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.

it’s the kind of day
that makes your
jaw ache and the
soreness settle in
even the youngest
of bones

(“rainy days and mondays
always bring me down”
but rainy mondays are
guaranteed to be worse)

i worry too much
care too much
cry too much
think too much

it’s about time
to start thinking about
what happens when
seasonal depression hits

about time to start
making plans for
the rest of my
everloving life

it’s hard for me
to make plans
hard for me to
admit that maybe
my life won’t always
make me miserable

i struggle with
feeling powerless

watching those around
me suffer
trying every day to make
someone smile

and then one monday
picking up a paper
and seeing that one of those
smiles is no longer with us

nobody tells the barista
and they tell me it’s hard to find
out someone you know has died
by looking at a work ticket

but i’m just the girl who
makes your coffee and
wraps your bouquets and
no matter how much i
truly genuinely care about
each face in this town i know

at the end of the day
i have to face that
nothing can change
the inevitabilities

that nothing i say
can really help
the world will still
turn without me
like it turns without
others who are gone

i know i sound
pessimistic
i’m sorry
it’s just a rainy
day or monday
getting me down

i'm scared
to death

(it will be exactly three
months before christmas)

and i don't
want to
find myself
alone that
night and
fighting

(it hurts to even
think about it
because i'm still so
low it sounds okay)

but i don't want
to go anywhere
be with anyone
because there
are demons we
have to deck ourselves
and dates we
have to face alone

(on the other hand
who knows what might
happen if i were alone
i don't even know)

and i just wish that
none of this had
ever happened but
oh well it did

and now i have to
face the terrible
pain of seeing the
rest of the fall

(the chill in my
knuckles on
halloween
the pie dough
under my nails
thanksgiving day)

and into
winter

(tape scrapped
palms before
christmas
hot mugs of tea
for the rest of
eternity)

and on and
on for the
rest of time
and i don't
want the
rest of time

(i'd take the clock
off the wall and
crank the hands
around backwards
to give myself a
second chance but
denial won't help
anything at all.)

i've always hated
feeling trapped.

red hands
raw meat
up to my elbows
in hamburger

chunks of bread
spices, eggs
just doing
my job

sculpting each
meatball
carefully
in my hands

rubber gloves
metal tools

surgery
why
them and
not me

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

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

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

another day
in paradise
cold fingers
meat on hands

family is
a knife
cutting birthday cake
cutting roast dinner

cutting paper
and ribbon to wrap
and slicing through
to open the gift

a knife
for what we
do together

but knives
are used
to sever

and when it
pierces
skin it’s that
much more
painful
when the ties
which bind
so easily
strangle

a blade
hanging out
of my side
and everyone pretends
they don’t notice
until they twist
the knife deeper
just to hurt us

i want to
chop onions
slice open
green peppers
add them to dinner
make something
that brings
somebody together

but you
want to
make people
hurt

family is
a knife

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

if you've got
four men
you've got
eight legs

(how profound
now shut up
and go to sleep
you're tired)

i am tired
sorry

everything around
me is bothering me
the furniture
what's on the furniture
the mismatch of
colors everywhere

(i hate it when i get
into the car and say
that i'm tired and you
ask me why i'm tired)

like i'm just
tired okay
i'm sorry
i can't help it

that the textures all
make my head hurt
pound and ache
and i'm crying

i'm crying because
i made a choice today
and i'm going
to keep living
even though
it hurts me.

Rumble strips and road trips
Drive until I catch the night
Right shoulder tears for all my fears
Thruways admit I lost the fight.

An eye for an eye
Left turn for left turn
GPSs always lie
A truth for a truth
Reroute our directions but we'll
Never regain our wasted youth.

Now again I'm drifting off
The road signs mean I'm never lost
But the rumble strip will always grind
Until I forget what I drove to find.

Highway markers flashing by
In tired hate I wonder why
Until the sun must also rise
This painful day will be reprised.

Hands off the wheel, forget to blink
This desolate night is not what you think
A split second glance in my rearview
Confirms what I already knew
For though my stance to run was wrong
There's no denying you were in the back seat all along.

steeped my
skin in ginger
a bathtub brew and
sweaty forehead

but i was
the teabag.

when i shut
my eyes
all i could see
was red lines

rubbing where
they should be
remembering
squinting my eyes
in main street sun
thighs burning

(dear goodness
i don't know how
i ended up here
again after so long)

opened my eyes
saw my wrists

white and
whiter scarred
but i always
picture them as
red and
redder slit.

gasping for hot
and humid air
motivation is
strangely illusive
but visualization
forever inclusive.

i'm boiling alive
or bathing to die
in scalding bathrooms
of appalling apathy.

2/11/17
i've had moments
here and there in golden
sneakers and navy blue
lace covered dresses
but i'm not the girl
in an owl city song
not something worth
writing dreamy poems
about not so lovestruck you
replace your words with dada

9/18/18
same sneakers
same dress
same faces
fresh sweat

suddenly the stars
all fall together
and my life comes
careening full circle

your arms around my waist
flashing blue lights
in our eyes as i scream
every word that kept me
sane through years of
hopelessness and rain

you move your mouth
trying your best to
sing along with me
but it all comes out dada

and shockingly
blindingly
i can see myself
clearly

and i find myself at last
the girl in an owl city song
hand in hand with
my very own adam young

now i know
all wishes come true
even the ones you didn’t
realize you made

and isn’t it the most
incredible
impossible
cosmic destiny
how years after we stop
dreaming
when we storm on through
washed out hopes

one day the pieces
just fall into place
with closure and new
beginnings all at once

rainbows and clouds
epiphanies and ecstasy
dreams and the dreamers
you and me

Line up the
Bottles on your dresser
Ordered
And measured
Have the water
Lines gone down?

So much perfume
So little time
So much bodyspray, our
Well-scented crimes.

Can I smell
Better than the
Next girl?
Should today be
"Fruited Almond Flower Quell"
Or "Coconut Island Sugar Swirl"?

What does it matter?
Just bathe in it
There's always tomorrow for
"French Hibiscus Pomegranate".

Because we're all just
Femme fatales
Or maybe our nostrils
Can no longer smell.

plan a.
1. take each day one step at a time.
2. find a college and go there.
3. take each day one step at a time.
4. get a job and pay off your student debt.
5. live a life that you're afraid of.

plan b.
1. take up bicycling.
2. get a job and bicycle to it.
3. make money at the job.
4. save the money.
5. don't buy a car with the money.

plan c.
1. offer your services doing lawn care.
2. suffer all winter when you can't do lawn care.
3. take care of a lot of lawns in the spring.
4. make friends with lots of lawn owners.
5. use your connections to full advantage.

plan d.
1. sell your cd collection on ebay.
2. get a tattoo of a cassette tape.
3. invest in a pile of used vinyl.
4. work as a waitress.
5. save tips for concerts.

plan e.
1. hop on a greyhound bus.
2. go to whichever city the wind takes you.
3. take polaroid pictures of the city.
4. sell them to tourists.
5. starve to death.

plan f.
1. give up.
2. scrap that and try again.
3. because you're not a quitter.
4. and quitting at life.
5. was never an option.

plan g.
1. go to beauty school.
2. make people feel pretty.
3. go home and feel less ugly yourself.
4. donate money to charity.
5. hope that karma pays you back.

plan h.
1. pack up with your friends.
2. move to alaska.
3. work over the internet.
4. grow vegetables to offset the cost of hot tea and alcohol.
5. find something to love.

*(and just think how all of
these plans could be done in
one lifetime and how it takes
that many misses to find the hit
i'll give you a hint the thing you
have to learn to love is the one
thing that stayed with you
every step of the way.)

snorting burned toast
too late in the day to
call it a complete and
nutritious breakfast

(i have my heroes
but i also know that i
will never be a hero
to someone like me)

i'm not going
to make it that far.

(call me defeatist but
i guess you're right)

that's what i haven't
been saying is that
i'm not making plans
for the fall or the spring
or the rest of my life
because i'm afraid or
maybe convinced that i'm
not going to make it that far

because before the snow
covers the lawn in quiet
white layers i will be sprinkled
over top of the grass in the
form of a grayish powder
and misplaced hymns

(i doubt that all of us
were born to live)

nosedive into a
sandwich smothered
in over-sweetened
jelly regrets

and forget about the
haunting sweat that
you can't wash off
of the back of your neck

(the nice thing about
dying young is that
you'll have the rest of
your life to forget me)

headfirst slam into
the midnight sky
i cracked my skull
open on the moon

the milky way poured
out from behind my
eyes and galaxies came
up out of my throat

bits and pieces of me have
died here and there along
the way like ripped out
pieces of that hateful lawn

(the reason i want
to be forgotten is
because i was never
worth remembering)

but really it's just that
death and darkness are such nice
peaceful calm and reasonable
topics to discuss at length.

it's really too bad
that nicotine
leads to addiction

and it's too bad
that street drugs
cost so much

too bad that
alcohol isn't
given to minors

too bad that
i can't afford
to properly
destroy myself

too bad that
i've always
felt the need to.

It's so
yellow
The walls are
all yellow
It's so
empty
And I can't
look up from the
Golden
table.

I guess I just
don't have
Anything
to say.

It's got some
yellow
Sticking my toes
between strands of
Scratchy acrylic
my mother's words
An unintentional reminder of
who I am not.

Sunlight
yellow
Containers
yellow
I DON'T HAVE
THE PATIENCE
to pick at the beaded
lint
MAKE IT ALL STOP
YELLOWING

I won't
yellow
I'll be
YELLING
screaming
IT'S ALL
yellow.

Sunday morning monologues
Front row fixtures
Dreamy papercup dialogues
And cracked tile constellations.

It's safe inside these walls
Safe, they scream, safe
And behind my smiles and uplifted hands is
My never ending unease.

Sunday morning monologues
Front row fakes
Sunshine maple tree jogs
And stained tile motivations.

I could stand up
Leave those lyrics running
Walk out
And never come back.

Or take to the mic
And scream every last
One of my insecurities
To the whole dang world.

But I'll never
Do either.

Sunday morning monologues
And front row blanks.

have you ever looked
at a house and felt
a crippling pain that
you couldn’t go in it?

i have
every day i see my own
front porch
and every day i see the house
still in someone else’s name
but not for much longer

the first hurt is raw
ripping and searing
through my heart
and running into hot
cinnamon fire tears
burning my cheeks

the second hurt is dull
stinging like a
badly sharpened knife
over skin or knowing
what your birthday
present is but having
to wait while not
letting on you know

i grew accustomed to
the custom of becoming
myself in this house
but the walls i grew up in
grew inward too tightly
around me to choke me

and still i have
a pillow to bury my
face in at night
a shower to wash off
the day dust
a kitchen to stand in
when i’m feeling
a bit lost

but lost is the only
feeling i have
when i’m here
in this house

i don’t live here
anymore

i live on my feet
behind counters
through the parking lot
and up the sidewalk

slipping in before
the sun is up
and dragging out
when others are in bed

feeling small
on a dull afternoon
when i can only curl
up on the couch
to think
and wait

time in between
that’s now

time between shifts
and time between living
in my house
and finding my home

it’s not so much
the waiting game
it’s the feeling
that i’m alone

that nobody
wants me

so close and
yet so far
almost there
but stuck here

just keep
the worn floors clean
music playing
and make sure
the janky old doors
are locked at night

this is my town
this is my home now

this town will take
care of me

as i’m wandering through it
halfway homeless

There are
Cities
In me.

A small town girl full of
Cities.

The only time I am ever
Alone
Is when the oceans of
People
Surround me
Concrete walls and window tiles
Every face dissolves
Into every other, just
Blur the skylines
A little more.

I always feel the restless
Energy, but only when
The ceaseless floods of
Mankind wash me over.

There are
Cities
In me.

Every block, every brick
Every beam and every balcony
Every inch of this
World in me.

There are
Cities
In me.

But I saw once face
In all the seas of shifting life
And suddenly the smoke-rimmed sky
Parted ways for you.

On the escalator mountaintop
Friday evening at seven
One face, one name
Made its way through
The tiled maze, and then
Astoundingly
I woke up from my
Metropolis dreams.

In one split
Second, the thousands of
Souls, all shoved
Together, swayed
To reveal
Just two souls, spotlighted
You
And me.

There are cities
In me
But never
Can anyone
But you
Light up the roving night.

i'm eighteen and
my mind is running away

you're screaming
ranting and raving
but don't know you're
doing it and don't know
that i'm crawling
inside a cave where
nothing can touch me
except wanting to die

you were grumbling after
dinner that i don't talk
to anybody anymore
but you don't know that i'm
not lacking words i'm just
lacking the energy
that it would take to
use any of them

(flashbacks to all the times recently
you've complained i don't love you
anymore. to my whole lifetime of
wondering if you loved me at all)

i'm thirteen and
unaware of my anxiety
associated with existence
usually put in in writing as
"pressure". but you don't think
there's anyone pressuring me

i talk too much to too
many people and have
been hurt before. but
never in that abject
way of it being because
i set myself up for it

(emotions so haywire that i end
up hospitalized over a box of
broken cd cases. now that i
remember it i was rage cleaning
and would unquestionably have
an even worse reaction today)

i'm seven and
having another ocular
migraine even though
i don't know it

(the past as as brittle as the
uncooked spaghetti filched
from the box and wedging
between my crooked teeth)

my memory fails me
whether you steamed
your way through preparing
dinner in the kitchen of faded
herbal wallpaper with words
and woodgrain. if i've been
tuning it out all this time
only to notice recently

("you're just like me" you said today
my seven-year old self thinks that's cool
while my current self is wishing to
deck someone while saying nothing)

today and tonight when intrusive
memories keep coming back is when i
remember that if i don't automatically
see things from your side there will
be a row. despite the fact you have
never investigated my perspective

(you're complaining about how
badly you sleep and how it's my
fault for waking you up at
four a.m. but did you ever stop
to ask why the ******* your
daughter is awake at four a.m.)

"my whole body hurts" you said
having taken some chronic
illnesses for some light grocery
shopping and attend a reception
"so does mine" i said
having taken a dark cloud
with me to work and
a panic attack to the library
"mine hurts worse" you replied
"and how do you know that" i demanded
sweeping my sadness off the kitchen table
"because i just do"

i guess your problem is that you
don't know how to be in pain without
minimizing mine but how hypocritical
when i'm over here minimizing
your pain to justify the fact that
my brain is trying to **** my body

(one of these days i fear what
i don't say will get the best
of me and i will crack clean
in two. start screaming
through doors death threats
ending in quadruple homicide
accompanied by my own
swinging body. it's not that
i hate everyone i just hate
feeling like i hate everyone)

but for now i'm investigating the perspective
so startlingly clear that you never loved me
just did what was required of you and so by that
standard i never would have loved you either

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.

If I could give you
A thousand smiles
I would bottle them up
For you to take out on a rainy day.

If I could give you
A million hugs
I would put them in a box
And write your name on the lid.

If I could give you
Ten thousand perfect days
I'd put them in a saltshaker
And sprinkle them out on you one by one.

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.

Give me approximately
Seven seconds
To sit on
The universe.

It may take
A lifetime of walks
In green gardens.

Or perhaps ten years
Of white front
Porches.

But I will stand
Upon the red
Roof of this
Convertible.

Against the blue sky
And yellow tulips
These primary colors
Will be etched.

Etched
Not upon
May
But purely upon
The defeated
Twilight sky.

scared is not
a good enough
word for how
i'm feeling

peeking through
a crack in the
curtain of who
i am as a person

(like a dumb
teenage boy
hoping to see
some girl's skin)

and being
surprised to find
the lights on and
no one home

(not that i should
find that surprising
when i haven't seen
myself around town)

like i moved onto
the back porch of
a stranger and never
went back home

(sleeping in the weather
and knowing that i've
chosen to be homeless
in pursuit of a feeling)

trapped in a
small town
by small mentalities
of who i should be

getting drunk and
laid while wishing
i was burning trash
alone in the woods

(the long
and short
of it is
i lost myself
or that i never really
had myself at all)

we hold onto
things and places
people and faces
that feel like home
even if we don't love them
even if they don't love us
because we want security
while growing up

(can't shake the memories
from dresses hanging
in the backs of closets
clinging like that knockoff
pink perfume that took
last shreds of innocence)

and i'm scared
i'm ******* scared
of being
okay

because i've  hung
onto my sadness
like i hung onto
an old hoodie

(walked hand in
hand with darkness
the only thing i've
always had to fall on)

and now i'm standing
tapping on the window
trying to figure out if
the person i'm looking
for is hiding behind the
stacked moving boxes
if they were ever here
in the first place

i don't see her
but i have to find her
and i can't escape
i can only drag
myself up with a
questionable safety harness
determination and
broken fingernails

**this is ativan up
not ativan out

their faces
come back in
my dreams

i still feel
the knots in
my stomach

a choke in
my throat
when i wake

and it doesn't
make sense yet

it may
never

but the skin
is starting to
seal the
splinters in

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

(washed out
and falling
through a pastel
hued autumn
into winter white
and worried)

thick and fuzzy
headed through
multi-toned rings
dimmed down
colorless jewelry
that doesn't fit me

(if i shut my eyes i
can see colors bouncing
through the gray
matter lost to time)

and i'm sorry
for who i've become
sorry for who
i always was

(shouting in colors
outside and
choked in monotones
where it matters)

yellow and navy
to match my
favorite pillowcase
the one place i've
found my head
feeling safe

(i love the darkness until
it swallows me whole
and i can't find my way
back into the light)*

a rose gold
regret
a lifetime of
my own
eyelids to
forget.

head for
the jeeps

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

head for
the jeeps

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

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

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

and i'm alone
with the enemy

in war there
are only winners
losers
and prisoners.

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

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

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

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

I bought a paper
Bag of sunshine
Stood on dry pavement in
An early autumn rainstorm
And let the damp crush it
Crumpled brown paper bag.

I remember a car trip in
A vehicle similar to this one
And how I had notebook paper and
A purple pen with purple ink
I guess that old Barbie pen was
My first love.

Honestly, my nose is cold but
It's not raining
And my socks are keeping
Me and my massive sweatshirt warm.

Pink braid, pink shoes
I'd like to think I'm wiser
As wise as the owl on my keys
Too wise to write a letter like I did.

Part you, part her
Part him, part them
Part coffee breath but mostly
I wrote this brown paper poem.

nostalgia
hit me this morning
washed over me in
a wave of memories
so strong i could only
stand there until it passed

as i stood alone
counting money
that wasn’t mine
on a morning i didn’t
want to be awake
much less here

the words to an old
song trickled through
my mind and i could
hear my mother’s voice

see the glowing
stained glass turtle
in the corner of my
childhood bedroom
feel her hand
on my back

and i remembered
how it felt to be loved
and i missed it
missed her
missed who i was
before i learned
to take care
of myself

and i’ve been feeling
something lately
something like a wistful
kind of missing
what might have been
had i been different

something like the feeling
you get when you’re sitting
on a cold concrete floor
of the thrift store
running your fingers down
the spines of old cd cases
his hand on the top of
your head as you talk about
things you might need for
your first home together

and you find an album that
you had right in the middle
of your extensive list of cds
to buy when you were twelve

and you flip it over
look at the songs
think for a long
minute about how
happy this once
would have made you

before realizing
it doesn’t make you
happy now because
you’re somebody else

and you put it back
stand up and go to
look at furniture and
dishes and things
to take into your
future and you leave
your past hopes and
unresolved dreams back
there in the stacks
of other people’s discarded
songs and half finished stories
where you found it

and that’s what
life comes down to

the melodies that sometimes
flicker through our minds

and the possessions we
let pass through our hands

what we keep
what we let go

i’m ready
to let it go
childhood
the life given to me
before i was capable
of building my own

i’ve made a
new one
found a new
family and
there’s just
one last step

let the past all go
and find the only
thing i miss
from those days

peace of mind
no concept of time
falling asleep to
the hum of a
box fan and waking
up to a fresh sunrise

no more
constant buzzing
in my brain
of what ifs and
might have beens
just blank and
pale silence like
fresh fallen snow
that muffles it all

spring to summer
fall to winter
just constant
quiet in my mind

i’m pleading with
my own thoughts
please just let
myself go

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.

january

whispering to myself
it’s okay
it’s okay
it’s. okay.
relax relax
RELAX

the anxious loop
in my brain now
redirected into
more ****** activities

recreation
with hands and lips
and my heart hammering
in my chest

getting home late
and having to get up
early isn’t the worst part
the worst part
is the guilt that tries to
block my airways

february

the freezer is two inches
further back than the fridge
you’ve moved it over time by
slamming me against it
one hand on my waist
one around my throat

a couple whispered
words and a few
fingers in my hair and
i’m a complete mess

car windows coated in
frozen fog
your belt on the dash
coats in the back seat
my clothes in muddy melted
snow on the floorboards

my elbows pressed
against the roof
the worst of my
insecurities
forgotten for what
you found behind them

march

i’ll bury my face in your
coffee scented hoodie
and let you make me melt
over
and over
and over again

something else
has learned to drown
out the spinning circles
of cognitive catastrophes

april

the lights are out
the doors are locked
and like something out
of my darkest wishes

you’ve got me on top
of the cooler chest
and for the first time i don’t
pretend i want you to stop

and time only exists
for the traffic outside
and the big clock
that never runs to speed

“what do you want?”
i ask when you
come up for air
“more of you”
and your fingers
just keep working

the hardest part is
allowing myself to trust
to give myself permission
to be a human
with a human
body and human
emotions and
a human companion

the rest of the year
hasn’t come yet
and i don’t know
what it holds

but spring is coming
warmth after the
cold and wind
and i have to believe
in the good feeling
growing in me

have to believe that
i’m good enough
for the love you
want to give me

i spent the winter thinking
it was all a lost battle to me
until the leaves came out
shrouding the world in green

they say every
rose has it's thorns
but i've got a gizmo
to strip those off

one little ray of lost
sunlight found its way
through the ceiling crack and
now there's something
blossoming inside
my shriveled heart

notes scribbled in
sharpie on paper cups
and a kiss on each of
my freckled cheeks

vague shapes in
milkfoam and learning
to accept love that i am
not used to holding onto

i don't feel like i could fly
don't feel like i could dance
but i could tuck a fern behind
my ear and grab your hand
and we could skip
up the sidewalk

and like i could plant kisses
on the faces of everyone
who i have ever cared about
push them into that beam
of sun and watch the good
feelings begin to sprout until
one day our faces all flourish
into something no longer
dry and hopeless but something
more like smiles and cheer

they say to bloom
where you're planted

i say just have the strength
to make it through the
dormant phase and when
life begins to slip back towards
warmth and light the blooms
will find their way to you

somehow
some way
keep the flower
inside you alive

there’s an open
wound on main street
and i wish people would
stop asking about it
because every question pulls
the hole a little wider

something was always
just a little bit
wrong

a constant drip
in the fridge

a fruit fly trapped
in the bake case

missing corners
of floor tiles

pictures hanging
slightly crooked

one foot of a table
unscrewed to a wobble

the rattle
of the heater

smiles from those
i couldn’t trust

a tiny pinprick of
stress behind my eyes

every year was
the year that would
make it or break it

so nobody was
surprised
except those who
couldn’t see the scuffs

last year
things were supposed
to be so good
everyone talking
mad **** about their
incredible ideas

i had a few
ideas of my own
nobody ever had to
teach me how to
dream big
overachieve
overexert myself
and fall hard

the quiche crusts stuck
to the bottoms of pans

and there was no way to
get the slice out
without the whole entire
thing falling apart

i might have been
the first slice to go

but at least i got
out of there

before the hand that
pulled me out
was the hand that
dropped the pan

a glass pie plate
shattered and
the way things were
supposed to be suddenly

over
just
like
that

and i’m still
reeling
on the sidewalk
staring at the
empty shell of
something i once loved

big hopes
big dreams
big plans
small town
too small to
hold them all

every piece of my
future points
backwards
arms of a clock
working their way
into the past

it’s not in how
the damage was done
but in how you
heal from it

there’s an
open wound on
main street
maybe if we gave
south street stitches
we could pull it closed

but still i question
my existence as if
scones and coffee
and thursday mornings
before sunup were
the only things that
gave me
stability

maybe
they were

maybe people
pull themselves into
an orbit around that
which keeps them grounded

an orbit of
routine and the
dissonance needed
to stir ice cubes
in a plastic cup
to create peace
in the moment
of chaos

or maybe
the one place
that always felt
like home to me
was just a cafe
on the four corners
and now there’s
an open wound
not so much
on main street
but the pocket of my
heart where hope lives

Stained glass chandeliers
And shattered bedroom mirrors
Tapestries of fine brocade
Mixed with town-house charades.

Leaky faucet fallacies
An upper-middle class disease
Pop radio leaves them apathetic
Try alt-indie for aesthetics.

They will call the wallpaper charming
For well-furnished rooms are quite disarming
Smile and nod in a well-meaning act
But once they leave, feel free to attack.

You can hang Chuhuli in the kitchen
Da Vincis in bathrooms are quite bewitching
But give me a house that knows how to be
How to sleep and to sing and to sigh and to scream.

Something lovely about carpet freshly vacuumed
But who cares about designer living rooms?
A house isn't a home until it's been broken in
We call them hassocks, so long ottomans.

I would greatly enjoy
Drinking a full bottle
Of blue sky, with
Cloud cubes.

And as a youngest
Quasi-only child
I have no basis
Upon which to babysit.

I keep a pocket-sized
Terrace with me
At all times
Purely for the flowers.

And it would be a
Jolly thing to have
An eight-year old
Dream come true.

On rare occasions
I wear dresses
And walk sedately
Through fields.

And once in awhile
The bird on my leg
Is a massive swallowtail
And tries to fly a feathery airplane.

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

(funny how
kids grow up)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(there's something poetic about
historical self destruction)

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

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

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.

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

a shiny
distorted face
similar to a
monster

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

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

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

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

There are 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.

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.

and so what
if i give up?

the world will
keep revolving
without me

everyone i
love will
someday

forget they
ever said they
loved me back

and they too
will someday

find their ashes
mixed with mine
floating on
the breeze

and the earth
will keep
hurdling through
time and space

and so what
if i give up?

There's spotlights
And track lights
And ambient
Wall lights.

And my feet always feel
Closer to the ground in here.

Chairs and floors and
I am not getting anywhere.

Throbbing, my head, make
It stop, plug my
Ears and hide my face
In darkness.

Drumbeats, reverberating
Through the furniture, make it
Stop, just
TURN OFF THE NOISE.

I swear, I will keep
My back against this wall
Until something happens, and I
Swear, something will happen.

There's spotlights
And track lights
And ambivalent
Wall lights.

is this
the new normal?

yelling fights
drunkenly spilt
words that never
should have been said

crying myself
to sleep for
the third
night in a row

feeling alone
surrounded
by my
best friends

helpless
and lost
confused
and rejected

is this
the new normal?

i want to believe
this is temporary
that our tears of
anger will turn to
tears of laughter
soon enough

that i’ll fall asleep
and wake up
every morning
by your side
and won’t spend the
whole night tossing
and turning with
anxiety ridden possibilities

but maybe this
is the new normal

this is
what we
all wanted

this is
the goal we
worked towards

but miserable
is not where
any of us thought
we would be

and i knew
it would be hard
but i never thought
it would be this hard

i’ve gone through
rough patches
fought my way through
muddy swamps and
thick vines with sharp
thorns that ripped my skin

but always because
i was left there
never before because
i walked myself into it

but is this
the new normal?

pushing you away
because holding you
just reminds me
you still have to leave

i’m tired
of this

all i want is
a kiss that
isn’t given to
say goodbye

all i want is this
nightmare to end
and a new normal that
doesn’t feel like a mistake

this is what
we all wanted

but i thought
i was stronger than
the hard times
and here i am
all my resolve gone
cold and brittle
and i’m cracking
under pressure

all i want is to
take care of myself
without help
from anyone else

you held me close
and promised you would
take care of me until
i could take care of myself

but i’ve never known
any kind of tape or net
that could stop
a landslide from falling

if this is the new normal
i’ve started to wonder
what was so bad
with the old one

mind games
with myself

a quivering equilibrium
of keeping myself too
busy to sink into depression
but not so overwhelmed
that the anxiety
swallows me whole

and the scales
are swinging

i am not
in control
of my own
life right now

cuticles stained green
hair grown scraggly
wrists that go
numb and tingle

i am only
twenty

too old to be carefree
and yet too young
to be callused and weathered
made miserable by time

the mind games get
violent
no referee
to call time out

my bath is still
hot but i suppose that as
with dishes it should be
emptied when no longer clear

and i am clouding
my own judgement

so the rusty red water
drains away
leaving bubbles
on my shoulders

mind games must halt
impulse control

because still the
blood remains
i can’t wash
it off me

it’s too
late

what’s wrong
with me

i am scared of
many things
the most frightening being
spiders
and admitting what i’m
really feeling

make that a fear
of myself

of the
mind games

and now what’s
done is done and
i will sleep or
lie awake in tears

when people ask what
happened to me
i tell them i was sad
and anxious and
got over it two
years ago

because not even i know
what’s wrong with me

how i’m supposed
to win the mind games

somebody help me
i need a referee

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.

sometimes i wrap your
jacket around
my pillow and bury my
face in it before i fall asleep

it smells like summer
in a hot kitchen after
long work shifts
sweaty and spicy

smells like the first night i
put my head on your chest
your arm went around my shoulder
and i could feel my heart
thudding out of my ribs
when you kissed me without warning

i panicked
and the next time you
asked before you
brushed your lips against
my cheek and then i felt
the stars flicker in my bones

i remember the day i
threw flour at you
for no reason
and you didn’t get
mad or anything just
kind of stared at me

the day i stuck a rose
in my teeth
declared myself a princess
and we went to the mall

the day i stole some alstra
from my mother’s yellow pitcher
put them in a tin can
and gave them to you

gerbera daisies
your hand in mine
it’s been a year
and i find myself
falling in love all
over again every week

with your smile
with the dimple
in your right cheek
your laugh
your hands
how good you
are to me
even when i don’t
deserve it
and how i never
know exactly
what you’re thinking up in
that blonde head of yours

of course you’re not
perfect but you’re
the closest **** thing
i’ve ever found to it

and i miss
last summer sometimes
the brand new flutter
in my stomach and
the crashing and
tripping over the side of the
big commercial sink and
into feelings

but i wouldn’t turn
back time for anything
and i hope i
never have to sleep
without you by my side
again after this month

i never wanted an
expensive champagne
twenty four karat
designer tag kind of love
and that’s never what
you wanted to give me

all i wanted
was you
and that’s what
you’ve given me

when i say
“i love you”
you say
“i know you do”

how good it is
to have someone
the safety of home
and adventure of living

to blow a kiss
and know you’ll catch it

to grab your hand
and know you’ll hold it

to love
and to be loved

you’re my
soft place to land
and i’ll be
your right hand

you’re the only
decision i ever made
the only chance
i was willing to take

and heaven forbid something
goes wrong but you’re the only
possible mistake that
i would be happy to make

it takes time
for love to spread
its roots and begin to grow
upwards and bloom
but i’m willing to
wait as long as it’s for you

and it hasn’t been
easy lately
i’ve put a lot
of tears into your
favorite hoodie
been hanging
into you for
dear life

but i have to believe
this won’t last forever
that you and me
are strong enough

i have to
believe in us

I'm making a
Mental list.

It includes high-pitched noises
And dried up creek beds
A few gallons of orange juice
And an empty tube of toothpaste.

I'm bold enough to add some
Paper bags and that time in an
August rainstorm with you and
The moon when it's blood red.

Recently it's acquired a canister of
Powdered sugar, a slew of people I
Was too afraid to talk to and several
More who I wasn't.

The receptionist I smile at and
An empty bench where I sometimes sit
And the feeling of hands covered in
Acrylic paint.

I'm making a
Mental list.

But now I'm moving it
To paper, a list
Of things I never
Write poetry about.

It was a strange thing to throw a house party for birds, especially since no one showed up. I was left sipping honeycomb champagne and gawking at the colored glass bubbles descending from the sky. And I thought it odd that a car dealer would care enough about my obsession with old VHS tapes to throw a few onto the cruise ship. Never mind the fact that with all I had paid on fixing my transmission of thought, I was dead broke and looking for a summertime getaway closer to downtown and nearer to autumn.

The things I'd like to do if I could paint. I would construe a white front porch in repurposed chair caning and glue it to a canvas, mottled in shapes and light. Or maybe it would take multiple canvasses to hold what I consider to be the best image of a future. Perhaps a patio with an overgrown garden would do the trick, and I would be just another loner.

Will anyone remember when we were children and we dug a canal by putting the dirt into paper cups and leaving it in the forest? You can't deny that life was easier before I ingested that Matisse print hanging on the graying wall. All these skewed angles and les possions sont rouge make for a bit of a stomachache.

I have a question for you to ponder as it gets dark. If I were to fill a swimming pool with blotchy pastel hues and sit in it as if it were a motel jacuzzi, would I receive some kind of tye-dyed epiphany or would I just catch a chill?

it's not that
i'm not sincere
it's that i don't
know how to
convey that i
actually care

(what a complex
color scheme
so bright and
busy on the mind
i can feel your eyes
picking it apart)

because i've
worked hard
to look like
i don't
worked hard to pretend
i don't need you to care

(and how my words
start looking
unconventional
formulated to seem
like something i
never was)

i wasn't
not really
it was just the
here's the thing
how do i say
tired?

(i don't think i'll
ever see you again
and i don't feel as old
as the others seemed)

i'm grateful
for your gifts
and kind words
i really am

(i cashed your checks
months before
hitting the post office
go ahead and
call me a
heartless *****)

just know that
i haven't
spent a single
cent of it

it's sitting in
my checking
account just
waiting and
wondering how
much of
my hospital bill
it will cover

(but if there's anything i can't
do that's blame you for wanting to
contribute to the side of my
personality that you never knew)

please put your money
where your intentions are
and you know what they say
about good intentions

(that the road to hades
is paved with them)

but they never did
mention which one
of us was heading
towards hell.