i'm feeling empty
inside
like someone took an
ice cream scoop
and hollowed out my
stomach more easily than
sawing open and
gutting out a cantaloupe.

there's nothing in there
nothing where the seat
of my emotions
used to be
because when i'm alone
even the anger
dulls to the stab of a poorly
sharpened knife.

i've stood in the hot
white kitchen with the tall
metal countertops
some stiff sort of summer
breeze fluttering the
ineffective flypaper
stringing the low ceilings
and watched you
precisely section off a
watermelon.

but now i'm the one on that
hackneyed cutting board
and you don't even notice the
juice streaming to the edge.

my overactive mind
used to be a razor
slicing quickly
almost painlessly
but now it's just a dull
serrated edge scraping
along my slowly
ripping skin.

everyone sitting at
the dinner table
passing me around and
laughing as they sink
their forks into me
and you always wondered
why i avoided family
meals at all costs.

i'm being
eaten alive
like fruit
in the summer
and your only
concern is how
many slices you'll
get out of me
and whether or not
i was sweet enough.

there is a
downside
to recovery

and that is
that you can get
so exceptionally
good at talking
yourself down that a
couple years later you
forget to question why
you're still feeling the same way.

being clean
doesn't necessarily mean
being okay.

i can only promise you
one thing

and that is that someday
there will come a moment
where i
snap.

they always told me that
depression was
anger turned inward
which i understand

but this body of mine can only
hold so much

and i can promise you
there will come a day
when i just
snap.

i'm already
cracking

and i can feel all the
anger inside
trickling out
through the
hairline fractures
in my emotions.

i can only promise you
this one thing

i don't know what will
happen
but i'm afraid for when
it does

because i remember two
moments in my past
very clearly
burned into some
heavily scarred portion
of my memories.

i remember when there was
a board somewhere
behind his door
behind his eyes
and i remember when there was
a hole where my
doorknob used to be
heart used to be.

and both times
i remember
screams
threats
and tears
i cried
and panic
cold
dark
panic set in.

he was screaming
through the door
and i can still
hear it.

i know
like i
couldn't
help it
he couldn't
help it
he just
snapped.

if i dig somewhere
below the
headache
i can still hear him.

he swore
i remember he swore
and screaming
is not a big enough word
to accurately describe
his voice
and the way the rage and
hatred still transcends
all time and space
gaps between the facts.

i can only wonder
if there was anyone
in the basement
or across the driveway
who heard how
he was going to
**** his family
**** himself.

and i wonder if anyone
ever knew
how my entire world
seized
and the teetering stability
so crucial
that i acquire
fell.

to this day
i don't know why.

all i know when we talked on the phone
he said "there are some scary people here"
and i couldn't understand
how he could be
a scary person by night
and my brother by day.

years later i stood in a hallway
next to some locked doors
and i could hear a ping-pong game on
the other side.

they told me that it was the
adult ward.

and i thought about the scary people
and then i thought about me
in the adolescent ward
and wondered if i had become
a scary person too
but i still don't know.

i don't remember that
he came to see me
but i remember that
she said
he was
upset.

one day my other
brother told me that he
had had four suicide
attempts.

but all i remember seeing was
the two a.m. kitchen
conversations about
God
perpetual blue lights
from the crack under
his bedroom door
until the sunrise
and nights where he never
came home.

there were three doors
down that hallway
one had a barricade
one had up all nights
and one had a hole
where the doorknob used to be.

we're in different hallways now
ones where the doors aren't
all in order
but i can still hear the echos
and feel the separation
pulling us apart
over meals that i would rather
eat alone
and weekend car rides spent
with headphones in.

and the walls have been painted
but i can still see every word
written in invisible ink
around each window frame

the story of a family
that slowly snapped.

i would love
to leave the house.

walk downtown
in broad daylight
find a cute coffee shop
to haunt

(with my notebooks i'd never
notice any lack of internet connection)

stroll along the moonlit
shore
dip my toes in the water
off the dock

(the only thing i'll take
advice from is a lake)

read books
all afternoon
in the stilted quiet
of the public library

(perhaps pay off my longstanding
fine like a responsible adult)

go shopping for a
brand new skirt
worn once or twice
by someone else

(and i swear i would dance
in the rain until it was soaked)

find some kind of local
museum that nobody really
cares about and go look at
something antiquated

(or i suppose i could just stay
in the secondhand shop attic)

go into a music store and
play all my worst melodies
on their guitars and ukuleles
until they kicked me out

(the discomfort on the other patron's
faces would be worth the humiliation)

oh yes
i would love
to leave the house
and i would love
to do it
alone.

every raindrop on the
car windshield turns into
an ocean

and with my luck i
could be struck by lightning
and survive.

perhaps the electrical impulses
could cosmically and
inexplicably change me

send life back into my tired
neurons and set a cold fire
deep in my bones.

so i'll stay
in this parking lot

and i'll
wait

for the blue
flash of fallout

watching the shadows of
rain run down my
own glassy skin.

it's march again
and i know what i should
be listening to

the damp spring
suddenly coming up
on traffic islands

i should be
absolutely
thunderstruck

flying through the air
head buried deep
in the wispy clouds

but i'm finding myself
lightningstruck
in place

feet on the ground
drowning in
pavement.

mauve dress pants
i would wear
mauve dress pants
in this subtle jubilation of
springish behaviors
if everyone i never
knew didn't happen
to be wearing them.

the ice cream stand
is open again
and i'm letting the
peppermint
snorkel its way up my
nasal passages
smooth away my
coral cavities.

when the weather gets
this warm
i end up spending too
much time staring at the
ceiling and tuning out
the sunshine calling.

and i wonder
if i lined the rafters
with millions of cotton *****
would they absorb the sound
of all the words spoken
that nobody ever
bothered
to listen to?

the scratchy texture of
hairspray
is holding me in place
anticipating the
rise and fall of each
easter hymn.

glue me down
for one more round.

i swear these
drum beats
are the only thing
keeping my heart going

and i would run
through the rain tonight
if i thought the cars that go
around the corners too fast
really would never see
a thing

apathy
my friends
is a dangerous game
that i was never
made to play
but i was given
too sharp a lot in life
to avoid it completely

call me a terrible liar
but if you think i'm so
bad at hiding the truth
i guess you'd never know
if i suddenly
got good at it

if i thought it would
do me any good
i would jump out
the window and run

but it wouldn't do any
good when i keep finding
myself too tired to even
turn off the lights.

i swallowed the
bathroom mirror whole
threw an entire bag
of lemon drops
into the highway and
danced on someone else's grave
in a failed attempt at
self-acceptance.

it's hard
to shatter the
saccharine sweet
taste of personal hate
sticking to my hands
like half melted wax.

i've almost
given myself permission
to fail
but not yet.

hasn't it been
stovetop memories
a couple haircuts
and one hell of a year?

scratch the back of my
neck
in a halfhearted attempt
to forget
and i'll take up burning
aluminum pillows
like i took up
loving myself.

made myself
instant today
mixed it with
coco powder
pretended that i
enjoyed drinking it

the truth is
i just can't stand the sight
of the stains in those
matching mugs
white interiors
cracked

five pm
and i'm stone cold
decaf
lonely
from the
hot water
because i gave up
on flavor

it must be nice to be
british
assuming there are less
negative emotions
associated with a bad
cup of tea.

It's eating me alive
What I think but never say
It's killing me inside
All the words I keep
Confined in one notebook
Pray that they never escape
That page and stop scraping
Their claws in my brain.

I don't hate
Showers
I hate who I find
Myself to be
When I'm that
Alone
No distractions
Just my own
Twisted mental
Interactions.

And it's not the music
That makes me sad
Because I keep switching
Genres like a genuine
Shuffle button ****
But I've come to the conclusion
That it's some kind of thermal
Curtain messing with the
Natural lighting
In my brain.

And what I want you to know
Is simple
But I won't ever tell you
Because I am not
That girl anymore
Unless of course
You're keeping up
With what's going on
Between the blue lines
And stale sheets
I sleep in every
Dark afternoon.

And sometimes it hurts
Too much for words
So I don't even
Try
Just hit that shuffle button
And pretend that the music
On the other end of these
Headphones
Can actually
Change what's in my chest cavity
Cover up what's
Lying dead and rotting
In the center of everything
I've ever felt.

But let's cut the
Metaphors and get back
To this hot glass reality
Pulled straight from
The dishwasher
After four hours
And nineteen minutes
Of steam.

I remember the moment
Exactly
I was standing with the faux oak
Cupboard doors open
And blocking the
Sunlight I so avoid
And I was thinking about
The week old sermon
Still rattling around
The shelves of my
Misplaced
Thought processes.

And then
Suddenly
After years of confusion
All the pieces snapped
Into the picture of
My epiphany
And it hit me
Hard
Too hard
Why.

I'm always wondering
Why
But sometimes wondering is easier
Than why
And not knowing is better
Than why.

So I turned around and
Changed the song
But nothing is drowning this out
Nothing is stopping
The words bleeding from
My torn nailbeds
Or changing what I keep
In the cracks of my knuckles.

The preschoolers
Are perfectly
Lined up
All of them
Staring at me
Fear widening their eyes.

I'm just the
Ticket girl
Passing on their
Papers
Before they step through
The gate.

And I've been there
Too
Scared and
Alone
Reduced to a name and
Barcode
Rushed along by
Those taller than me.

The only difference
Between you and me
Is that I'm too
Old to cry.

But I can
Guarantee that in
Fourteen years
You will be
Just like me and
Your tiny
Hands will have
Painted nails and a
Clipboard
Clicking your pen
Counting the
Blonde heads
At your feet.

You'll be
A different barcode
And you'll be the
Ticket girl instead of me.

And when you get home
And your stud earrings
Have been removed
Will you still be
Nothing more than a
Slip of paper
The water vapor that clings
To the windows?

The same
Ticket girl
Hesitating
At the gate?

You and I
We're both the same
Thinking today
Might change everything
We must be somewhere
Now
And we've
Stalled
Hit a cleanly painted
White wall
And hidden ourselves
From stepping out.

From barcodes we come
To barcodes we return
Whether or not
We're tall
Enough to be the
Ticket girl.

do you remember being
a little girl
and how your mother would
brush your hair?

every morning she
would put it up
in a ponytail
or two
maybe a braid
if things were looking
particularly
auspicious.

and every morning she
would take the tiny
jewels she carried
in her pocket
and weave them in
the hair elastics.

well, it looks like
you're older now
but you still have
things in your hair
holding you
down.

your mother's words
who you were supposed
to become
it's all tied neatly
up in your pigtails
a series of knots
no boy scout
could ever untangle.

you've taken scissors to it
enough times
i know you have
but it's no use
when they always come back
i know you're no
rapunzel
but you could be with your
tired neck.

so every night you let your
hair pull your face
down upon the pillow
and your jaw fall open
but only when it's so dark
that the eyes that are always
watching you
can't see through
the cracks
between your teeth.

you find yourself
waking up
gasping for
morning air.

or maybe you never
find yourself waking up
because in your sleep you
choke and strangle
in your own
dead weight hair.

release your fingernails
from the
firmly indented
crescent moons in your
clammy palms

breathe in
through your nose
counting to seven
exhale out
through your mouth
counting to eleven
and feel yourself
inflate and deflate
as if you were some kind
of misused balloon

take down
one of the
coat hangers that
you have strung
along your
rib cage

and clothe
yourself in the
musty disguise of
who you had
forgotten you
ever were

struggle
against the tickling
feeling in the
back of your mind
that nobody really
wants you

nobody
really
wants
you

throw it to the ground
and stomp on it
as it squirms
under the worn-off
rubber tread of your
sneakers

nobody
really
wants
you

scream at it
until your own
ears make a distinctive
popping sound

nobody
really
wants
you

the darkness
is closing in
one more day
is one too many

nobody
really
wants
you

nobody
really
wants
you

bre­athe in
through your nose
counting to seven
exhale out
through your mouth
counting to eleven
and feel yourself
inflate and deflate
as if you were a balloon
and this were your last day

give yourself
until
september

september

september

*nobody
rea­lly
wants
you

first i would take the
grassy fields that
touch the blue

and i would roll
them up
like when i was

a child helping
put away the
tape-lined carpet.

next i would skim the
clouds off the milky
backdrop of your mind

and i would stir the
sunset from straight
red plains

into a hazy
blur in the
eastern sky.

and finally i would tightly
wrap the stars in place with
a wire jewelry kit

make sure the elastic thread
around the moon was
glued and secure

flip some hidden celestial
switch and watch it
glow against cool skin.*

and i would
do all of this
for you.

have you ever felt
lost
in a deadly abyss of
thought?

it's emotionally
exhaustive
and socially
caustic
to be caught
thinking
thoughts
instead of
singing
songs.

with those
disturbing thoughts
come a lot of
perturbing feelings

and if you've ever
been unable
to explain or
detain
one of those feelings
just know that
you are not
alone.

not all of us can
assign a name
to an emotion
however benign
not all of us are so
well acquainted
with our own minds
that we can picture
the face in our brains
staring us down

but i'm daring you
the next time you
cannot justify
cannot simplify
or expedite
a feeling down
to a name
just don't
even
try.

place your finger
over that emotion
the way you would barre
your guitar strings
heart strings on
the second fret

gently
gently
run your other
hand down over
the sound hole
located somewhere
between your
stomach and
sorely neglected
central nervous system
and then pull
it back up
to play the
melody of your
most knotted
spinal chord
not too fast
not too loud

or if you find
it easier to see
the white notes laid out
unroll the shiny top
over your backbone
and press down
softly
softly
bending your fingers up
and down each
key of vertebrate
in an ascending or
descending scale
the length of which
depends upon
how tall you are.

slowly
slowly
forget
about
names
faces
sleepless nights
or how your insecurity
is still on par with
you at fourteen
when you first tried
to exploit it into music
but now you've found it best
just to tuck it behind your ears.

and learn
the cadence of
that feeling
explore each
note and tone
and play with
how it fits into
a song
surrounded by
other sounds.

you may never
play it again
you may play it
every day
for the rest of
your life

but all that is
irrelevant
in light of this
moment
a few seconds of
stilted peace and quiet.

listen to your
feelings
until your fingers
bleed
out the suppressed
emotions
society expects you
to ignore

play them like
you were in
an orchestra
and this was the
moment
of your solo

but don't
name
anything
unless you're
calling it cadd9
gsus4
em
or a7

and never
find yourself
or your
heart strings
afraid
of f#m
or even the darkest of
spinal chords
for i know that
everyone has cried
alone in the
dead of night
over the sound of
b flat.

prayer huddles
more like
prayer
hurdles

a conflict
roadkill run over
my four wheels
must jump over.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

i'm standing
in the middle
every cell wall
shuddering
at the cold hands
soaking through
my backbone

trying not to
shift my weight
or mix up my
hate to ease
these exhausted
feet of mine

do not tip
do not sway
do not tilt
i don't pray

nod politely
accept
the words they
speak.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

suspend your
smile
over your
thoughts
the way you hang
curtains in the
backseat of a hearse
say thank you
walk away

and do not trip
do not slip
do not crack
do not break
a sweat
do not
scream
the death
in your lungs
on your way
down

slipping off an innately
acquired grid and falling
into a vague state of
comfort between hell and home.

just place your feet
correctly
it's ballet
balancing the feeling of
your mother handing
you a bulletproof vest
before your
chess tournament

a dance of graceful
denial
a waltz i have
mastered
in my spare moments
between broken ankles.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

this poem is the
opposite of
watercolor silk and
cardigans
worn over any
truth i know

it's heeled boots and
red acrylic draped
on white
the eyeliner drawn
up around my
conscience

the way the
room looks when
it's empty
when what's
hanging over
the rafters
is shaded by
an enemy.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

my entire life
feels like
a prayer huddle
prayer hurdle
roadkill run over
my four wheels
can go
no further

unless i
swerve
to avoid
what i so
desperately
try to hide

or run
right over
and destroy
the lower
parts of my
pride.

because at the end
of the day
when i bend and
fade away

when i can't stop
myself from
tripping and
slipping off that
grid upon which
my sense of
direction so
relies

when i lose
those games
i play behind
my eyes

that's when i hit
the dirt track
and circle back
around
until my legs
grow sore and
my chest
will no
longer
hold air

but i still won't
break a sweat
or scream that
death

because
my eyeliner
is not
what happens
to be
running.

i'm not showering any
more frequently than
i typically do

but every time i step in
that bathtub i swear
a whole day goes by

the water falling
turns into soft
concrete

and the drain
stops up and
i'm standing

ankle deep in
a brand new
sidewalk

soap suds running down
my legs and pooling
upon an unwalked path

and heaven only knows
how long before it all cracks
and i'm free.

I see you sometimes
And I can tell from that
Faraway look in your eyes
That you spend too much time
Waiting
And not enough time
At peace
With yourself.

It feels like you've spent
Most of your life
Waiting
For the bus.

It's warm for February
But your hands are slightly
Chapped and your flannel is worn
Down and missing a button.

As the air bites your
Ears just remember your
Eyes only water when
They want to be free.

One by
One
Each piece of
Your drum kit
Flies away
One by
One
Each memory comes
Back at night.

Until all you have left
Is a snare
The same snare you
Started out on
And you're still the
Nervous kid
Who didn't make it into the
Salvation Army band.

Find a street corner
And scream at three
If you're in the right town
Nobody will question it.

It's too easy to hate the things
That are thought at night when the only
Bones that will work are
The red ones inside of your hands.

Stop
Just
Stop
Now.

All the memories that keep popping
To the surface like the
Bubbles in your carbonated
Beverage
Stop trying to
Push them back down.

STOP
JUST
STOP
NOW.

There are signs
Flashing
Warnings and
You won't listen.

YOU CAN'T
CHANGE
WHAT YOU DON'T
ACKNOWLEDGE.

And there's one more
To add to your list
Of screaming messages
Notated in black ink
On blue tape
Stuck to your cranium.

Ice and rubber
Fire and glass
If there's a cure
You haven't found it.

But now the bus is snaking
Up the hill and you're
Shifting your feet and
I can tell that you're not going to
Let your mind start wandering
Until the next time you're
Waiting for the bus
Downstream from a cigarette.

today i was thinking about
loss
and how perfect
silence is in its purest form

and i was thinking about
love
and how beautiful
music is to broken ears

and i was thinking about
how there are
a lot of versions
of myself

like playing cards
that are all the same deck
but every face is a little
different from the other

depending upon
the company
holding it
of course

but i was thinking about
which i liked best and
it's the version of me
when i'm alone

all my faces shuffled and
neatly stacked with
those useless jokers turned
inward against the others.

and then i got to thinking about
love and loss again
and i decided upon what
i would really like

and that is to find the person who
i like the version of myself with
as much as i like the version of myself
when i'm alone

and i would like to fall so deeply in
love with them that all my other
losses look to me like
the faces of playing cards.

I remember how the
Blood used to run down my back
Like I was killing
The back of my mind.

The blackness smearing
Down to my cheeks as I let
The water dissolve me like a
Sugar cube.

And I sometimes think how
Useless someone else's shoes are
Because to truly know someone
You must stand in their shower.

My shower is stained now
From the hard water
And there isn't any more
Blood.

Literal, metaphorical or
Fictional
It's all gone
Washed down the drain.

Hot, hot water
On a Friday night
Hot, hot water
It's not like it's that different.

But I still remember how the
Blood used to run down my back
Yet I'm still struggling to
**** the back of my mind.

I've made a shocking
Discovery.

None of us have
Chests.

And none of us
Ever did.

We all have green screens
Stretched over our hearts.

Stretched tight
Tight enough to suffocate.

Green screens that show us what
We want to see.

What we want each other
To be.

And it's easy to suffocate in the
Green screens they put on us.

But before you tear that fabric off
Keep one thing in mind.

You keep the editing program somewhere
Deep inside your mind.

And you're the one splicing the pictures
For everyone you meet.

And that's harder to uninstall than
What we put over our chests.

You're wearing that plaid scarf like a
Scottish ****** again
Which technically only means that
You have no fashion sense
But what you're really communicating
Is that you're sad.

Light a scented candle and stretch
Out your feet like nothing's wrong.

Hold the stoneware mug in your
Cold fingers and place your
Lip on the rim but
Don't drink.

Just let the heat slowly soak into your
Bones and try to forget the
Ukulele melody trapped helplessly in that
Sleepy head of yours.

And let the steam fog up your
Vision, just let it all go blurry
For a moment until your hands burn and
You have to rub them on your jeans.

And inhale deeply what you're
Smelling
Although it smells
Foreign to you after years of
Drinking coffee you're finally
Finding some semblance of peace
With your hot liquids and your
Hot-headed heart.

And please remember it's okay to be
Weak sometimes
And it's okay to
Drink tea sometimes.

I'm wrapped in
Black lace.

I can see the world around fuzzy lines and
I can breathe almost
Normally and I can hear
Every whisper like a scream.

But when I try to
Talk the words get
Stuck somewhere between
My throat and my lips.

My tongue is scratching
The fabric.

I'm finally used to
It all
So used to it that when I
Wake up in the morning
I don't even fight
The cloth wrapped around me.

I just roll over against
The wall and look far and wide
To all the things I can't see around
The corners of my eyes.

I can't capture
The things I can't see.

I used to want a Polaroid camera
To pocket every little grain of
World around me and now
All I want to see is the
Subtle darkness of my own
Eyelids.

That darkness used to be
Navy blue but now
It's pure black and when I stare at it
Long enough my mind
Superimposes a white filigree
Outline onto it.

Have you ever listened to
Sad music just to give you
The right to feel sad
Even if it was for the wrong reasons?

Four years ago this week
I found myself staring out
Plate glass windows at
Parked cars
The cold air trickling
Up my hoodie sleeves.

Now I'm staring at
Invisible black lace and
A lot of life lived between
The two vistas
Improvement?
Debatable
Maturity?
Non-negotiable.

My great-grandmother's shawl
Is still hanging in the
Back of my closet but I swear
It's wrapped around my face sometimes
And my old hoodie is
Lying on the floor at
The foot of my bed but I swear
I feel it creeping down my arms sometimes.

I never knew my great-grandmother
But I doubt she was a terribly pleasant person
Judging from the rest
Of my family.

Yet I doubt that any of my long-lost
Relatives ever held as tight a
Chokehold on someone as her
Black lace has on me.

I'm slowly dying inside
And when death catches up
With my physiology
I hope they send my body to the
Funeral home and clear out the
Weeds around the pond
Then have a bonfire
Of my notebooks and clothes in the
Back field some unreasonably
Lovely summer evening.

And I hope they burn that
******* black lace with it.

We do not speak
Of what happened in the woods.

It was a
Smashing good
Night
Smashing good
Show
Simply
Smashing.

I brandished a golf club
And the remnants of
My self-respect
But didn't we all?

We do not speak
Of what happened in the woods.

Three wine glasses
One mug
Three jars
A house fan
Two buckets
A glass globe
Half a tent
A milk jug
And a lawn chair
Met their demise
At the hands of a string
Of curse words.

I doubt that you could
Break the five of us apart
Now that we've shattered
This glass together.

And I'll start checking off
Those daring
Squares on my
Bucket list.

But we do not speak
No, we never
Ever speak
Of what happened in the woods.

There are things I love
And things I loathe.

Maybe I woke up
On the wrong side of the bed
Or the same side of the bed
I wake up on every morning.

Or maybe I don't do well
On mornings after I've cried.

Maybe I'm just
Naturally a little
Bit meaner than
I look.

Not that I don't have a heart
Of gold and good intentions
But you know what they say
About good intentions.

There are things I love
And things I loathe.

And today fell more on
The second side.

i'm a lot like
one of those books that
you don't like until the
fourth chapter or so.

but i swear that if you
will just stick with me somewhere
along the way you'll
realize i'm not so bad after all.

My therapist has a
white noise machine
Outside her
office door.

It sounds like a
box fan in the
Summer and a
coffee *** in the
Morning and a
distant vacuum cleaner
All at once.

And you can hear
voices over it but
You can't hear
what they're saying.

I have a
white noise machine
Somewhere in the
back of my head.

It sounds like
radio static
The loose noise
they put in the
Backing tracks of
songs and it never
Shuts off.

And I can hear my
thoughts over it but
I can't hear
what they're saying.

They're lighting the
Candles
In front of the
Pulpit
And the edges of the
Music stands are
Wavering as the
Heat begins to rise.

The greenery
Around the
Cold windowsills
Just sits
There's a scar on my right
Thumb from that one
Time during Silent Night
When I got too close to the flame.

And I could reach out
And touch the table
They're sitting on
The purple and
Pink and
Waxen white.

I could come in the
Dead of night and
Light one
Flimsy match and
Watch all five candles
Drip down.

And then I could
Push the table over and
Watch the rug catch
And spread to the
Walls and watch the whole
Building take like a
Gasoline-soaked
House of cards.

But now somebody's
Passing the offering and
I'm scrambling for my wallet
The nickles and dimes add
Up to new windows but my
View never changes.

i've never met a
poet who wasn't
pretentious
not that they're that way
all the time and not
that it's a bad thing.

but it's expected for
anyone with a mind loud
enough to put words together
in an artistic manner and
assume that others
actually want to read them.

i've never met a
poet who wasn't
pretentious
even if only on paper.

i make my bed
four times a year
because when the blankets
are on correctly
it's not easily accessible
to wear as a cape.

and i sometimes wish that
i could get out of my
own
******
head
and open up enough
to love someone
else for once.

i sometimes spray more
perfume on my
pajamas than my
dresses it's not
aromatherapy but sometimes
i calm down.

sometimes i manage to
forget
about these
disturbing
thoughts
just
reverberating
through my mind.

and sometimes i just
fall apart
but sometimes i pull
myself together.

today is the sum
of those times.

it doesn't have to be
perfect.

you're cutting demos
not diamonds.

i'm creating paragraphs
not parachutes.

she's drawing pictures
not pistols.

he's constructing bookshelves
not buildings.

we're making differences
not disasters.

we don't have to be
perfect
to be
poets.

i was broken
once.

i don't even know what
i was before
maybe a vase or a
common water glass
a ceramic mug or a glowing
stained glass window.

i don't know how
it happened maybe i
got dropped or cracked through
contact or the temperature
changed too quickly for
my fragile self to handle.

and i don't know who or
what cracked me like my
twelve year old cd cases
or if it was a slow stress
fracture brought on
by myself.

but the signs are
there
that i was broken
once.

yes, i was
broken
once
and i am still
shattered
in my darkest places.

but i make a
**** good mosaic.

you're painting
the kitchen walls
baby duck
yellow.

you have houseplants
despite the lack of
sunlight
but i don't
think you know how
dark it really is.

you painted
my bedroom walls
dark green
i guess you covered
up the words i once
carved in the wall.

florals and snowflakes
now you get the
keyring and
i promise we won't
accidentally break in
like we did to him.

i might be an
incurable cynic
(which i know you
never know how to take)
but i sincerely hope
you're happy here.

i sincerely hope
my pessimism is not
cooling down your
prewarmed house.

i sincerely hope
you never become
jaded by who you
learn people truly are.

and i sincerely hope that
whatever darkness you may
or may not find never dims
your new living room light
or the radiance you've
always carried with you.

i'm cold
and damply
drowning in
all these
blackish
tones and tunes.

it's hard
to find
a song to
err on the
side of
brighter hues.

especially
when i'm so
frostily
submerged
in these
tonal blues.

i see
eyelashes
that you
can't.

they lurk
in the corners
of my sleep
deprived eyes.

fuzzy blurs
that struggle to
pull my swollen
eyelids down.

they frame
the entire
periphery of
my world.

sometimes i pull
them out because
they won't stop
dragging me down.

i don't know
if your
eyelashes
look like mine.

but i have always
imagined
that we're
all the same.

i freaked out
last night.

blind spots
ripped blue
jeans sleep
deprivation.

and i freaked out
last night.

crying
i cried like
the sky was
falling.

maybe the sky
was falling.

hang these
powerpoints
from the tallest
tower
and come
sunday morning
we will
parade their
pixalated carcasses
through the streets.

but i'm not
leaving.

i freaked out
last night.

my palpitating
thoughts
my phone keeps
buzzing
like i have some
kind of
responsibility to
the sneaky sneaky
women on the other
side of my texts.

not when i freaked out
last night.



Copyright 12/6/15 by B. E. McComb

December
and anyone in the
woods could see the five
idiots on the back deck.

wrapped in blankets
and circled up like
Indians who drink cranberry
Canada Dry ginger ale.

Saturday afternoon
empty house
i wish i felt
different.

sunshine flickering
through the steam between
my fingers and over the
furry blanket.

i've always liked looking
out the back windshield
with swollen eyes at
what i'm leaving behind.

home again and
nothing is different
it's just i've
gotten worse.

and i'm crying
when it hits me
i'm finally
alone.

but i have a
blanket to wrap
myself up in
so everything's fine.

if i ever
find someone
to love
me
they'll love
the mole
on my chin
the bump
by my eye
my toenails
my stretch
marks and
every last
faded
scar
every last one
of my
flaws.

if i ever
love
myself
i'll love
the mole
on my chin
the bump
by my eye
my toenails
my stretch
marks and
every last
faded
scar
every last
flaw.

but don't
you dare
tell me
that the
two are
related.

what a
hipster
oh
what a
hipster
i could be.

i've got enough
plaid shirts and
iconic sneakers
might need a few
more pairs of
skinny jeans

my coffee
consumption's
sure high enough
and i'm about as
bitter as my brew
before the sugar.

what a
hipster
oh
what a
hipster
i could be.

if i changed my
music collection
and got thicker
glasses in an attempt
to see through my
own blindness

it would be a
simple matter
to disown my
sense of self
and buy a
flower crown.

what a
hipster
oh
what a
hipster
i could be.

for now i'll
stay myself
and acknowledge
that nonconformity
the blissful irony
that i just don't try.

let me tell you a story
about a girl and a pie
the boy doesn't enter
until the next stanza.

she made this boy a pie one fall
suggesting the possibility of
a romance with commitment
as short lived as her flakey crust.

he took it the opposite way
that their love was as deep as her
smooth pumpkin filling
and married her on the spot.

At nine p.m.
      they roll up
            the crooked
                  sidewalks
                        like they're
                              fabric bolts.

And every neon
      light in the diner
            window flickers
                  in commercial dim.

When winter comes
      sometimes i drive past
            the closed ice cream stand
                  and think about what i never did.

At nine p.m.
      they shut off
            their overhead
                  living room lights.

Every dog is
      in for the night
            and only the cats
                  are crossing the street.

Small town
      cozy village
            happy people
                  normal sleepers.

                  so incredibly
            law-abiding
      stability's key
Not like me.

                             at nine p.m.
                        they roll up
                  the crooked
            sidewalks
      like they're
Fabric bolts.

                              but i've always
                        felt the need to
                  walk the streets
           around ten p.m.
      pretend they're
Still concrete.

I have a
Legacy.

Old Christmas lights
Vinyl siding
Rusted bicycles sprawled
On thumbnail lawns.

Two a.m cigarettes
On wooden porches
Scaffolding to store
Gasoline cans under.

I have a
Legacy.

"You were raised in
A trailer park."

But wasn't I?
Wasn't it the truth?

I have a
Legacy
A life that I
Escaped.

Thumbnail lawns can't
Compare to the life I got.

But not all will have
That kind of chance.

Remember when
We took a daycation?

Waterfalls
For days.

Milk bottle
Sepia vinyl.

Ice cream and
Truck drivers.

Ballerina buns and
Bare necks.

Waterfalls
For days.

Oblivion, the
Falling leaves.

Backseat
Views.

Gravel paths, we
Walked.

Waterfalls
For days.

Blue, blue
Skies.

Crystal
Springs.

Damp red
Leaves.

Waterfalls
For days.

Apples
Were just in season.

Photos
Wagging tails.

Honey tea
Quilted snuggles.

Waterfalls
For days.

Maybe it was
Just a dream.

Next thing
I knew.

I was throwing
A textbook at the wall.

Waterfalls
For days.

I was
Okay.

I swear, for
One day.

I was
Myself again.

Waterfalls
For days.

Remember when
We took a daycation?

I'm
Done
I simply
Refuse
To be
Pretty.

Cute, maybe
Adorable, sure
I could stand a shot at
Beauty.

But I will
Not
I repeat
Not
Conform to
Pretty.

It's surely
Nice to be
Pretty
But I'd rather
Take my
Sincerity
Or hilarity.

And I won't
Sacrifice my
Dignity for
Regularity.

Pretty faces are
For sale at a
Dime a dozen on
Our magazines
But I'm looking for
More than eyeliner
And lipstick
Guillotines.

I moved past
Pretty
Lost my shot at
Perfection
When I found a
Crack
In my gritty reflection.

Not to say I'm giving up
On my beauty intention
But woman cannot survive
On wardrobe interventions.

Anxiety keeps Depression
Up all night and then
Depression sleeps
All day.

And every day they
Argue over the things they
Did or didn't say
Did or didn't do.

Sometimes they watch
TV together
But they never
Enjoy it.

Anxiety is in college and
Depression doesn't help her
Edit her papers when
She asks nicely.

Depression had a good job
She enjoyed but she ended up
Losing it and now Anxiety
Nags at her to find another.

Neither of them can
Find friends, so even though
They hate each other
They're all they've got.

They keep trying to date
But every time one brings
Home someone else, the
Other scares them off.

Depression is messy
With piles everywhere
But Anxiety keeps the kitchen
Spotlessly clean.

Anxiety can't stop bossing
Depression around
But Depression can't stop pulling
The covers over her head.

Anxiety and Depression
Are roommates
In a mental
Apartment building.

And I'm waiting for Anxiety
To forget to renew the lease
And Depression to be too
Tired to do it herself.

I don't think I'll write
A suicide note.

What an obvious
Statement, when
I'm plainly not
Contemplating suicide.

But I never liked the idea
Of suicide notes.

And it was not
The idea that
Somebody had
Killed themselves.

It was the idea that
Somebody could have such a sad
Life that they could fit
All they had to say into one letter.

"darling
get out of
bed
drink a cup of
coffee
put on some
eyeliner
and i promise
you'll feel
better."

We all need
A sanctuary.

Admittedly, I've got
My own
Maybe most of us
Do.

But mine has cracks in
The walls and dirt
On the glass and too
Many memories.

But we all need
A sanctuary.

Admittedly, sometimes I
Borrow someone else's
Lie on the floor and stare
Up at my anxieties.

Watch the yellow light flicker
Under the dim wooden
Pews, the lines where the
Walls meet.

We all need
A sanctuary.

Nothing
Has changed.

They're preaching from
The same pulpit
Every Sunday morning
And I'm wearing this same
Pasted on piety like it's not
A grimy dress.

We're all talking and talking
About change.

And I've got a shiny
New haircut, the
Picture of change
Yet I'm still staring out
That same
**** window.

NOTHING HAS
CHANGED.

LITERALLY NOTHING
HAS CHANGED.

I'm pretty...
Pretty what?
Not PRETTY
I'm just
Pretty
******.

NOTHING
Has changed.

So how am I
Not the same?

Honestly, it's hard to find
One who's soul matches yours
One who radiates light and honesty, when
Kindergarten is a decade behind.

It's hard to find someone who's not a
Superficial saying.

A relief, it is then, to have you.

Cups of coffee in the afternoon
Our strolls down leaflined sidewalks, on
Dreamy mornings it's good to have a
Friend, when true friends are hard to find
I know that I always have
Somebody, and I hope you always know you
Have somebody, too.