wine
like my first taste of hate
so many years gone now
surging down my
closed and slit throat

tim mcgraw was wrong
don't go to church because
your mama says to
don't go to church because
anybody says to
it won't get you into heaven
but it might get you
anxiety and a hospital bill.

(maybe i'm so critical
of christians because
christians were
critical of me
but hey that's just
a random thought)

and i don't talk about
how when i see the faces
of strangers that i
memorized between
the lost references of
out-of-context verses
all i see are reflections
of white words i typed
into their irises
i typed too fast.

and i was just too
tired to say that
large-scale screens
drive me over the edge
too tired to imply
once more that i
have turned into a
college-student statistic

one who has
more behind her
motives than
pure apathy.

so having thought all this
i repeated myself
"you're going to
sarah's church this week"
and wished you could
understand my reasons.

i wish i could turn
you into a liquid
something
softer than water
stronger than coffee
sweeter than lemonade
more sincere
than blood

i would bathe in it
watch it stain my skin
and stick under my nails
as it washed away my fears

i would water all my
houseplants with it
they would grow to the ceiling
turning sunset colors

i would drink it
the same way i drink
the summer rain when
it blows onto the porch

i would use it as an
all-purpose cleaner
acidic as vinegar and so
much better at polishing counters

if only
i could turn you
into a liquid
maybe i wouldn't
be quite so
dehydrated this summer

or maybe i would
just be slowly
poisoning myself
from the inside out.

i can watch the
clock on your
dashboard
turning
backwards
the hands going
the wrong direction
it's rare to find a
analogue timepiece
in a car nowadays
even rarer to find one
that goes in retrograde.

and all i can think
about is that i'm not
happy but i'm more
settled inside

isn't it sad
to be living only
in hopes of your
expiration date?

yes
yes it is.

i'm missing last winter
just a little
how safe it felt to be
your shotgun rider
with that perfect and slightly
annoying thirty minute mashup

fifteen minutes there
fifteen minutes back
anxious to leave
anxious to get home
to get into another van
one that wasn't stifled

i was your
shotgun rider
for monday afternoons
and drives to craft fairs
the ball and our own
educational funeral.

(can we petition
to rename
graduations to
educational funerals?)

i miss the old days
when mondays were happy
not anxious
or empty

thinking back on it
we spent too much time
in the back corner booth
of the doughnut shop chain
up on the east hill outside of town
and the coffee wasn't even good

i wish we had just gone to the
grocery store and
got some of that perfect
creamline milk you never shake.

i don't remember
the day i looked
on the label of the
jug and read the date

and it very clearly
was stamped with an
expiration of next
september

but when i tasted it
it had all gone sour
and i wondered how
painful it could be
to throw milk
out early

so i'm leaving it
in the fridge
until autumn
rolls around

just thinking
about how sad
it is to be living
with the hope of dying

but don't people do
the exact same thing?

fall out boy is always
in season
rain or shine
sweat or tears

i honestly get
tired of having
problems but
doesn't everyone?

i'm escaping
stumbling into some
false reality on the other
side of my mind's eye

sometimes i get to thinking
about alcohol and
cigarettes and i get scared
for who i'll turn into someday

and sometimes
when i can't sleep i play
what a catch donnie
on repeat until i cry

"said i'll be fine
til the hospital or
american embassy"
gets me every time

leaves an actual pain
in my stomach
the ache of something
i want more than anything

to die
or leave
to no longer be
choked

convulsing on the
scratched wooden floor
legs twitching and
forehead sweating

i can't breathe
and it's not just
the humidity
it's the thoughts

it's the scars that are
too new to talk about
and the ones
too old to care about

eyelashes are
scraping irises
hands are
always sticky

how pain
is normalized
and anxiety
just happens.

the song is over
play it again
shuffle and repeat
until sleep

i should have stayed home
i always should stay home
but i don't like
home anymore

i never did like home
and it's mostly because of
who i find there
when i'm all alone.

if i woke up tomorrow
in omaha bay
would every anxiety
be decades away?

if i shattered tonight
into normandy blue
would the stars still shine
and waves lap adieu?

would the pale old cliffs
splashed chalky with fright
stand still and watch
the blooming dawn light?

once upon a time
on this battle-stormed beach
hundreds were bleeding
dying just out of reach.

things quieter now
in more recent years
stone shore washed clean
by ocean deep tears.

but try to squint
in eventide dim
and once you look close
you'll begin to see him.

one soldier remains
crawling into his death
grasping at gravel
and fainting for breath.

if i woke up tomorrow
in normandy blue
would that soldier give up
or come along too?

if you went back in time
and found my eighth grade self

you would find long sleeves
pulled way down her arms
and you might notice
she was hiding something
that she got awfully tired of hiding
and tired of stares when she wasn't

i'll give you a hint
my ninth grade self
had bright red scars
seared into her shoulders

my tenth grade self
was still finding leftover
pink horizon lines from
safety razors on her thighs

my eleventh grade self
found all her skin remarkably
pale but her coping
mechanisms still unhealthy

and my twelfth-grade self
she was the weakest one of all
just had the strongest
jaw to hide behind
and enough self-confidence to
stretch thin across her neuroses

but if you could go back
and find my eighth-grade self

please tell her
something for me
she won't believe it
but i just have to tell her

that in four years she will buy
the most beautiful sleeveless
white dress with navy lace
and she will wear it with
sneakers and bruises on her knees
a smile the overexposed
color of her insecurity

and nobody
will say a
**** thing
about her scars
bleached into
a memory.

i didn't understand half
the words he said
and i don't understand half
the words you write

michael jackson
and waylon jennings
wrapped in a paper towel
"papa would be proud of you"
scratched in the back of
a children's book

it's the oddest thing
to no longer miss
someone who's been
gone so long

an odder thing to sit
in silence on your bed
with the fitted sheet all pulled
off the side next to the wall
feeling your best friend's
little sister's scratchy blue
nylon mattress rub
up against your sore feet

and open card
after card
after card
filled with glittering
words of praise and
monetary gifts

and then read about all
the things about you
that people think are
worthy of mentioning
and you start to
see a pattern

"thank you for serving"
"humor"
"creativity"
"imagination"
"let God lead you"
"keep rapping"

(thank you
and by the way
i don't rap only
occasionally slam)

it starts to feel like a
bulletpoint hallmark eulogy
like you've left your body
and are reading about someone else
reviewing all the better
more visible parts of yourself
the parts deemed loud
enough to be acknowledged.

and you start to see
what's lurking off
the edge of the card
and the words they didn't write
the places that you
went wrong

the question marks
behind their eyes
wondering why they
haven't seen you for two months
why your hair is a different color
why someone else is in your seat

and the semicolons in
your stomach
when you realize that
you've made a mistake
and even with all the hurts caused
you've still got a family out there.

i'll say this
when it comes to
graduations and funerals
you find out who your friends are

the people who matter
will show up in the end.

am i mislead in thinking
that sometimes people
don't say everything they
think or feel until it's too
late because it takes a
loss to make them realize?

the price of coffee has not
necessarily gone up
most people are just buying
the wrong brands.

i didn't shed a tear
not one
i'd lost them all two
weeks before
and my waterproof
mascara laughed at
my mother's assumption
that i needed it.

for someone who is
loved i suggest a tombstone
but for someone like me
cremation is better
because there is already no
question of the likelihood
of eventually
being forgotten.

i found a tension rod
in the hall closet this week
i don't know where it came from
or why it was there
but i know that when we find
something we've been wishing for
chances are we will commandeer and
use it for our own selfish purposes.

pearls in a pill bottle
cursive handwriting on a silver tray
ivy up the noose
razors with the rouge

i don't think it's romanticizing
suicide
i think it's showing how normalizing
suicide
becomes when it's always
in the back of your mind

when there are many
many days where you spend all your
spare moments contemplating if
your out is a better alternative to this.

they thought i was lying
when i said i didn't care
but i wasn't lying
at least, not about my hair
if there's a truth that's found in lying
that's something i'd gladly dare.

it's 2:53
is it wrong of me
to think that sometimes
the devil turns us
against each other
for his own schemes?

hours past my bedtime
but i can't sleep because
i'm over the edge and
if i turn out the lights now
i'll be awake until the
sunrise with panic attacks

it's 2:54
is it wrong of me
to think in terms
of either-or?

i'm a little weird
in that most of the
music i listen to lately
is just ambient noise
instrumentation
designed to make
me feel less
choked

2:55
a pain in my chest
i'm afraid of death
even more to stay alive

i get scared
of myself
sometimes at night
when i'm alone
because i know
i'm the only one
with the motive
the power
to destroy
myself

and i start feeling
powerless
helpless
i know where the
knives are
i know where the
pills are
i know i'm smart enough to
figure out how to tie knots
but sometimes i don't know
if i can talk myself
down from that ledge

and i get scared
of losing control
i don't really want to die
i don't think?

is it
3 yet?

i'm still a little
shifty
sweaty around
the eyes

slightly
mushy
in my undeveloped
frontal lobes

falling into an
abyss between my growling
stomach and the
sweat on my neck

into where
my eyelashes
are replaced by
blackened teeth

the neon chemical
fruit smell of
raspberry hair dye
and johnny cash
i never think anything
through
or maybe i do
i just chose to keep my
thoughts silent and
lie about them later

if i could wish for
one improvement
upon my wardrobe
i would wish for my
father to stop rattling
on about the way jeans
never used to come
pre-faded and how
work was the only way
you added holes to knees

just when i like the way
things are going when it
comes to my past is
just when i am forced
to relive everything
i ever hated

it's not
purple
let me tell you something
it's not
purple
i'm not repeating
pink
it is
raspberry
get it right.

were we
sunbleached concrete
or were we
flakes under eyes
deep in
the spring?

you might have been
a bug bite
or a whisper of
tap water on
my dirt stained
leather sandals

(no arch support
to be found
under my feet
this summer)

watch slowly as
the whitewashed
brick wall starts
to crumble and fall

were we not so
colorful that
even sunbleached concrete
found a rainbow under
our triple refined
driftwood bench?

(driftwood
that's a good
metaphor try
to remember it.)

there's just something
about the air hovering
directly above the cleanest
pavement you've ever seen
something dry and
slightly hopeless

something that looks
like every season
took its toll on
the sidewalk
and then left to
just left of the right.

when was the last time
you threw out the dress
and wore the
garment bag instead?

(i'll tell you here and now
it's not the most
comfortable idea but
it is an idea.)

we're all so highly
pigmented that
we give each other
headaches
we give
ourselves
headaches sometimes
don't we?

the whole world is so
loud with color
but i have discovered a
cure so extraordinary
it has never been recommended
before or since this moment.

falling asleep
on sunbleached concrete
is sure to wash the color
from where it pours
out the folds of your
knees and elbows and
guaranteed to clean your
skin of all things pertaining
to any season besides
your papery old age.

you said something
on the phone
one of those long
calls where i do more
listening than
talking

you said something
very
very
important
and i'm writing it
down in a poem
so that i never
ever
forget it.

you told me
often strong women
don't say everything
they should

which i appreciate
hearing from you
because every single
one of your words

is carefully
instinctively
measured
by something
greater than your
own judgement

and then you said
something that
i doubt i'll ever
forget.

you said
that we must

separate

the offense
from the person.

(to deal with
a hurt and not
the human that
caused it.)

you said
that sometimes we can't

forgive

by ourselves without
His help.

and when i hung up
i knew for the first
time ever that
everything
was in His hands and
i did not need to
worry

every move being made
in faith that there is
a plan
greater than my
mistakes.

i can
separate
my thoughts
into pieces
and add pinches
of peace.

*(it's amazing what a
long talk with
mrs. b can do for
a person's faith
and nerves
knowing that her
nerves are made of
steel and a higher power.)

"i feel like
you keep
yelling at me
for loving you."

11:45 p.m.
monday
23rd of may
2016

it hit me like
a ton of bricks
or the thousands
of memories i've been
repressing for years
coming back

where my
problems
have twisted
their roots deep

hear me
out here

"do you still
love me?"
i would
ask
every day
every
single
day

and every
single
day
she said
"of course
i still love you"
and always wondered
why i never got it

i did get it
i was just
double
checking
i just had
to make sure.

hear me
out here

it is not
that i don't
believe
i'm loved

it's that
i don't want
to be loved
in the first place.

let's be real
when you love
you lose
it's all fun and games
but in the end
you will lose

someday your
dog will die
people will
eventually leave
and you'll move on
from even the
buildings you
carved your heart into

love is not
a fair game
love is a
casino
where it's all
rigged
so you think you've
hit the jackpot
but really you're
that much poorer.

i will gladly
go through
life alone to
never hurt or be hurt

i'm fine
with being
single
i'm fine
knowing i'll
die young

i'm fine
saving all
my feelings
never gambling
on another's
compensation

because i never
want to be loved
if it means i've
gambled too much.

"then take
some
*******
shoes."

gucci, prada
chanel, vuitton

walmart, target
overstock stores

there's tar
stuck to the bottoms
of my feet
and the blister burns
are forming

shaking
the bridge is not
shaking
not shaking

don't look down
don't look down
look down
look down
you have to
look down

murky green
whitecaps

"how fast
can you walk?"

how fast
can i
push you
over the edge?

and of course
the asphalt's fresh
so fresh in fact
the trucks are still rumbling by

why would you walk
a railroad bridge
unless you wanted
to jump
or you wanted to
wait as you felt every
last vibration before
death?

i hate
everything
everyone
and that may sound
ridiculous but
hating
is easier than
honesty

tar
get the
tar off
me
toes sticking
pulling against
the splintered
metal

i should have taken
some
*******
shoes.

right now
i'm imagining
the feeling of sweat
and hairspray
and suspecting that the
church will be hot

the knees of friends
and family all
sticking to the edges of
the blue padded pews

i can practically
feel my clammy hands
and the robe hanging
from my shoulders

rosin on my fingers
i expect that i will
need rosin
and nail polish
to keep me
glued together

i hope
i won't cry
i kind of know
i won't cry
but i bought waterproof
mascara just in case

and i won't be able
to feel my toes because
they'll be numb
in my finest heels

all i want is to be
out of here
but it's still only
in my mind.

and as i'm sitting in bed
contemplating

(you could call it
dwelling or
obsessing but i will
call it good
old-fashioned
contemplation)

i'm thinking about
my graduation
and how i don't even
really care

about a kind of
paltry milestone
inside this year
compared

to the feeling of
the last day of class
that moment on stage
dancing in sneakers
my finest poems
late nights
mornings too early
yearbooks
and every weekend
spent together

i'll miss
everything i had
and dread all
that i don't

but i sure can't wait
to get out

i just have to get
past graduation day.

We've been
Through a lot
You and me
Best friends for
How long?
Over ten years
And that's at
Eighteen.

Last week
You told me
That if you had
All the money
In the world
And could give me
Anything
You would buy me two corgis
Because that's what
I deserved.

But if I
Could give you
Anything

I would give you back
Every tear
You ever
Considered crying
Whether or not
It actually fell
All sealed up in a
Case of fancy glass
Bottles
For you to toast with
At your pleasure.

And I would find every
Single
****
Person
Who ever
Hurt you
And make them
Feel pain
Kick them
Directly through the
Stratosphere and leave
Them to die
Choking
From a lack of
Oxygen
On the moondust
Of who you
Would have been
Without their hands
Around your neck.

I would
Wind the clock
Backwards
Fast forward through
Your entire
Missed
Childhood
And find some kind
Of cosmic compensation
Celestial retribution
For every lost
Second
Every tainted
Home movie that
Still plays
On the screen
Of your eyelids
At night.

Speaking of night
I would hand you
Every sleepless
Hour
You ever lived through
Refund the three a.m.'s
You gambled
And lost to
Anxiety
Smooth away
The tiredness
Soaked into
Your very
Existence.

And I would hurl
Every
Last
*******
Lie
You ever believed
About yourself
Down into the
Hellfire and brimstone
Where it came from.

Because all you ever
Deserved
Was peace of mind.

i've been
showering on
sunday mornings
at ten thirty

(for my whole
life i've always
showered on
saturday nights)

but it kind of
helps to dim this
morose veil of
rainy silence

(it doesn't
actually
but i convince
myself that it does)

and i'm kind of
hoping that
sunday showers will
bring monday flowers

but i've seen a
saturday storm or two
and i know what a
friday flood looks like

tuesday torrents aren't so bad
after all and a thursday
thunderstorm is about the
same as a wednesday watered-down

but a sunday shower?
i've never seen a
monday flower
come from a hurricane.

someday
will you walk into
my room
lie on my bed and
stare at the ceiling i stare at
every night

smell the
mishmash of
stale perfumes
on my clothing

play my guitars
read my books
touch my walls
clutch the afghans
i made in your
tight fists

and
cry?

or will you think
that somebody
made a mistake
and that mistake
wasn't me
leaving
but was you
staying?

go ahead
take every
single game
piece from
its box
put them all
in a jar
and shake it

you'll see the
parcheesi men
dancing around
wooden words
forgotten kings
and queens

the bishops
praying for the
pewter hat
as the dog barks at
a red hotel and
plain checkers pieces
slide into partially
assembled pie wheels

watch closely as
the tiny
peg people
are separated from
the car holding their
family together.

and then decide
that what you had
wasn't good enough
not when there
are still some lost
and create tokens
out of buttons
bottlecaps
or whatever
you want

just remember
when the cards fall
from a tornado
we're all just losers
and when the dice
roll off the table
you can kiss the game
goodbye

unless of course
you're playing
all by yourself
which
while lonely
is actually
almost
advisable.

and i've
done it
enough times
to know.

it was uncomfortably
hot out today

i put my cardboard box
down on the pavement
and squinted into
the midspring sun

grateful for the
knowledge
of the truth
the ukulele truth
and nothing but
the truth

like i could
scream every
johnny cash song
i've never learned
at every pathetic smoker
disobeying the signs

and i understood
oh but did i
understand
why they're always
pushing friday
on midweek radio shows

it's thursday
at 3pm
and guess what?
now we're free

(to roll in the grass
and soak up the sunshine
or maybe just
take a nap)

tell your winter
clothes where they
can stuff it
and your hick
christmas lights
to get lost

there's a pitcher
of unsweetened
ice tea with just a
dash of lemon juice
waiting for me when
i get home

and a cracked
front step to
nod off on once
it gets cooler

and even these
june bugs
out in may can't
bring me down.

maybe if the
art store
that it feels like i spent
most of my lifetime in
had never closed
i'd be doing better

(maybe i wouldn't
but that's less likely)

and maybe there would be
a stack of canvasses
somewhere in my room
all covered in words

poked through by
needles and stretched
with yarn
laced and glittered
within an inch
of their lives

and i'd be crying
glue
and bleeding
paint

and maybe my
tension would be
strung looser than their
stretched and stapled frames.

i'm wondering if
we ever get
over our losses
creatively
or if we just find
alternatives
to abusing the
canvas.

once we were
young
dangling our legs
off the stone
wall dividing your
backyard in half.

we got a little
older
and you ran your
father's truck
backwards off
that same wall.

the truck was fine
(until the wheel
fell off awhile later)
but i daresay you
killed a few flowers
in the process.

during swimming lessons
i never jumped in the pool
but a year or two later
i fell off the deep end.

you never understood
and i doubt you
ever will but you've
sure as hell stayed.

we both realized
what was wrong with
everything
and that was
when we left
for war.

sharing music
and things that smell
wonderful
linked-arm goose-stepping
down hills
lazy sunday afternoons
with the rat-tat-tat
echoing through the house.

last summer you were
cursing for the fun of it
in the church parking lot
when the pastor showed up

you'll never agree
with my stupid *** reasons
and i won't say the
s-word if you don't want me to.

and in two or three years
we'll be full grown adults
leaning up against some
wall somewhere
(probably not the one
in your backyard)
and i will fish a pack of
cigarettes from the bottom of
my purse and you will proceed
to *** one off me
then offer me the use of your
vintage lighter

then i expect we'll stand there
smoking in silence
and we'll both be properly
****** up

you're d-day in
a floral dress
and i'm a radio signal
lost on the airwaves

we're both scraps
of destruction
whispers of a truce
lost in taffeta and lace
because we forgot
to bring the blood
and choked on
gunsmoke

we go together like
fire and gasoline
toxic
volatile
and having a whole
lot of fun in the meantime.

if i believed in
shooting stars
birthday candles
lost eyelashes or
dandelion fuzz
i would be wasting
every single
wish on one thing

that the smell of
vanilla and coco butter
that always
surrounds me

was burned into
your mind so
strongly that you
sometimes smell it
when it isn't there
and the uncertainty of
not remembering
where it's from
bothers you late
at night on the rare
occasions when
you can't sleep

(a distant memory
of last summer that
you can't quite
pin down
something coated in
simmering heat and
copious amounts of sugar
grass stains
scribbled notebook pages
a teddy bear and
slightly out of tune
ukulele music)

and it became something
that you would go to great
lengths to trace
something you would
like to smell
for the rest of your life

but i never said i
believed in wishes at all.

It's been too long since I've thought of anything like this. I've gotten trapped between the sections of keyboard, tried to fit into those endless spaces between the lines from the enter key. I'm shifting every dozen words and my eyes have gone the same route. But worst of all I'm afraid of glasses of water and the times when it's too early or too late to be alive -- maybe just the time I've always spent being someone else.

Spring, and all my old items are hitting my bed springs and bouncing off as fast as I can throw them out. Clothing and bits of string and papers that I never wrote on or that I wish I hadn't written on are falling on the floor around a pair of feet that are always being questioned as to their intentions. Sometimes I wonder if my feet are real, or maybe I'm just wishing that I could pull them off at the ankles and switch them out with a person who is very unfortunate but who has lovely toes and a predisposition to a higher immune system. That same predisposition to a higher immune system would come in handy a lot of places this time of year.

You had better believe that I would get out of here if I could.

I was standing in a bathroom that I've hardly known but I know it all too well because it's just like every other bathroom nowadays. And it was halfway okay that I was trying not to gag over the toilet because there was a jazzy pop song that sounded about five years old playing. I had never heard it but every word and corner of the brass section ran down my spine and I recognized the voice from somewhere else and I felt that he had written it just for me.

It's not blue and linear at this point, but it's not so much a black ink blot, either. It's somewhere between the two, a piece of old paper from under my bookshelf covered in black and blue circles. Every outline as empty as you could imagine.

The lawnmower is running again and I'm wishing I were still the kind of girl that could wear flowers made of sunshine and sky and feel alive when she ran through the oceany grass. Depression is a *****, wouldn't you say? You probably wouldn't say that unless you knew firsthand, because she's the kind of thing that nobody believes in until you meet her for yourself. I've met her too many times to count and I finally gave up trying to knock her down because she always comes back up. There are people like that, too, but at least people give you a reaction if you scream at them long enough. She never does.

I stopped trying to tell the truth when I realized that nobody believed me.

when i turn you down
on going out
please don't take it
personally
or think i don't
love you

because i do
love you
so much that i would
rather stay home
than make you have to
put up with me

it's not like i want
to be controlled by
my mind but if i am
i'd rather you didn't see.

the person who decided
to put their old
movie theater seats
in front of the
swimming pool
was a gosh **** genius.

and i often think
about streetlights
harmonizing with
brick walls.

(don't you hate
travel, though?)

yes, i do
but to get out
of my mind i'd
go straight to anywhere.

(i've missed this
but now i know
that straight lines
aren't static.)

THE SOLUTION
(you see)
IS PAIN
(fully obvious)

I DON'T KNOW WHY
WE'RE STILL SUFFERING

are we hurting
or are we back
to where pain is
felt as strength?

when you see
blood
do you see
regret?

you should
i should.

STOP PLAYING
THAT **** PIANO
I CAN HEAR HOW
OUT-OF-TUNE YOUR
FINGERS ARE WHEN
YOUR EARS DON'T LISTEN.

(and don't you know
that when you lay your
voice flat on the sidewalk
it sinks in the cracks?)

there's nothing like putting
poetry in a music notation
book to make you
realize how useless you are.

i have my reasons
all written in
hieroglyphics that
i can't read
and i have more
reasons
all written in
shades of lonely and
ceiling tiles.

so sue me
for the truth
i'm just afraid
of being hurt.

at three a.m.
your breath should be
rounded
rising and falling
peacefully
calmly

like waves on a
smooth beach
but now everything
has fragmented
pixilated and
deconstructed.

your breath is being
dragged through your
lungs in triangles
half shapes without
softly curved edges or
serenity of form

gasps of air so
sharp they could
slit your own
dry throat
from the
inside.

and tears
so cold you
wonder if they're
shards of glass.

please
the next time
your body
becomes a vandal
against the windowpanes
of your mind

please
oh please
remember that
deteriorating
stained glass
can be taken down
from rose windows
by a master artist
and restored
pane by pane
each inch of leading
one at a time.

but repairing
is a process
and a process
takes time.

i don't
leave
easy

not places
not people
not anything

i don't
leave
easy

i love
too
much

and hate
too
often

but i don't
leave
easy

once i've
chosen that it's
worth my time

i'll fight
to the
death

and cry
through the
night

but i sure won't
be leaving
easy

i'll
stay

lasso stars
to pull apart
constellations

run through
hell in
bare feet

to
stay

i don't
leave
easy

maybe
i've already
gone.

i'd put my lips
to the exhaust pipe
and breathe in the
fumes if i thought
that exhaling them
would help.

and i would go back in time
listen to a rambling
speech each week
again and again
if i knew that it would
actually teach me to breathe.

or perhaps
but no

have you seen the way
it pools in the cold air
a man-made mist
of toxins and forgotten
words that we never
cared enough about?

i could choke
on it
it's not real
anyway
it's just vapor
burning papers

burning bridges
burning gas.

one of these days
i'm going to start
walking
and heaven help
whoever tries
to stop me.

i'll walk past
the town line
the cutoff where i should
have turned around
and fall straight off
the edge of the earth.

and all that will be
left of me is
a passing whiff of
exhaust on the breeze.

i could write about
a lot of things
like my day
or how the pavement
looks when it
rains slightly.

or how the parking lot
feels when it's full
of cars and void of people
or how i feel when i'm
surrounded and
afraid.

how i'm angry and
insecure and
i don't owe anyone
anything
not my friends
not enemies
or elders
not an apology
or a single
**** explanation.

but i think i'll just
forget about the
whole thing and
write about death
or something
nice like that
after all it would
weight less on me
then the words
on my fingertips.

i had assumed
that i was done
struggling with
all that identity crap
but now i've concluded
that everything we ever
fight is a battle for
our own lives.

and it's odd
to think that i can
have such a strong
sense of myself and yet
my personality can
be so unlike that self.

there are more layers
to a parking lot than
what you might
first expect.

i suppose at one point
there were grass
and trees and pure
unadulterated dirt
and then somebody
leveled it
maybe added a coating
of gravel and
paved over it and
put some vehicles on top.

but that doesn't mean the
layers aren't still there
under the asphalt
i mean.

and that's what i'm saying
is that i've got something
under the pavement
i just can't get the cars
to move out for long enough
to tear up the layers.

i feel other people's wheel marks
burned into my skin
and the signs and lines
that proclaim no parking
have been vandalized and
ignored for too long.

how do you tell a parking lot to stop
without looking crazy?

and there lies the
exact problem
i care
too much
what people think
i look like
and i don't mind if they
think i'm insane
but i mind if they don't
like me
there's a big
difference you know.

and there goes
another piece
falling into place
and the
puzzle not
yet completed.

a discomfort
radiating
upwards from the
***** of my feet
up my calves and
through the muscles
i try to keep
from twitching.

some nights i could
wash my hands
twenty times
and still feel
sweaty and
hopeless.

i could give up
sometimes
i know where the
blind curves are
and the tallest trees
in the woods
and i know how
much it hurts
behind my spine and
inside my rib cage.

i can't
breathe
i can't
breathe

and maybe giving up
would hurt less than
trying to hold myself
steady and trying

and

and

thoughts keep getting
cut off in the middle

i can't
breathe
i can't
breathe

i've had dark
nights and
slightly lighter
nights and
quiet damp
nights and
buzzing summer
nights and
throbbing multicolored
nights and
nights so deathly silent
i questioned my own sanity

and some nights
where i wanted
to just
give up

nights
nights
all of them were
nights.

i can't
breathe
i can't
breathe

i would run away
from my problems
if there wasn't this
discomfort
in the ***** of my feet
radiating upwards

and also
if i could breathe

*but i
can't
*******
breathe

you're
crying
and as you walk
down the dimly
lit glass hallway
the faces on the walls
wave
in your breeze
of sadness and
iron oxide tears.

every surface in
your mind is
covered
in a thick layer of
concrete dust
and you wonder
how long before
your nose
takes a dive
sneezing
too often
to breathe.

there is clay
everywhere
and you can't see
the cracks
between your
knuckles
under the
thick layer of
thought.

as far as art
departments go
you're not feeling
so creative
painted or
charcoal
it doesn't matter
when there is more
brown paper offered
to you every
time you believe
you've failed.

would you believe me
if i told you that a
newspaper and a pair
of old blue eyes
reminded me
and maybe you too
that there is somebody
out there
who actually
cares.

press that
thumbtack
into the wall
slowly
pin down
everything
you've tried to
forget
and avoid
stabbing your
finger into
the perforated
abused and
continually
rotated
corkboard.

you're not
wirebound
anymore
i promise
only your
entwined metalic
thoughts.

have you ever
wanted
needed
to get out?

get out
out of the building
out of the house
out of the town
to start
walking
running
away?

have you ever
wanted an
out
some kind of
departure from
all your
claustrophobic
ins?

have you ever
left
nothing exceptional just
left?

and were you
already halfway to
the middle of
nowhere
when you realized
that you really
wanted an
out
from was your own
****** up mind?

Let's say
Hypothetically
Someone was
Keeping score
And I had a
Perfect
Unsurpassed
Record.

In that case
There would be
Three hundred and twelve
Pieces of paper
Somewhere
In my house with
Five to thirteen lines of
Text on each of them.

And then suppose
Five and thirteen averaged
Out to somewhere between
Seven and eight.

Then do the math
And tell me what seven or eight
Times three hundred and twelve is
And then think about how
For each line of text on each
Sheet of paper
There is another
Sheet of paper in some
Binder somewhere
Or a pile in the righthand
Corner of my room.

And remember
I'm just one person.

And then think
About the butterfly effect.

Do you know
What happens
In the mail room
When you're not around?

Do you know
Who uses the copier
In the dead of night
Or the morning dawn?

Do you know
Where we go
When we
Die?

Or even
Why we're
All alive
To begin with?

It's sure
As hell

(Or should I say
As unsure as hell
Because no one can
Agree on anything
Even a universal a
Concept as hell)

That we're not living
To make paper
To print out our
Personal whims on.

And then think
About the butterfly effect.

there are five
and a half
blankets
piled on the end
of my bed
and if you're wondering
how i can have
half of a blanket

(well
it's a long story
but rest assured
it's not complete.)

in any case
i've tried all
of them
and none of them
are managing
to make me
feel
any better.

tomorrow
i will turn on
the printer and
attempt to salvage
what's left
of the collective
innocence of this
thwarted generation.

doubt i'll get
very far
but i can claim
what most can't
and that
my dear friends is
a little thing called
courage.

(scratch that
i'm still afraid.)

in fact
i could write
a long and
boring list
of all of my
typical
and irrational
fears.

(but i won't bother
because i trust
that you
have enough imagination
to cook up a few
for yourself.)

i'm trying
to tie up
every hanging thread
but i've been
trying for so long
that i might give up.

i remember this one time
a long time ago
when you yelled
you really yelled
over some stupid
frying pan
that i hadn't washed
or something.

no
it was definitely
a frying pan
i remember that
and i will die by the
fact it was a frying pan.

once in awhile
when someone's
mad
i stand there
woodenly
and feel disturbingly
unsafe
and i think about how
i didn't wash
that frying pan
and maybe
if i had washed that
frying pan
when you asked
neither one of us
would have a few
thousand pounds of
suppressed anger inside.

i know
i just know
you're mad
and i know
you know
that i'm mad
whether or not
i'm willing to admit
that i'm really mad
which i'm not.

(but i am
by the way.)

i'm hitting the
breaking away
but i'm hitting it
late
and i'm hitting it
hard.

like an
overly confident
concrete
wall.

back to the printer
and tomorrow
i would
hope

(and i would also
pray
if i happened to be
the praying type)

(but i am not
the praying type)

that you all know
that the very
stubborn
streak in me that
could turn out to be
my most valuable asset
is also the thing
that will
promptly
and rather
unceremoniously
deploy a
bomb.

*(just thought i should
remind you that
in every strength lies
the ***** in the armor.)

i swear
it was the longest night
of my life
and i've had a lot of long nights

i'm trying to forget
i'm trying to
i'm trying to
i'm try
i'm try
i'm
i'm
i'm

choking
suffocating
under favorite
blankets
and blanketing
thoughts

blank
mind goes
blank
free of everything
but panic
and wondering
where
my next
breath is
coming from

the last time
this blanket helped
but the last time
wasn't this bad

the walls i've stared at
for so long
have never looked
this way before

i'm trying to forget
trying to forget
i'm trying
trying
i'm
i'm
i'm
i'm

gasping
for air
but too tired
to bother

you held my hand
and promised
it would stop
i don't know
if it would have
if you hadn't said so

and when the storm
ended
you asked if i wanted
to talk about it

and i did
i swear
i wanted to
but i just couldn't
make the words
happen

i'd take you up
on that offer
the next time i happen
to be able to form a
coherent thought
outside of a poem

(which means
i'll probably
never
get around to it)

and you said not to
think about it too much
i believe you
i know you know
what you're
talking about

so i'm trying to forget
trying to
so i'm
forget
forget
forget
trying
trying
i'm try
i'm

remembering
every single
**** reason why
but all i want
is for it to
all go away.

The bench is three paces
From the bike rack
Twelve feet
To the light pole
A million miles from
Where I want to be
And eleven minutes
Closer to you.

He's circling around
The L-shaped
Concrete garden
And she's singing where
The sidewalk
Meets the asphalt
While I'm somewhere
In between them.

If this campus were
A battleground
Every one of us
Would be losing
And the shuttle bus
Would only serve to
Carry away our
Stone cold bodies.

We're all waiting
At some earthy spring
Bus stop
For the same ride
A bittersweet
Kiss of death.

Now I see a car
Coming up the hill
And I get to my feet
After all
I shouldn't keep the
Hearse waiting.

nothing has changed
in years
at least not when i look
out the window and see
the same sunsets
i've been seeing every
night when i don't want
to be inside.

there are people
who were born looking
like poetry
pink toenails
swaying to some
soft song.

there are people
who were born looking
like music
hair flowing
feet dancing to some
wild jig.

there are people
who were born looking
like a painting
their skin
harmonizing to every
untamed color.

and then there are people
who were born looking
like trees
standing straight and tall
unbending
in the wind.

looking like trees
and feeling like
tumbleweeds
born to love and
leave before the
desert storm.

blowing their way
through life.

people looking like trees
and feeling like
tumbleweeds
tumbleweeds like me.

my cracked
toenails growing down
into the floor and twisting
for something to hold onto
my hair growing upwards
through the roof and
towards the late
afternoon sun
and my skin slowly separating
into layers of bark.

every
fiber
screaming
run.

a tumbleweed
born and formed
into a tree
no longer a sapling
too late to leave
too early to die.

go home all of you
and i'll be happy
alone in the dark
the only place where a
tree can truly be
a tumbleweed.