Once in awhile
I feel inclined
To stay up all night
Writing stanzas like this.

And having drunk three
Shimmering tumblerfulls of
Self-doubting coffee
The prospect seems alive.

The longer I stay
Awake
The sooner I can
Reinvent myself.

My body is
Changing
And so is my
Soul.

And I'm beginning to see
Where I went wrong
In this world where I
Raised myself to be right.

However, if I stay awake
One cannot forget the issue of
Filled notebooks, attractive men
And tomorrow's frosted gaze.

Perhaps I will shower in
Whole-grain mustard at three a.m.

remember last
year when i
sprained my ankle
in the parking lot?

(you came along
for the limping ride
swore you were
my ride or die)

and i had forgotten
how autumnal and
the slight haze of
anxiety over the
top of my head
until i bent my leg
wrong again today
felt that old twinge

(i mean it's completely
healed it just hurts a
tiny bit if i bend it wrong
or someone sits on it)

of doubt and
apprehension
stalking me through
winter and into summer

of the future
and if i will
have to face
it alone

(a cloying
crippling
catastrophic
fear of that
someday nobody
will love me)

but it's all in my
head i know

(that someday when
i push the people i
need away they just
won't ever come back)

but then again
you said you
were my ride or die
and that means
that i can't lose
you unless i
sabotage my
own game
twist my
own sprain.

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.

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?

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 sat in the silence of a
Room eight times larger than I know
And I absorbed the six hundred
Empty chairs.

And I wrapped myself in
Miles of white fabric
And learned the feeling of
Sitting on an escalator.

The clean lines and plate-glass sunshine
Of Hermes's aqueduct
A secret passage everyone knows
You cannot fade into floral carpet.

It is a jaunty expression
To consume a length of sub sandwich
While strolling down an ally
Aware you may get mugged.

And over the years I have begun
To believe that teenage girls
Should not have camera phones
With their sneaky minds.

Somewhere along the line I learned
How to think, that silence
Is a virtue and precisely the best
Way to be alone.

I will never forget
The chandeliers of
Trapped Christmas lights
Painted in a warm glow.

Hook your arm in mine to
Stroll upon this concrete
And we will share this half
Gallon of lukewarm milk.

i've heard the songs
about killing pain

sounding like the only
way is with a vinyl
record and several
shots of something strong

(but pain isn't all
alcohol and turntables)

it's a stack of cds
still shrinkwrapped so
they shine like diamonds
a discard pile scratched and
cracked so i know that
life keeps skipping on

a fourth cup of coffee
to send my heart
rattling and my
hands shaking

(i've wished to be in
love before just so
my heartbreak could
someday be justified
but i can let the music
paint that picture easy)

buffering lyric videos
sprawled out in bed
watching the light grow
brighter behind the curtains

finding myself addicted
to pain and freezing cold
because i need the white
noise of a fan at night

*(but pain isn't all
alcohol and turntables
sometimes it's just old
boomboxes and black tea)

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 spent awhile
In a honey-barbeque
Chicken salad of
Cynicism.

And then one day
Instead of Frank
I was no longer Bryan
But a better version of my Mondays.

Or was it the
Lesser form a
Thursday takes
When you're alone?

I have a desire
Shaded in the glow
Of a stained glass
Display an hour away.

A wish, shrouded in
These filmy layers
Of forgotten words
And remembered sayings.

To be half of one
And twice of me
So I stopped seeing stars
And dropped the peace-sign for a dash.

Reinvented myself
To break all molds
And here I stand, slightly
More intact, I'm back.

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.

a naked lady on a bicycle
graces the wine bottle
i swirl the blueberry bitterness
in one of the corralware mugs
with holly berries on the rim
choke it down and wish i’d eaten
some kind of dinner besides
stray fruit and dark chocolate

is this what christmas
really means?

cold and tired
unable to feel my fingers
or my toes
or anything inside my heart
that might resemble any
kind of positive emotion

sleep
alcohol
***
food

the four basic needs
associated with being
human and getting through
a time like this

at least two of them
should help me get through
this week but this hippie
wine is all i’ve got

it’s late
it’s really
****** late
at least for me

but you stay up
to all hours

i can’t get the
wine down
but it’s okay because
i’m tired enough
that i’m already
acting drunk

and when you walk
through the back door
i’ll tackle you
stick my cold hands
under your clothes
where it’s warm
and inviting and i’ll hope
for the best

i know better than to rely
on people for getting
me through the hard times
but it’s so tempting
when you’re so soft
and warm
and you always
take care of me

and i’m so tired
so tired
so...
tired

and i want to fall asleep
in your bed
on your chest
where time doesn’t
exist and stress
is just a memory

and the only thought in
my mind is that you’re
the best thing to
ever happen to me

it’s not that i was
made this way
it’s that i was forged
in the fires this way

born
blank
formless
ready to become
something
someone

raised behind
fragile glass walls
they tapped on
and i could not
defend myself without
cracking the seal
and being blamed
for destruction

until one day
the fire came
burning around my feet
and i had
to get
out

i smashed the glass
shards in my fists
blood on my knuckles
and i’ve been fighting
ever since
that day

i was not
supposed to be this way
i was supposed to be
a fragile china doll
but this is who
i ended up

a fighter
a warrior
an impudent
little girl who
doesn’t know
when to quit

supposed to faint
at the sight of blood
not be someone who
seeks it out

supposed to be
meek
and mild
mousy

not loud
and bouncy
chatty
impulsive
or daresay
even funny

but i am
a fighter
and i will not
be stopped
i refuse to be
walked over
for any longer
than i already have

and taking my
power back means
sometimes i must
punch
sometimes i must
snarl
bare my teeth and
sharpen my nails

but it also means
sometimes i must
stand
with all the power
i know i possess
underneath the
surface
hold it back

allow my spine
to straighten
and my shoulders
to stretch

remember words like
imposing
badass
competent
and for all i have felt
that i take up too
much space in this
body of mine
i am this size because
nothing smaller
could contain
what i have inside

let my full
height rise
and my full
weight surmise
to anyone and
everyone that i

might not always spit
fire and flames
but there is a furnace
roaring at my feet

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.

Loathing upon the
Object of awaking in the
Summertime can be quite
Tenacious.

Dreamy eyes of browns
Opaque ceramic coffee cups in
Grassy fields by
Tired blackberry bushes
And, most of all, a
Gaping sensation of finality and
Sunshine.

Now I'm wondering if I will
Ever find as
Vibrant a friend as you and your
Reasonable explanations, for lack of a better word.

Flying, close your eyes and
On you'll go, far over the skyscrapers, you'll find
Utopia, and I'll find our conversations of
November through June, and drink a thousand cups of your
Dark roast.

Maybe it's strange, but I'll miss your 10 a.m.
Eyelashes and all our lovely times.

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.)

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.

The shadows flick
Faster and faster of
The fan until it
Turns into a UFO and
Detaches from the
Ceiling to fly away.

I'm drunk on
Exhaustion
High on
Poetry.

The invisible pattern
On the wall begins
To dance, the curlicues
Tangoing with fleur-d'les
To the silent drumbeat
Of my heart in my ears.

I'm intoxicated from
My thoughts
Completely smashed on
Shards of mirrors and the
Dregs of any
Innocence I had left.

I'll watch the numbers
Flash backwards, just
Let time turn around
Clocks will melt
Even in air-conditioning
I've got a
Pounding headache and
Tomorrow I'll be
Hungover
On my soul.

suicide is painless
but injustice isn't

it's not fair
it's not fair

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

and now
i'm crying

it's not fair
it's not fair

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

he was so close
so **** close

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

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

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

but it's still
not fair

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

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

he didn't get that choice

suicide is painless
but death still hurts

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

iwishiwasaperson
iwishiwasaperson
butimnotaperson
butimno­tbulletproof

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

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

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.

i bought ten scratched
albums at the thrift shop
and covered my white
pants in paint.

i  w a n t
t o  l e a v e

i'll be home
tomorrow night
and who knows
what i'll be missing

maybe him
probably not.

i've been writing letters
folding socks
drinking spicy
ginger tea but
what's really
wrong with me?

oil slick aesthetic
acne under the eyes
i wish this poetry
meant something more
than sadness
and a pretty word
but it's actually just
me thinking out loud.

showering twice a day
in this kind of drought
is not good
but neither am i

i  t    h  u  r  t  s

watch the words
fragment and break
apart so you can't
read them together

i  m    b  l  e  e  d  i  n  g

i've weighed and
weighted out my
options and all
the things that mattered
to me once just
don't anymore

s  u  i  c  i  d  e

i don't know
what i'm doing
or why or even
if anything is real

h  e  l  p
m  e

h   e   l   p

h    e    l    p

h     e     l     p

h
  e
   l
    l

     p

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?

i want a silent
night tonight

the radio
creaking out
old songs
of cheer and

red
running
down my
arms and legs

a silent
night

all the static
noises and voices
that never
shut up

quieted
just
for
tonight

the world
asleep
while my skin
weeps

a silent
night

eerily quiet
night

fluffy snow
on the ground
blankets over
my head

over my
thoughts

peace on
earth
no fear
no hurt

silent
night

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

as loud as
every other
day of
the year

and i can't
just lie here

i need a
silent night

just one
night
without noise
without a fight

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.

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

i'm just kind of
irritated is all

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

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

they could also tell you
they hate your guts

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

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

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

it was
irritating

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

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

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

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

which only added
to my irritation

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

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

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

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

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

and i'm usually somewhat
irritated with you

Tempted
I was tempted to
Walk away, to
Sit in this empty
Car, with rain on the windows
Forever.

But then the shocking
Confession was made for me
That I still sleep with a
Naked teddy bear and these
Archaic sheets of
Translucent obsessions.

I am not myself
Or a number on a scale
Or the lonely midnights
Drinking milkshakes in empty
Diners, alone but for
Those neon lights.

Those lonely midnights
That do not yet exist
And the vacant burns
Of vanity
Inscribed upon my
Favorite caveman.

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

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

how should i know
i'm just the crockpot

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

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

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

i don't want to fall
asleep tonight
not since i've been
dreaming like this

kidnapped
wrapped in plastic
shrink wrap
and forced to chew
on razorblades

last night i was
in jail but it might
have been a mental institute
halfway locked up
halfway on parole
hiding the fact
i had to be back in
my barred room
before the clock
struck noon

i don't want to fall
asleep tonight
even if i leave
the light on

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a panic attack
in a parking garage
and an elevator
to escape

(a closed box moving
rapidly downwards is
not an especially
relaxing means of escape)

a summer of brief
digital inhalations
watermelon candies
sticking to teeth

(there's nothing like
rainy cities at night
to hurt your eyes and
make you dead inside)

cold feet somebody
has got cold feet by
the air conditioner
phone in hand

come to think of it
i never really asked
for love just expected
somebody would supply

i see everything
reflections and spray
painted numbers and
multiple ellipses too many

(i say nothing
let all the images and
thoughts collide so you
think i see nothing at all)

i'm afraid and my
hands won't stop
shaking so i'm never
going outside again.

taylor swift sounds
petty and vindictive
until someone hurts you
and then suddenly
she takes the words
right out of your mouth

there are mean
people and then
there are people you trust
and one day you
realize they’re
the meanest ones of all

the mean ones
don’t bother me
it’s the other ones
that do

i just want
to be big enough
strong enough
that they can’t
hurt me
anymore

to shake it off
as it hits me
not to let it
crush me

because if anything
takes energy
i don’t have to spare
it’s being hurt

but hurt me
you do
even as you
seek my love
and forgiveness you
still manage to dig
sharp little barbs
into my skin

don’t you dare
tell me what
i’m thinking
don’t you dare
tell me what
i’m feeling

and most of all
don’t you dare
tell me how
i should be living
how i should
be dealing with
things i would like to
leave in my bad memories

but if taylor swift reminds me
of any one thing it’s that
you will probably
never change

and i just have to
roll with the punches
let ******* be *******
and never stop hustling

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.

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.

cold string lights
warm street lights

sweater
scrunchie
mask
mittens

fogged over
grey bus ride
it's always
morning
in this world
i've made for myself

tapping keys and
blazing screens and
soft wooden
electronica dreams

coffee cups with
grease on the outside
and swirling flakes
of keep it together girl

don't let your
fingers freeze
and hope that
your toes get warm

and at night pull
the velvety clouds
over your eyes
after you slip down
like hot wax
off a candle

washed down with
soap and daily regrets
washed down with
cold wine and ink

wash
rinse
repeat
tomorrow
but for
right now

*it's all over now
baby blue

i don't feel very
whole these days

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

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

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

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

laughing over
strange items
ugly clothing
even art pieces

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you could knock
me over with a
puff of smoke

you know why
i've had a headache
in my sinuses
for three days?

it's from forcing
tears to
stay
up there

you could knock
me over with a
puff of smoke
but please don't

i hate
feeling
this way

weak

weak

weak

i feel
weak ******

like you could
knock me over
with a puff of smoke
and i wouldn't
be able to
get back up

and i hate
feeling
this way

worn down
like an old
washcloth
more holes
than fabric
begging
to be
ripped in half

weak
if i open my
mouth to
speak
i will be
drowned
out in my
own sobs

wanted to believe
i was strong
as strong as
any man out there
but if i can't even
speak how can
i possibly be
that strong?

weak
my body is tired
my mind is tired
my emotions are tired
and worst of all
i'm weak

and you could
knock me over
with a puff of smoke
and i will break

*i hate feeling
weak ******

I know how to question
Authority
Now someone teach me to question
Reasonably
Why everyone settles for
Mediocrity.

I'm not
Passive
But I get
Aggressive
When society becomes
Dismissive.

Art is not a
Perforation
On an
Illustration
Of paper-doll cutouts of
Creation.

But somewhere we lost
Authenticity
With our former
Intricacies
And were stripped of all
Legitimacy.

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.

“well,” he always says
and he shrugs
“you know. it’s
pickup work.”

liquor store?
sling *****
around for a few
hours on the weekend?

pickup work.

flower shop?
haul buckets of water
huff some bleach
and lop some stems?

pickup work.

dog biscuits?
slam some dough
cut out even little
canine snacks?

pickup work.

i have a job
it could pay better
but i have a very
low standard of living

my life is better now that
i don’t come home
with the compulsion
to drink hard liquor

but things are slow
at my real job
so what do i
find myself doing?

pickup work.

i see him in my
minds eye
shrug again
as if it doesn’t matter

and it doesn’t
it’s just pickup work

but the problem with
pickup work is
what am i putting down
to pick it up?

i always thought it
was time
a few hours of sleep here
afternoon of free time there

but what about
my sanity?

what about my
mental health?

what am i
putting down
to pick
this up?

it sounds selfish
to say my peace of mind
and yet
if peace of mind
is something i want to find
it’s true

and some days i
hate this town
and i hate the way
it traps me
suffocates me
in who i used to be

when i was broke
and running

i never ran away from home
just worked 60 hours a week
so i would never
have to be there

that’s not me anymore
i like my life
i like my time
i like my quiet

and i don’t like
pickup work

especially when i think
about what i’m
putting down to
pick it up

my brain is controlled
by two halves

one half is a
pink stuffed
easter bunny
bought on sale the
tuesday after
with big glassy eyes
that don’t see
and a slightly crooked
smile that doesn’t
let the emotions through

and the other half
is a bearded dragon
all spikes and scales
it flicks its tongue
at the pink bunny
and seems to imply

“go go go
move!
keep doing
something!”

the rabbit stares
into the distance

the bearded dragon
continues standing
neck prickles twitching
desperate to make
something happen
and yet he cannot
convey this urgency
to the pink bunny

who only exists
to be held
and to sit quietly
with only his
thoughts for
company

and so the silent
struggle for
action remains
silently and
unaffected by
either party’s action

or lack
thereof

and that’s the
two halves of
my brain and how
they work together

apathetic and
yet neurotic
depressed and
yet still anxious

i went outside for a walk
took a shower when i got in

(we're not going to talk
about how i slept until
eleven and went back to
bed from one to four)

calluses coming back
to the bottoms of my feet
and those scabs and sores
on my scalp again

i tried to lower my
own standards
because i wasn't able
to meet them today

(but that leaves me
feeling like i've failed)

and i don't know how
to say what's on my mind

(i think i've hit
rock bottom
but if i made it to here
i could probably go lower)

sleep deprivation is
absolutely natural
because nothing feels real
even when i'm rested

(help)

i'm incredibly sorry
for most things i do

*(never mind.)

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?

In the delicious dusk
We danced
Let the starless fantasies
Soak into our blighted fight.

The moonlight, delectable
Moonlight flitted in the trees
A filigree pattern reminiscent
Of the wrapping papers with which
I once covered the long days
And sad afternoons I spent alone.

You removed a thermos of
Lukewarm coffee from your heart, and in
That singularly solemn week
I fell in love.
Deliciously in
The sweetest love.

But it melted with
Sugar crystals
In the first bitter
Rains of October.

And the Halloween candy
Stashed behind my door
Was forgotten in the
Loneliness
A sense of isolation I couldn't shake
Not since I'd used
Every last inch of wallpaper
On you.

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.

it hurts
a sharp jabbing
pain in my
lower side
just above my
stomach

i only feel it
when i start
to think
too hard

it often aches
throughout the day
snakes downward and wraps
itself around my legs
squeezes my muscles
so tight i can’t sleep

the pain
screams
that i am not
good enough
that i never
have been and
never will be
good enough

there are purple
bags under my eyes
i keep them full
at all times

full of
what?

full of
words

words like
“no”
“can’t”
“want”
“practical”
“best”
“should”
“plan”

heav­y
words
that pull my
head down

so that i focus
on the floor
my own feet
and the thick
vine winding
up from the
ground trying
to choke me out

lately every
step has been hard
trying to pull
the roots up
so i can begin
to move forward

it’s slow
and the pain
and the words
make it slower

and i am tired
so tired
all i want is to
stop moving
just for a
bit to rest

afraid of
what i know
about myself
and how if i
pause and
slow down

my body will
come to a
complete halt
and more of those
dead weight words
might tumble out

words like
“wrong”
“want”
“work”
“will”
“can”
“happy”
“no”

until i am buried
under an avalanche
of double negatives
and wishful thinking

and still the pain
keeps on throbbing
as i keep swallowing
down my toxic words

the sun is creeping towards
the horizon under the trees
and a sliver of moon is
all that remains of night

my chest
is tight
with heavy
dull twinges

and though i always
long for things to break
up my monotonous routine
a funeral on a thursday
morning in spring was not
exactly what i had in mind

yesterday was recycling
to the curb and while i
ripped apart boxes a
staple stabbed my finger

the sight of blood only
increased the palpitations
under my skin and i've been
trying to forget it for twelve hours

trying to forget
what's coming
ignore the sense of
gloom pooling around
my ankles and the anxiety
wound round my wrists

i just have to make it
through the morning
into the afternoon and
then i can tell the racing
thoughts in my head to
stop what they're doing

and they will
obey me

would it be too much
just to ask for a hug?