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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

odd
that you no longer
want recompense
for the past

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

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

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

over something like
sunday mornings
sleeplessly reversing
to saturday nights

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

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

There are moments I'll
Remember.

Like the bellyaching laughter on the
Living room floor when I said
Eisenhower, ****** and Giovanni Arnolfini and
His bride negotiated at Camp David.

Like sitting in an old Chevvy
Van with a half empty Starbucks
Cup, singing along to a song I'd
Never heard before.

Like dancing on the hot
Asphalt that has seen so much of
Us, and falling neatly enough to
Put me on crutches.

Like sitting in a bedroom that
Looked vaguely like mine when her
Boyfriend decided he would play
My guitar.

Like perfect
Complete and
Utter
Silence.

There are moments I'll
Remember.

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

(i should be
better by now)

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

(they're back again
even with the drugs)

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

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

cracked before and
made it out alive

so i guess i will
this time too

but the wounds
bleed to differ.

i've been told i need
to feel like myself
be comfortable in
my own skin

but it's not so
much the skin

(i'm used to the scars
and jagged red slits
pink and white
stretch marks
corners and curves
i've had to accept)

it's the hair
the way it grows
on my arms and
legs and face and
neck and back
and eyes

whether what's coming
out of my scalp is
brown or pink or some
unhappy color in between

being okay
if it's short or
long or up or
down or dry or
soft or clean or
a day or two *****

(growing into the
length and volume
the sore weakness
of my own neck
was the hardest
part of getting older)

not being
defined by who
the follicles make
me out to be

(the patience
to wait or
the daring to
change)

is when i'll know
that i feel
comfortable under
my own scalp.

i will not
not
go down
without a fight

I WILL NOT

NOT

GO DOWN

WITHOUT A FIGHT

will not

will not

will not

will not

i'm standing up
in front of my
demons to say

**THAT I WILL NOT
GO DOWN WITHOUT
A ******* FIGHT.

i keep a drawer in
my bathroom full
of all the things that make
me appear pretty

the little pots of shimmery
eyeshadows to suggest
i’m feminine but more
importantly fully awake
and the dark crayons to
draw lines that simulate
an innocent expression
the powder to smooth out
the bad spots so you
don’t see the bad thoughts
the mascara to pull my lashes
outward and pull the focus
away from what you might
possibly see behind my eyes

fear
do not
let them see
the fear

and tucked in the drawer
of pencils and palettes
i keep a sharpener
so when my womanly
sense of protection
begins to dull i will
not find myself
at odds with the competition

in the drawer above them
i keep my elastic bands
to prevent a slow
and knotted descent
into the madness
of being choked
in my hair
my own weird
sometimes insane
always interesting or
at least provocative thoughts

i also keep a pack
of razor blades for
when the constant struggle
to maintain this illusion
of sanity gets to be
too much for me

the hair ties are stretched
beginning to fall out
won’t hold things in place
nearly well enough
and i am completely
blind and lost in this
rainstorm and the wind
blowing in my face

the blades
are calling me again
a dark and
slippery promise
of something
of what?

of peace?
lies
of art?
i can do better
of pain?
always

elusive always
getting away from
me just as soon
as i can pin it down

the purpose
is fear
but only the
expression of it

i’m afraid
always so
afraid it’s not
good like this

but if i cover
the fear with
my clothes
no one will
ever even
know

i keep a drawer
in my bathroom
and every morning
i select powders
and pencils to
present myself as alive

and every morning
i stare down a pack
of razor blades
half wishing i wasn’t

no
i do not
have my
driver's license yet

please stop asking
how that's going

please
stop asking

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

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

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

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

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

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

and i'm also scared
of telling people that.

saturdays smell like
bleach under my nails
sleep in my eyes
scratches on hands
gluey stuck fingers
glare off an empty parking lot
and other people’s
uncomplicated lives

give me enough time
and i can get rid of
any kind of stain
in your coffee cup
but i don’t take the time
to wash out my own

and i can’t get rid of
how i sometimes feel
like less than a person
a second class citizen
or some kind of
preprogrammed robot
just here to assist with
strangers personal quests

i’m not the
swashbuckling hero
out on an adventure
i’m the placid villager who
never moves from behind
the counter night or
day and only ever repeats
the same half dozen lines
wears the same outfit every
time you see them

i don’t want
to be the hero
anymore
all i want is
to live comfortably
in this town
and let my life
unfold

all i want is
to get the dirt out
from my fingernails
and get enough sleep

to love
and be loved
to drink coffee
in the morning
wine at night
and water all day

but i never
want to be the
chosen one
i just want to be
the one who points
you in the right direction

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

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

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

there are two floors
in my house

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

where shall
i sleep tonight?

did you hear
the news?
they've
discontinued
mornings

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

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

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

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

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

error
error
caffeine
not found

pile your
triangles and
terror into a
text box

the margins are
glaring
your coworkers
sleeping

error
error
**mornings are
discontinued

lipstick stains on
paper coffee cup lids
my brother always
told me i would have
to sit back and watch people
younger and more
inexperienced than i
succeed while i suffered.

oh but i
think he
was wrong
three conversations
and one free cup
of coffee later
things are starting
to look up for me

and i'm thinking that
i am the younger
one succeeding while
elders suffer.

(on the flipside i
don't want to be
making sandwiches
for the rest of my life)

and i wonder sometimes
if i'm just naturally
gifted or if i just naturally
try too hard to be liked

(or there's an offchance
a slim blueish sliver of
possibility that the stars
have all been lined up for me)

anyway that assumption
however incorrect it may
be is better than
last week when i
was thinking that no longer
was i good enough

*(but scratch that
nothing i ever accomplish
or that the skies
have pre-established
will make me believe
i'm good enough.)

it's six o'clock
in the blessed am
and the coffee in
the bottom of my
mug is getting cold
the day is starting

with the familiar sound of
pen caps snapping on
and off sliding back and
forth in their plastic sleeve
she sits in her chair
in the dark only a tiny
blue light to shine on a
sigh here and there

i am fully made up
and totally cold
listening to the furnace
and snores that hum through
walls the scratching
of my own pen on paper

all is quiet before
sunrise
but if you listen
you can hear

what can you hear?
peace and quiet
close to that found in the
middle of the night
only less anguished
and more stoic

and so on this morning
we rise to our grind
rinse our cups
and carry on

there are thousands of things
i want to say and i can't
find even one way
to say one thing

so sometimes i tamp
them down and mix
them with syrupy sweet
sludge in my mug

and other times i remember
bits and pieces of them and
write them on scraps of paper
and abandon them

lost and found
whatever is shoved
into the bottom of that
cardboard box

was only lost
never found

nobody knows where
they come from or
where they will go
after the lost and found

lost and found
waiting
the miscellaneous
and i

i'm picturing that
big blue house
off library street
and thinking

(also planning
on telling everyone
i've become catholic
if the need arises)

about the assorted
times i've spent there
assorted times i've
avoided spending there

(but maybe a different
religion would make
a better lie i've got
to keep it believable)

fully planning
on at least one
anxiety attack after
i get home

(maybe something like
buddhism or celtic polytheism
i'd say satinism for the laughs
but that's just too extreme)

maybe more
like a whole
half week of
anxiety

(oh wait no need
to plan for that
i've already built
my life counting on it)

religion
what a messy
situation when
you've got one
but you don't
believe in it

chaos
what a simple
chain of events
that follows an
internal denial of
right and wrong

(when all i wanted
was christianity
internally not
relationally or
socially or
judgmentally)

and what a dark
mentality that a
nice person has
light inside

(a mentality of
honesty is one
of many things
i try to hide)

on the other side
i don't believe or agree
with catholicism
but it sounds like
something i
could get into.

*(but if admission into
heaven were half priced
wouldn't there be scores
of folks and media masses
on the ground and in the air
reporting new religious traffic?)

it’s friday night and for once
i’m not slinging *****
no tickertape headaches
or low resolution bedtimes

purple cocktail and
a pink sky above
the bricks of a city that’s
turned blue in faded light

and it’s easier now
to be grateful
for what i have
for what i don’t

i don’t have
to relive the past
last year will never
come again

and things may
get darker than
ever someday but
for today i have
this moment
to hold onto

the seconds in which
the fog on my
glasses cleared
and the music in
my ears was coming
from above me
and i didn’t need
to run to my
destination just
walk with time to spare

minutes in which
normal can exist
after a lifetime of
trying to be different

those who know me
will say i’ve changed
and i have
you have to change
when you start feeling
like yourself

it’s not a
glimmering revolution
on a horizon of clarity
it’s when you can
set your own smile
free on your face
let yourself miss
what you’ve lost
but not so much
that you lose today

vulnerability is a
hard gift to give myself
but i don’t want to
live in a box anymore

life is not
a race or sprint
it’s just a walk
on a late spring evening
when flowers in planters
nod in reminder that
potbound plants can
find a way to thrive

growth is a
process
and i’m not
there yet

but for now
there’s air
in my lungs
a plan in my
future and
regrets behind me

and for now
that’s enough

Of all the things I am
I am not insane.

The reservoir is rising
And I'm sweating in my
Dress and white sneakers
And the sky is turning gray.

At least there are breezes
By the lake, although
I had a breakdown in the car
When Henry wasn't real.

Lele left me for Larry
And I'm struggling to write
Your prose as my own
Poem thoughts.

If it rains on the
Water I will never
Forgive the person who built
The glass cafe.

All the plastic communion cups in my purse
Cracked.

Prop my feet up on the dash
Make another societal
Faux pas and take one last sip of
Chandelier staircase filmstrips.

This kayak of mine
Has tipped.

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

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

choking
suffocating
under favorite
blankets
and blanketing
thoughts

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

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

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

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

gasping
for air
but too tired
to bother

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

two concepts
dance around
in my mind
from time to time

the first one is
secure
small towns and
familiar faces
streets with grass
growing in the cracks
and parking lots with
the footprint of my
disintegrating shoe
pressed into fresh asphalt

streetlights that
come on to let
me know it’s time
to go home
a soft place
to call my own

the second one is
romantic
intriguing and scary
traffic and lights
and people and buildings
that fight to reach
into the clouds
an unfamiliar city
with corners and caveats
to explore for the first time

lights that never
burn out
restless crowds
to fade into
as soon as someone
learns your name

two very different thoughts
both equally
concerning in
two very different ways

complacency or
out of place?

i refuse to give
myself an answer
or maybe i’m afraid
to let myself wander

but a third question
knocks on my
skull and
lets itself in

and i can’t help
but wonder

what does
five in the morning
feel like when you
can’t see the sunrise
casting shadows
on empty fields?

does the world still
find a moment to
release its breath
before the day begins
when the city didn’t
even sleep the night before?

what if i don’t
belong here?

which outcome would
leave me least misplaced?

did you use your
credit card today?

does your card
have a chip?

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

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

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

there were things
we wouldn't do
neither for love
nor for money

but what about when
we have to chose
for love or
for money?

WAKE UP!
IT'S FOUR A.M.!
YOU NEED TO
GET OUT THERE!
SMILE AT PEOPLE
YOU ARE AN ADULT!
AND YOU HAVE
BILLS TO PAY!
R E S P O N S I B I L I T Y

i miss you
i haven't seen you
in weeks
maybe months

we grow up
and it's no longer
whole weekends
spent at ease
but phone calls
snatched after work

**** you
adulthood

and we still play pretend
call each other different names
but these are different days
and far worse growing pains

WAKE UP!
YOU HAVE
BILLS TO PAY!
PEOPLE WHO YOU
DON'T CARE ABOUT
TO IMPRESS!

**** this
******* life who demands
we chose money
over love.

Fall break came at the perfect time. And it's a memory I'll cherish forever -- waterfalls and falling leaves and sunshine and cold waterbottles and plaid flannel shirts named Rufus and milk bottles and miles of blue sky. Monday. Rain on my umbrella, smile for the camera. Tuesday. And then like waking up from a magical dream, blue carpets and textbooks and shifty-eyed girls in Ugg boots and my anxiety. Wednesday. Back to studying for midterms and I'll throw in a pair of borrowed shoes.

I've got hours to wait, so I went outside and Ron said "it's people like me and you who give a **** that'll get A's." Then I went back in and found a side hallway. I wrote down what he said and listened to the janitorial staff. She opened the supply closet and told her friend "come into my office" with a laugh. Five minutes later they came back out talking about how Jamie was ******* about them at nights but it looked to me that they were more ******* about Jamie, and whoever she is, she's apparently worthless. And I wonder if this is how to make friends, by chilling with the cleaning ladies. Actually, that would be a family tradition. Is this how you find your niche?

Now they've moved from talking about Jamie to school shootings and all the good cleaning closets to hide in. And I wonder if this is why I spent 17 years "sheltered", because I'd rather be safe than normal. I'm writing all of this in the back of my science notebook because when I write my fingers don't feel the need to pull at my scalp. Rifle my hair, maybe, but no snapping. And I have 45 minutes before I get another hour to wait.

Sometimes I walk by the art department and I always want to go in, but what would someone like me be doing there? I'm not an artist by any sketch of the imagination. But it's always dark in there and I wonder what goes on in that back hallway. Like this back hallway where I'm sitting with these collegiate white cinderblock walls. How much misery from the cleaning crews have they heard?

Everyone says I'll find my niche, but it's looking to me like all I'll ever find is empty corners and solitary benches. People are okay, but the only person I really have to fall back on seems to be myself.

the best gift
i got this year for christmas
was beginning to
understand who
you are as a person

what happens when the
emotions i know you keep
deep down inside somewhere
bubble up and you
explode a little

and how you see
the world
and people
and life
and me

the dimple in your right
cheek when you laugh
a genuine laugh
the tiny wart on
the back of your hand
the patch of fuzz
at the bottom of your back
the way your lips remind me
of peaches in the summer

how looking at you is
gazing into the sunset
how leaning on you is
everything i ever needed
how kissing you is
soft and precious
some days and
fire and chills the next

and i say i love you
an awful lot

but i mean it
an awful lot

and i’m used to making
your coffee every day
but every day i think about
how much i want to make
your coffee every day
for the rest of our lives

“you having a bad week bri?”
hilary peers over the glass partition
between me and reality
“me? a bad week?
how can it be a bad week
when it’s only monday?”

but the truth is
it’s usually not
a great week
here for me
when my life is how it is
their lives are how they are

kayla had her baby
before christmas
haven’t seen sam
in forever
jennifer still doesn’t like
dressings or sauces
but she doesn’t call in her
usual every day anymore

still getting calls every morning
what’s the soup special?
barb drinks the same
cappuccinos as always
still can’t see properly but
she’s still trying
jim and dorothy like it when
i make their sandwich
because they say i’m the only
one who gets the chips right
nicadamus just didn’t
show up one day and
nobody quite knows
where he went

now mckenna walks
around the counter and
puts his arms around me
because i’m his girl
and him?
he’s my whole world

i bring mint brownies to the
brewery for the older couple
i smile when children smear
their grubby fingers across
the bake case that was just
cleaned and pretend it doesn’t
bother me to fish uneaten
coleslaw shards out of the drain

ray passed away
in july and nobody
told me because they
thought i knew
last week i find out rita
has gone on too
and the feeling in my
stomach sinks
into relief that she’s not
without him anymore

susan stops by sometimes
for lunch on her way to
see janice who is now
in the nursing home for good
and it’s better for her
but she doesn’t understand

the same faces come through
but a little tickle in the back
of my brain tells me some
of them haven’t been in
i can’t help myself from hoping
they’re all okay

new faces appear
i tell myself not to get
attached to them but after
weeks of making the same
items over and over just
the way they want
it gets hard not to see others
as an extension of my routine

the world is spinning
at an alarming rate
my heart is still running
at a declined pace

“well, breezer
between me and you”
maureen says
(she calls me breezer
and i call her a salve
to my cold 7am soul)
“i don’t blame you
you can’t stay here forever
and it’s a hard job
i couldn’t do it”

my mother tells me i’m not
going anywhere
maureen tells me there are
better things out there for me

and i tell myself i can
steep fulfillment into
complete strangers’
cups of tea

what i was saying to hilary
was that past a certain age
nobody tells you you’re
doing a good job
“we do in my office”
she says with a
who-hurt-you
expression

maybe in offices it works that way
but maybe i couldn’t force myself
into a plate glass cage where
telephones never stop
ringing and “coffee”
comes out of a k-cup

indecision
grinds its teeth
and i find myself clapping my
hands over the register and saying

“you’re doing your best!
you got this, c’mon
let’s get some espresso in you
and you’ll feel better
you can do anything
even get through today”

when i look in the mirror
i hear myself screaming
that all i have to do
is get through today
words echo through my
brain that i will get
through this
that i am smart
and beautiful and change
begins by knowing i am
worthy of better things

but i also realize it’s easier
to drown out the doubt
when you hear it from
someone else
so whoever and
wherever you are
if you need this affirmation, take it
pass it on, even

keep grinding, girl
you’re doing a great job

i remember the day
i got my bed

in my childhood room
with all my family
gathered round
we took my old
threadbare quilt
out of its bag
for the first time
and spread it out

and at six years old
i was too small to
climb up into it
and had to use a step stool

and i remember my
grandma said
what a good solid
piece of furniture it was
how it would last me
until i got married

that was fifteen years ago
but the other day
when i shifted my weight
something cracked

i thought it was just
another slat breaking
(we’ve replaced
most of them)
but when i investigated
something else had broken

it was me
and my ties
to the past and
future and learning
how to lose your family

it was the friendship
that had been there
from the beginning
the ***** blonde imp whose solution
to the height problem was a
running start across the room
or twisting her toes around knobs
on the drawers to get a step up

she and i had our
share of shenanigans
broke a few slats together
but she’s never been afraid
of climbing on what’s mine
to end up on top

the offer has been made
to take measurements
and the mattress off
reassess the damage
invent some kind of
proper repair
rebuild some bridges
that have burned

but i don’t
know anymore

the slats that i began with
my mother and father
brothers and grandparents
and childhood friends
some of them have snapped
where knotholes made a fault line

but i replaced them
with boards bigger
thicker and without
such obvious defects

it was the leaving that
broke this last piece
but i see no need to fix it
when i’m not bringing it with me

no matter how they
groan and creek and
call me a disappointment
i’m not moving my bed again
and i’m not
getting married either

and i’m sorry
to all those that
i have let down
like bed slats breaking
one by one
and to all those that
i will let down at
some point in the future

but i want to fall
peacefully asleep at night
and not through cracks
in my own sanity

and i can’t let anyone
break me
like i was just some
weakened bed slat

The Big Dipper
Dripped starlight
Into the silent
Dark pines.

Orion shot his
Arrow right on
Target into my
Cracked heart.

The Milky Way
Ceased to run its course
And instead
Spilled your name into the sky.

And still, the North Star
Kept on sparkling
Reminding me of
A stability like yours.

It was cloudless and
Moonless and the
Meteor showers were over
But not the hole in my chest.

The only hope I
Had left was that
Somewhere in the world
You saw the same stars.

somehow i've always
thought that albuteral
was kind of orange
or citrus flavored

i did not see
this one coming

and i had the
shakes before
the inhaler now
i have them worse

i happened to look at
the calendar on the
bottom right hand corner
of my desktop

(the same one i clicked my
way through on that
day last february when
i decided i needed an out)

9/25/16

and it hit me
in a wash of
bright lights
and nausea

what today is
now that it's one a.m.

and how i gave myself
until september

september

september

september 25th

i may look
dependably unstable
and i may look
explicitly unpredictable

but if there is one
thing you can be
assured of is that i
do not act without a plan

and i had a
plan for today

(i had a complete
plan
the kind of
plan
one does not
talk about)

i can see it in the
white foldout cd set
in my first ever
parental advisory sticker

the reason i
called off my
carefully constructed
plan

was it
worth it?

AND WAS IT
WORTH IT?

i've listened to it
three times and
i still don't know if
it was worth staying for

today's the day
and i had a plan

and now i'm
scared to death

(and i do mean
scared to death)

because a person can't just
forget so thorough a plan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"because
i'm not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

one who has
more behind her
motives than
pure apathy.

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

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

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

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

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

gucci, prada
chanel, vuitton

walmart, target
overstock stores

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

shaking
the bridge is not
shaking
not shaking

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

murky green
whitecaps

"how fast
can you walk?"

how fast
can i
push you
over the edge?

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

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

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

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

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

Words have always been an effective method of construction. In fact, if I ever wanted to build a wall, I would use nothing but my shoddy verbal and written constructs, and it would be stronger than my willpower and higher than the same wall you've built for yourself.

I keep saying I'm just tired, but you're disputing that fact and I'm sleeping at nights as if nothing were wrong, but when I sleep like that, I know it's all wrong. I don't miss the way things used to be, I miss the way I used to be.

I've got this ridiculous theory that you can love someone without being in love. Call me crazy, right? There's got to be some kind of distinction, but with you, the lines don't make sense. And I can't imagine a world of mine without you in it.

I'd like an out, a kind of escape from the harsh truth that you're a boy, and I'm a girl and our skies don't line up. I've got a long driveway with a lot of trees and stars above them, and you've got a life trajectory that doesn't include me and never will. The second you realize there's a hole in your pocket is the second you know that you lost your hope.

Mowers that bump and buses that jolt are two things that cause anxiety. Sometimes the only way to reach me is through my poetry, my cracks and chips. Hand me a sledgehammer, we're all crumbling anyway.

i just want the
bleeding to stop

my body to realize
it’s fine and it doesn’t
need to do this
it’s only hurting itself

all i see is
blood

it’s not the cut
that hurts the most
it’s the sting of
regrets that follows

so many
types
so many
shades
i’m so
tired of it

blood
more
and more
blood

why do i
do this

why do i
do this

WHY DO I
DO THIS

i don’t want
to live anymore
it hurts too
much now

too much
blood
just make it
stop

but i’m the
one who got
into this mess
how do i expect
it to stop while
i stand by?

look what
you’ve done now
do you feel
any better?

i didn’t think so
a sinking ship
that you keep
climbing back on

but for ten minutes
the fog in my
head cleared
as i watched the blood

bubble to the
surface and
run down my leg
forgot all the bad
things the bad
thoughts as it dripped

but i’m tired
of blood
so tired
i want it to end

as a child my mother told me
i would be a writer someday
because i was always asking
"what if?"

but now i'm twenty
years old and i only
write when i'm
trying to forget

as a child my mother told me
i would be a writer someday
if i just kept asking
"what if?"

but i just grew up to have
an anxiety disorder

have you ever
wanted
needed
to get out?

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

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

have you ever
left
nothing exceptional just
left?

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

how to ride a bike
(that was dad's department)
how to double knot my shoe laces
how to make my bed
how to play scrabble
how to keep a house clean
how to cook
how to bake
how to drive
(still dad's department)

how to exist without caring
about others' opinions
how to not burden everyone
else with your troubles

how to throw a punch
(only how to take one
and complain instead
of fighting back)

how to treat your body
with respect and when
you don't like someone else's
to keep your mouth shut

how to keep your chin up
when you're down
how when you don't like
something you do it anyway

to only accept criticism
from those you would
go to for advice
and that giving someone
the benefit of the doubt only
benefits the giver's conscience

how even words
that mean well
can cut directly
into a person's soul
and leave them
bleeding for decades

a work ethic
a good attitude
how to rely on yourself
and yourself alone
for anything and everything
but especially money

my brother taught me
bunny ears for my sneakers
my pastor's wife taught me
not to pack down flour in a cup
my first job taught me
how to clean a kitchen
my boyfriend taught me
how to make gravy
my boss taught me
you show up even when
you're sick and tired
and don't want to be there
my best friend taught me
positivity is never wasted
but i still sleep with
lumps of blankets in my bed

the numbers in my
bank account
the food on my
dining room table
and the people i made
a decision to love all
let me know
i'm self sufficient now
but my mother still
winds her way through
my subconscious whining
that i still need her

and i'll spend the rest
of my life trying
to unlearn the things that
my mother never taught me

the past
how frightening

(i got to thinking
too hard today
this morning driving
by my past)

the thought that what
we call tomorrow will
soon be what we call
an elusive yesterday

(choke your way through
asthmatic games of dodgeball
and forward rolls on blue gym mats
friday midnights of twirling and
swirling through some
bb-gun pockmarked
plate glass reflection of the
lonelier girl you used to be)

that the moment we
put a thought down on
a page is the moment it
no longer holds control

(drown in the square idea
of blue glasses of water under
your chair and a thousand
and one calibrated mistakes
a one-millionth of a light-year
distilled to a drop of sweat)

because it's just
plain gone and
nobody can get it
back except in retrospect

(i think i spent a lifetime
of ten and twelve a.m's
sliding over the
worst of your tiles
but ten and twelve
a.m. are very different
times and that was a very
different lifetime ago)

growing up is
the worst when
it's done in the
worst ways

a childhood to
exist and a
lifetime to
forget.

there are two
kinds of sad days

the first kind is
periwinkle
with specks of
yellow sun throughout
where a soft cotton
fog covers everything
you can see and hear
and your limbs move
without you telling them to

automatic through
life with your brain
lost in thought
yet rattling around like
ice in an empty cup
void of cognition you
just have to keep putting
one foot in front of the other

and the second kind
is baby blue
smooth and soft like
fresh paint that has
dried and sealed
shut all the doors and
covered the windowpanes
so no light leaks in

and your body is
no longer compelled
to keep on moving so
you shut your eyes
against the overpowering
color of sad
and sleep
right there
on the hard floor

today started a
periwinkle sunshine day
and turned into a
baby blue paint day

few and far between
nowadays do i let
the blues get me
but today i felt the
last of the strength
i had been gripping
onto with both hands
trembling slip away

a white feather floating
off into the distance
or pink champagne
spilt on hot pavement
soaking in as i watched
it and boiling tears
wash away my scrawled
chalk drawings
of happy stick figures
and flowers that bloom
all year round

it’s silly
of me
never made
sense

but here i am
here are the blues
here’s a headache
behind my eyes

and here
is my bed
a soft field of
nothingness
where maybe sleep
can scrape the paint
off of the windows and
crack open the doors

all i was ever looking
for was home
is that too
much to ask?

The sky was tilting and dipping downward and if it hadn't been so beautiful, I would have assumed it to be a tornado. The way the clouds clustered and swirled into a hole directly above Pennsylvania reminded me of when you shut the bathtub drain and rinse the soapsuds out of your hair, then open it back up and watch it vortex away.

Like I said, I've never seen Lancaster at night, but I'm assuming it's lovely. At least, it must feel lovely. How lovely can anything really be in the dark? But if you think about it, even little old ladies have a nightlife, they play bingo and then go to bed. What more could I ask for? A pencil that doesn't attempt ****** on a sheet of drawing paper? Because every pencil I have keeps trying to **** something inside me that's trying very hard to stay alive.

It's strange to be in someone else's shoes, and even stranger when they fit. If you ever want to trade teddy bears for the weekend, I'm down.

I haven't cried since April 24th, but lately every time I start thinking about life, my eyes get damp and my expensive eyeliner starts running onto my cheeks. And speaking of eyes, my lids are always feeling sleepy and puffy and my lashes frequently weigh down my entire body. I'm trying to see the bright side, but all I've got over here is a cup of mistemperatured coffee and a dimming world that I already extracted all the poetry from. Somebody get me to Lancaster this fall, I'm thinking a slew of unfamiliar parking lots might lift this insufferable fog, and maybe you'll become my Seattle.

i fell asleep last night
buried in sand on a
soundstage sunset
all maroon velour and
puffy yellow cinnamon
maple leaf squares

the gold and rose
shimmer my eyelids
were made of ran
down in sweaty
rivulets that dried
into fairy freckles

and i was neither
happy nor relaxed
and yet i was
content

drinking silver wine out
of a deep brown glass
quietly and bitterly
warming my twisted back
until a white robed
bedouin breezed in
on a gust of his own
cool half of the desert

shook me to my feet
and told me that the
blissful gauze over
my minds eye
couldn't last forever
and i had better
catch a camel before I was
consumed by the night

so i handed him a yawn
with a ribbon round it
said that it was not my
responsibility to know
the history of the
ceiling fan by heart
rolled upon my stomach
returning to happier dreams

and still the bedouin
could do nothing but
stare through me with
sun bleached eyes
that pulled my bones
out through the skin
of my back and turned
them whiter than the
moon before the night
had even clambered in
on top of dewy skin
and blushing cheeks

and i drifted away
on an inflatable raft
into the night where
nothing could hurt me

i want to
dissolve
into my sheets
let my body fall
apart in flakey
pieces like
pastry dough
to float away
in sleep where
life can’t hurt me

to let my skin
peel off and
crumble into
my bed
let the blankets
creep up over me
like myrtle
overtaking a yard

i want
to dissolve
drift back in time
to when the weight
on my back could
be lifted by coming
home and taking
off the backpack

want to
dissolve
so that the sum
total of who i am
isn’t even
recognizable
just a formless
soft and hazy
quietly breathing
mound of nothingness

i don’t want
to be here
i want to be
in bed
a bed where i
don’t have to get
up in the morning
don’t have to make
myself move from
just a bed where
i can sleep
and sleep

and
sleep

let me
dissolve

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

"i think you're
extremely depressed"
you announced
turning off the fork in the road

(well look who's
finally catching on)

"i think that's
extremely offensive"
i replied
turning up the stereo.

"you never want to
do anything anymore
you just want to stay home
all alone in your hot room"

(maybe because that's the one
place where i'm safe to be myself)

"there's a big
world out there
and how are you
going to see it this way?"

(cue that one song about the world
being better off without me)

"mom
i'm tired."

(why do you always
decide to talk at me
on my way to or from
where i don't want to be?)

"well maybe if you
stopped telling yourself
you were tired all the time
you would be less tired!
or maybe if you
stopped drinking
coffee when you
get home from work."

"it doesn't matter
i won't sleep anyway."

"it might help
if you really tried
aren't you taking your
melatonin supplement?"

(i am not taking my
melatonin supplement
because it stopped having
any effect on me months ago
but i'm not about to
tell you that)

"we want to have
fun with you
even dad's commenting
that you don't want
to do anything
and we want you to
go out to grandma's and
grandma wants to take
you on a trip and i want
to take you on a trip
i've been planning it for
two years and i want
you to be actively involved
and i'm upset that you'll
talk to your friends but
not me and i feel like
you don't love me anymore
and i've failed somehow
as a parent and
and"

(and i've
stopped listening.)

"don't turn up
the music
we're having a
conversation here
why can't you go
back to the good
wholesome stuff
you used to listen to?"

(maybe if you wanted
to have a conversation
here you could stop
talking and start
listening to what
i'm not saying and the
lyrics i always sing
along with over you or
maybe you could stop thinking
i'm still who i used to be)

"i think you're
extremely depressed."

*(no **** sherlock
i'm not o-*******-kay
but i wonder why you
didn't notice a year ago.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

when i came into
work this morning

you were upset
on the edge
just waiting for a call
from your brother

last night your niece
tried to commit suicide

(she wouldn't have
made it if her twin hadn't
had an odd feeling and
called her)

my stomach dropped
i don't know this girl

(they found her passed
out with empty bottles
of xanax and
cough syrup)

you told the story
over the course of
the day unfolding family
details like clean laundry

(critical condition
and now her dad has to
go to the police because
she doesn't take xanex)

"why would
she do that?
she only totaled
her car it wasn't
that bad why
would she do this?"

i didn't say
anything
thinking maybe
it was just the
thing that pushed
her over the edge

and the day wore on
you weren't quite
there mentally
i could tell

but on the other
hand i wasn't really
either too busy wishing
i was your niece.

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

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

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

where my
problems
have twisted
their roots deep

hear me
out here

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

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

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

hear me
out here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

depression
rears it’s ugly head
with no desire to do
anything

except lay
in bed
scroll
sleep
wake up and
eat
watch tv
sleep
and
sleep

sitting
in silence
listening to
the fan spin
and wondering
why i bother

why i’m still
here when
nothing i do
even matters

that everyone
would be
happier
without me
around to
bother them

it’s the kind of
time of life
where the only
real peace of mind
to be found is
in bob dylan

the old bob dylan
that you find in
broken cd cases
floating in forgotten
thrift store
music stacks

the songs of a young
person who didn’t know
where he was going in
a crazy and unjust world
he couldn’t control as it
fell apart around his ears

bob dylan never has
any answers for me
just rambles on
another interlude of
mournful harmonica
until i remember
he told me where
the answers are
and the answers
aren’t easy to find

up there in the sky
whistling around
bare tree branches
holding up birds’ wings
letting a lost balloon travel
thousands of miles from
the tightly clenched hand
of the child who lost it

how many years
has it been?
and i’m still here
blowing in the wind

the winds are busy
too busy to stop
for one second and
just give me the answer

why
am i
even
here?

i don’t want
to be here
maybe this earth
just isn’t for me

or maybe i should
give up on whatever
is left here for me
hop on a bus and
become some kind of
modern rambling man

because i don’t know
and almost don’t care
what i’m doing here
doing right now

all i want
is sleep
even half conscious
muddled sleep
anything to distract
from the grotesquely
realistic nightmare
that is real life

or maybe i’ll get
utterly wasted
on cheap ***
and miserable thoughts
drown them out until
something stronger
than the alcohol
pulls me down
something strong
like sleep

because now
when it’s time to sleep
i find myself
completely unable to

i’m trying to
look at the positives
trying to see this as
an opportunity
but all i can see
is an eternity
stretching before me
of what if’s and
maybe this and why
and why not and
who do i want to be
what do i want to do

a lifetime
of indecisions
rolls its carpet out
in front of my feet

i wasn’t ready
i’m not ready now
i’ll probably never
be ready for anything

what am i
even doing

no answers to be found
here in this poem
just rambling as the
cd spins on until it
scratches to a halt
rub my eyes
press play
hope maybe on this
go round i can find
an answer

but the thing i never
seem to remember is
there isn’t any
answer to be found

not when it’s flown
away and is up
in the clouds watching
the sunset and the
stars begin to pop
out of the deep blue

just blowing
away in the wind

i remember weeks
of nights i couldn't sleep
on air mattresses and
pull out couches

clutching a brand new
little black mp3 player
earbuds wrapped
around my neck

years and
years later

i'm still lying in bed
but it's broken now
and the music doesn't
play right anymore

(the tracks all
split and break
apart between the
cords and my ears)

and i remember the
night before my
graduation it just
wouldn't play in one ear

and the sounds weren't
coming through right and
i heard a brand new side of a
song i'd known my whole life

(a more raw and real
background track of
harmonization and
something sadder)

and it made me feel
better to know that
there are still unheard
layers to the familiar

that can only be
accessed through
time and the
broken parts.