We tap-danced in Target
Skipping up and down with
Doublemint and Milky Ways
Twizzlers and the bittersweet chocolate waltzes.

We crouched in the corner
Not to shoplift, just to talk
Exchanging philosophy with paper towels
And lead the paper plates through secrets.

We walked on cracked sidewalks
Chipped with the dubious glances of fate
How many feet have wandered these streets
And how few have really seen?

We sat in the backseat
As the brownish gray fields rushed by
The setting sun stayed suspended in the sky
Burning up the tired atmosphere.

We drank mixed lemonade in chilled, clinking cups
Front porch step afternoons
Frosted glasses drained of sugary pink
Summer expectations.

When I wished innocently in February on
One cold night saturated in body spray
For friendship to be free
I had no idea how lovely life could be.

(twist my neck around
180 degrees to the past)

they're back again
the doctor calls them
"dark thoughts"
i just call them hell

it probably didn't
help that i stopped
taking my medication
but i was feeling better

and i often forget
about my pills and
what i'm saying in
the middle of a sentence

and i often can't sleep
or something i don't even
know anymore i just know
if it's sleep it's disturbed

(i love my job but i would
love it more if i didn't
completely disassociate myself
from reality while i'm there)

"having two managers
with chronic illness was
probably not the best idea
i'm glad we've got you around."

i smiled at her and
choked a little on
what's always in
the back of my mind

why i didn't come in for
months last fall and what
haunts me when i turn
off the lights lock the
doors and sit in the dark
by the front window
watching condensation
run down the glass

(last night i dreamed
i had a panic attack and
they found me in the
back by the potato chips
and i had to explain that
what i was really afraid of
was the fact there was a
church next door)*

i know i've changed
but i just don't know
how i could have
changed so much so fast

it all seems like a blurred
dream in my past
of computer screens and
carpeting and cold
winter mornings drenched
in vanilla and scarves

and if it weren't for the
fact it shattered me
i would miss it in the way you
miss a rose-tinted window
that was always cold as ice and
cracked clear down the middle

so i twist my neck around
180 degrees to the past
from 110 to -19 but that
leaves 51 unexplored degrees

of summer and cold concrete
of winter and colder concrete
of who i was and who i wasn't
of who i am and who i will never be

i twist my neck around
180 degrees to the past
before i realize that
something's gone askew

i called it love but hindsight
calls it something else.

(i don't want to die)

i'm stubborn
and mouthy
you could even
call me a *****

(i _ d _ o _ n _ t _ w _ a _ n _ t _ t _ o _ d _ i _ e)

i'm stubborn
and mouthy
you could even
call me a *****

and you know
what that means?

this **** ain't
ending easy.

because what gets
me in trouble is
what makes me
strong enough to

stay alive

(i __ d _ o _ n _ t __ w _ a _ n _ t __ t _ o __ d _ i _ e)

I DON'T WANT TO
END IT ALL
I WANT TO LIVE
LIFE SO LOUD AND
UNAPOLOGETIC THAT
I HAVE NO REGRETS

*AND I DON'T WANT
TO ******* DIE

Coffee stains and exploding pens
Rumpled paper pages and combusting lipgloss
Love, hate, joy, anger, confusion
Running, skipping
Falling, tripping
Dashing down the sidewalk
Late running, running late?
Never mind my frazzled mind.

Sweater sleeves and spinning spirals
Starry eyes, broken melodies
Like glass that shatters when
You break a string, popping
Like popcorn, nestled in
The river's glaring
Night reflections of fate
The perfect metaphor.

Birds fly, headphones break
Words read, hearts ache
Rhymes never last longer than
A line or two before
They're lost to me forevermore
That scarf of captured rainbows
I miss like an old friend
Spots of glitter, blots of paint.

Blue jeans, ballgames, autumnal skies
Chipped china, it's on days
Like this I wish I simply
Had a lint roller for my brain.

I like pretending I'm not alone
Tap my head and ask if I'm home
Ignore you, ignore you until you go
Because always and always, the answer is "no".

I'll turn on the radio, I don't own this station
Start spinning words, build-up burnt-down nations
Uncomfortable thinking, move down a level
Until, underneath, my pen's killed my devils.

I like pretending I'm not alone
I like sending words into empty phones
Pretend you don't see, invent your excuse
Nothing's concrete when you're a recluse.

Lie on this mattress, suppose it's not mine
Tonight I'm done telling myself I'll be fine
Only my lines, a partial illusion
Breathing in deep the confusion of fusion.

Him and I we never were
Never will, never wish until you are sure
All princes are frogs and all males mice
Let's go back to third grade when they all had lice.

I like pretending I'm not alone
So easy to be lost in this cast-iron zone
Maybe one day my walls will fall down
When I find the one who inverts my frown.

the feeling of
of being a rock
in the middle
of the ocean or
a tree in the middle
of the desert

strangling in
what's coming
from my
own skull

introversion turned
dark becomes

i s o l a t i o n

dip me in
melted hot air
watch it tear up
my knees and
blister my palms
deform my face

then brush your
teeth like it's fine

(why do i feel
this way
why can't i be
completely
reliant on myself
emotionally?)

i don't want to
talk to you and
i don't want to
leave the house

so i don't
but then
it kills me
inside

(i don't know which is
worse feeling like a recluse
or feeling like a failure as
a side effect of going out)

i s o l a t i o n

i don't really mind it
when people have fun
without me because
that's what i want them
to do but i won't say it
doesn't hurt a little bit

(i won't say that
being alone in a
dark room all day
doesn't get to me)

i s o l a t i o n

it's my own
**** fault so
now i'm done and
will stop complaining

j u s t
l e a v e
m e  a l o n e

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

me
neither.

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

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

see everything i despise
so clearly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing
Has changed.

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

We're all talking and talking
About change.

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

NOTHING HAS
CHANGED.

LITERALLY NOTHING
HAS CHANGED.

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

NOTHING
Has changed.

So how am I
Not the same?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the term is spiral
but it's more a
plummet, a drop
on a rollercoaster

a downward spiral
sounds like a waterslide
all smooth splashes
bubbles of laughter

but it's more like
the cutoff when your
heart jumps out of the
hole in your stomach
just hold your
hands up and scream

when some get sad
you spiral slowly
things pile up and
they slip and slide

when i get sad it's
freefall but i guess
i'm used to
bumps on rides

but it's all in the
way we fall

i used to be able
to sleep

wasn’t afraid
of getting up
and facing my day
could take an
afternoon nap
in my own bed
without having dreams
that woke me up
heart racing

disjointed ideas
and people
novocaine and needles
in my mouth
drugs to numb me
being able to fly
over sharp mountain peaks
of white circus tents
in the rain
being chased by
villains in black capes
the fear of dying

my loved ones
decaying houses in the
middle of town
having ***
needing ***
and melting down
crying and sobbing
old familiar panic
a lump in my throat
the fear of

something
what?

“you have to tell her
you have to tell your mother”
not his voice
but his voice of reason
blowing gently
through the scene
the memory of
a dozen conversations

my head in his chest
his hands on my back
and the crippling
paralyzing
panic taking
over my body

i was never afraid
of the psych ward
i was afraid of the woman
who put me there

of the threats
the bribes
the guilt
and the way she
could win every fight
and leave me
choking in the dust
of words that wouldn’t
squeeze out past
the lump in my throat

the fear is of
falling apart
and when i begin
to unravel is when
that fear becomes
debilitating

what am i
afraid of
in this dream
that doesn’t
even make
sense?

not the fear
of falling apart
because i have
already collapsed

the fear
the fear
the fear
the fear of

i can’t allow myself to admit it
but i have to

the fear is
of her

that’s what’s behind
it all i’m afraid
of my own
mother

and why
am i afraid?

what can she
do that will
actually hurt me
endanger me?

how much power
does she hold?

and that’s when i
wake up
shivering and
thirsty

i’m falling
through the cracks
in my own
conscience

i can’t be a perfect
person and i
know that all too well
but i resent myself
for the flaws in me
i can’t seem to change

is it that i can’t
change or that
i don’t want to
don’t try hard enough?

the thoughts
begin to loop
around themselves
and form a strong
rope that snakes
it’s way around my
wrists and chest
and begins to tie
off my airways
from oxygen

if there is one
thing i know
it’s women that
use your own words
against you
women who find
satisfaction in
the power of making
other people hurt

i know
i’ve seen it
experienced it
and it’s tempting
oh so tempting
to do it myself

but the worst
thing i could do
is let myself become
those that hurt me

flip over
try the other side
and the more i think
about the sleep i need
the more time passes
and the less i get

if only
i could just
get some peace
in my own head

tomorrow is
sure to come

tomorrow is
sure to come

and if i were dead
instead of watching
this cold sun rise
it would still be rising

because time
marches on
with or
without me

and i'm holding on to
one last shred of hope
that i can hang onto
time by the skin of my teeth

because tomorrow
is sure to come
and i can come with it
or let it go on without me

*but tomorrow
is sure to come
with or
without me.

it's time
to face some things
and move on

it's time
to let go
of what hurts

i am
who i am
and i am not
who i was

i am
human
i am not
who you
wanted me
to be

and it's time
to figure out
why
it still hurts

why i'm
crying

why i can't
let go

it's time
to remember

to become
fully who i
am and not
who i learned
to be in
self defense

with eyes
watching me

but i've never been so
scared of feeling better

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

and how
could i
possibly forget
you?

We do not speak
Of what happened in the woods.

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

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

We do not speak
Of what happened in the woods.

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

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

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

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

(i'm afraid of
sleeping now)

last night i dreamed
the warm white church
walls were all painted
army green

and the kids were
wearing orange jumpsuits
as the youth leaders
screamed orders

(flashbacks to
calisthenics and
lock-ins that i
usually skipped)*

and i was
scared

so i hid
but they
found me and
i was suspended

i woke up wishing
for my sleep back.

i don't want to be pretty
not today

i don't want to put on
the makeup and put
up my hair i want to
shave the back of my
head with a dull razor
rip my eyebrows out
with my fingernails
and cry
ugly
tears

want to dump the coffee
i use to keep me alive all
over my cold skin and let
it burn me awake
want to clothe myself in
dried blood and *****
and sweat and screams
and everything else vile
in the world and tears
lots and lots
of hot
angry
hateful
tears

i don't want to be
needed don't want
to be loved i'd rather
be just another greasy
cog in part of an
industrial machine

do you know how exhausting
it is to be irreplaceable?

i don't want to be pretty
not today
just for now i'd like to be
hellfire in ripped jeans
a halfway house for
my own heart
a tornado of destruction
ripping through hopes
and gardens to make them
look as godforsaken
as i feel

i don't want to be pretty
not today
i want to be
ugly

Speed bump vendettas
Hit the gas and watch it go
In our winding opinions we're constantly making wrong turns
But to look at the mileage, you'd never know.

I'm walking on the yellow line
Lean to the left and lean to the right
And hope that you don't die tonight
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions
So I guess we're living in a hard-hat zone.

Streetlights can be cruel when they're showing parts of me
Streetlights are heavy when they highlight what you can't see
We keep parking too far from the curb
As we keep overspending our words.

You watch the cars, I'll watch the street
Our thoughts in the headlights, they never meet
Maybe our ideas are all we'll ever be
You keep counting yellow lines, disregarded like me.

We'll take turns backseat driving
Maybe that's the only way we keep surviving.

"He's a pushover," you grumbled
As you swung starboard
"I've never seen anyone so
Slippery in magic."

"Beastly," I agreed, "simply beastly
Like a competition with those
Seven unenchantments."

"He broke the boundaries!"
You swore, took a long
Swig from your jar and
Ambled to the prow.

I said nothing more but simply
Thought to myself as I looked to
The afternoon of leather and ropes.

(shhh dear skin you're
safe and smooth now)

cornstarch feet
toothpaste running
through my hair
listen to the vinegar hiss

(shhh dear skin you're
safe and smooth now)

petroleum based
insecurity wrapped in
a greasy old bandanna
the stuff of family feuds

(shhh dear skin you're
safe and smooth now)

i know that i often
feel about the size
of the proverbial
postage stamp

but every steamed up
monday night i try
to convince myself that
i'm safe in my own skin

(shhh dear skin you're
safe and sound now)*

go ahead
choke me
in your eyes
strangle me
tangled up in
unjust judgement

i'm always told
that i'm too
critical
but spend any time
under my nails
and you'll start
to realize why
i'm cynical.

my legs itch

the fat little
kid who lives
upstairs wants
to borrow a knife
to cut apart boxes

i give him scissors

and scratch one calf
with the other foot.

my legs still itch

i think it's dead
skin until they
sting up where
i've scrubbed

or tried to scrub
away the past

my mom always
told me i was a
good artist but
she never knew

i'm picasso in
his blue period

and i paint in
one color alone

salt.

the kid hands the
scissors back and
i try not to scratch
try to smile through

cracked winter lips
and split skin
beads of december
sweat all over me

swallow the smell
of burning meat
swallow secrets with
my morning meds
and a glass of cold
heartless blood

and don't ever tell my
mom she was right

that it feels good to
be a ******* artist.

We told citronella secrets
Under the summer stars
When the Christmas lights burned
Out of the airy tent
The tiki torch tradition
Was newly begun.

We told laughing love stories
As we walked the phantom dog
Down the silent, midnight road
Occasionally lit up by giggling headlights.

We drank soda from crinkling cans
Sipping down our suppositions
Rehashing the year and all
Our misconceptions by the
Light of the tropical
Tribal flames.

We told citronella secrets
And shared our autumnal fantasies.

maybe i'm just not used to
being kind to myself
not used to being
held or kissed or wanted

but something about the
way you touch me
makes me think that
years spent by myself
were preparation to
make me appreciate this

appreciate you
and the way your hands
fit around my legs
and settle on my back
how your lips run
down my neck and
our bodies just
fit together

"**** we make
a cute couple"
one of us says
every time we walk
hand in hand by a mirror
"where shall we go on
our next date to make
everyone jealous?"

and we laugh
and let sarcastic
comments run out word
by word between kisses

i'm not used to feeling
this way
part of a bigger picture
no longer a lone wolf
i'm not used to feeling
wanted

but something tells me
with you by my side
i could most certainly
learn to live with it

prayer huddles
more like
prayer
hurdles

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

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

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

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

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

nod politely
accept
the words they
speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

when i lose
those games
i play behind
my eyes

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

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

because
my eyeliner
is not
what happens
to be
running.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i guess i figured by
twenty years old i would
be the girl with
the band and not
the girl in the corner
behind three crockpots
and a cash box
dancing alone

but that's my favorite
part so far of being twenty
that by now i know
i am who i am
and i don't have to be who
i once wanted to be

sunset flickers across the
road and off the telephone
wires as once again
boredom sets in

maybe not my favorite
part because i hate this
but i figure it's comforting
even if i have to lie to myself

i also figured i would
be in love by now
and not
just lonely

on the other hand
i never realized
that i've always
been lonely

a lonely that
stays the same
regardless of who
i'm with

regardless of who
is under my feet
regardless of how
i spend my weekends

raised in a habitat that
did not tolerate the
concept of evolution
as being a possibility

but isn't that part of
carving my own way?
realizing that
i have changed

and i guess growing up
growing old
is the hardest thing
i'll ever do

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

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

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

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

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

but i never said i
believed in wishes at all.

it's been another year
my hair's a little longer
the soles of my shoes
a little smoother
scars a little
deeper

the dip in my mattress
goes further than
where i sleep at
night it sinks to
where i spend some
long days too

i mostly try to keep
my depressive
indulgences
to a minimum

(not that
it works)

but some days only
come once a year
and what better time
to feel sorry for yourself
than the date of
your own death?

the problem with
drinking to cope
is that after you’ve
coped
it’s easy enough
to keep drinking

i’m teetering
on the edge of
alcoholism
but saying that to
anyone sounds
too ****
dramatic

baristas and bartenders
daughters of artists
daughters of…
i can never come up
with the next line
right on the edge of my brain

so much for
never having had a
hangover before
five am in the morning
my heart racing
mouth dry

the signs don’t fit me
i keep a fully stocked bar
and i get up in the morning
and go to work

but it doesn’t sit right
the fact that the first drink
doesn’t hit the way it used to
the way that it’s the first
thing i pour when i
walk in the door

guess this is my
roaring twenties

(sometimes i wish
it was covid again
everyone was drinking
and everyone was happy about it)

i blinked
missed it
ended up
twenty five
and drunk
now
it’s time to
sober up

but it goes
deeper than that

i quit drinking
kind of
like dozens
of times before

only drank
two nights
this week
but instead of waking
up alert
bright eyed and
bushy tailed
i woke up the same

sluggish and tired
and the only difference
was that i hadn’t
drunk myself into
a peaceful stupor
the night before

tonight he asked
what i was
going to do
about it

besides drinking
harder and harder
and watching more
and more mash

he wasn’t asking
directly
about the
wounds on my legs
but i could hear
what he meant

but i’m an adult now
so i hurt myself
and i don’t talk about it
because strong people
don’t put their
problems on others

(talking about why
i don’t talk about it
is going too far back
too old a scar to pick at)

so i don’t
talk about it
because i’m
an adult

baristas and bartenders
daughters of artists
a disappointment
that just keeps going

he told me my
state of mind
isn’t a personal failing
but it seems to me
like all i’ve ever done
is make myself worse

there’s a
buzzing
in the back
of my throat

might be
words
trying to
escape

don’t
talk
about
it

whatever
i do

i can’t
talk
about
it

my heartbeat
is a high hat
whose edges
don’t quite meet

it’s sharp
an arrhythmic
clap of
a tambourine
hitting
my palm

none if it
makes sense
never did
never will

pieces spliced
and pasted back together
i don’t know
who i am anymore
or why i’m here
only one thing rings true

life is just one
**** thing after
another
except far too
often the
**** things overlap

this one is for every poem
lost in the digital age by
a mere slip of the finger, a
faulty web browser, your notorious
lapse of wifi, the convenience of
an anti-analog world, and now
a moment of silence.

i'm going to be
woken up when
september ends to
i will see october first

(i'm scared to
death of living
but i'll try it for
awhile anyway)

and sure i lay
in bed until noon
most mornings
a hot dim
reconfigured dream
trying to find
reasons any
reason

(i couldn't today
didn't feel like music
didn't want coffee
didn't want to talk to friends
didn't want breakfast
didn't want to create
didn't want
didn't)

replaying your face
bathed in two a.m. blue light
telling me that i had to
keep going and that
maybe it was selfish
but you couldn't handle
the rest of your life
without me in it

(we were both crying
by the time we went to bed
and i'm crying again
when i think about it)

you know those mornings
when you wake up and know
that before the sun goes down
your face will have felt tears?

yeah it was
one of those

(and tears aren't pretty
just kind of watery)

and by the time i had a
cup of tea and was sitting
at the kitchen table i was
sobbing my eyes out

(i am so
tired)

i couldn't help it
can't help any of this

(i am so
*******
tired of being
broken in half)

and i am so
tired of fighting
to find a reason to
get out of bed.

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

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

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

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

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

can't get the onion
out from under
my nails and can't
get it out of my head

(that i should
offer some kind
of ultimatum
for the good
of us all
something along
the lines of
them or me)

i understand that
my maturity is
not something i
can brag about

(but understand that
sometimes what i try
to say gets lost in translation
trying to protect myself
and also that i think we
would all have been better
off if you believed that we
could live without you)

i want to run
but i won't

(i'd be lying if i said i hadn't
thought about showing up
on his doorstep last sunday
night with a backpack my life
savings in cash and begged to
take me along wherever the
hell he was off to didn't care
just wanted to get my *** out of here)

shut my eyes found
another sitcom and
a crochet hook to
dull the nothingness

(i didn't
of course
and now he's down in
chattanooga or something
and i'm up here where
i will continue to rot)

and it's a real relief that
i left my church because
every time someone asks
what i'm doing with my
fall i can hear what they're
asking under the words

(am i going to
be a failure like all
things considered
suggest i will be?)

i have four tickets
in my back pocket
one to my own funeral
one to the end of a bus line
one to debt and anxiety
one to a family who doesn't want me

(i'm not
using any)

and what if this
never gets better
and what if i'm stuck
until i'm thirty-three?

and what if
i put my foot
down and said
that i would leave
in six months if
they didn't first?

but no
you've got me cornered
and i'm too tired for
one last power struggle.

don't find a boy who looks
at you the way he looks
at the stars hanging in
the sky or the waves
crashing on the
shoreline at sunrise

find a boy who looks
at you the way he looks
at a lightning storm
in awe and respect that
a man cannot keep a
force of nature for himself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop
Just
Stop
Now.

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

STOP
JUST
STOP
NOW.

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

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

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

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

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

there is a thin
layer of grease
over everything
that i touch

yet the skin over
my knuckles is
dry and red
lips cracked

i try and try
and try but
never manage
to be enough

maybe they put hate
in the cleaner
i soak my retainer in
because i feel it
every time
my teeth clench

i know your name
your order your
lunchtime nuances
about your dogs
grandchildren
your job and house
little useless details
about what makes
everyone in this town
who they are

but you don't
know me
and neither
do i

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

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

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

it's a perfect morning
sun flickering through spines of
bare trees onto grass and gravel
thick layers of frost covering the car

the perfect kind of morning
where if you shut your
eyes tightly and angle your
body towards the light
the world is so bright it leaks
right through your lids

and when you point your
face towards the sky to
let your hair blow back and
taste the deliciously cool air
it's impossible to decide
if it's april or october

but either option
is a good one

waking up
eyes puffy from
snatched sleep
and anxious
excitement drawing
your insides awake

tablecloths
jars of coffee
big smiles
bouncy feet
too much
nervous energy

things are different
things aren't ideal

but things
are still good
even when things
are bad

and how is that?
because i make
my own ****
rules now

and if i say things
are good
come hell or high water
things will be good
regardless of whether it's
april or october

"this is what is
going to send us
all
over
the
edge!"

somebody's worried
about falling into
the saint laurence seaway
and i'm worried about
falling into a waterfall just
past the edge of the blade

(all the money in the
world could probably
buy me my peace of mind
but it couldn't buy me
happiness and it
would leave everyone
else in the world
without any money)

and this life
my friends
is what is going
to send us all
over
the edge.

s m o t h e r
me in fresh snow
m u f f l e d
through notes to self
s c r i b b l e d
on scraps of paper to
a p p o i n t m e n t s
i never met

and call the
weekend a stanza

just one stanza in a
poem of months and time

(to be one person and
lost is not much to
the world but it is one
person's entire world to be lost)

break my back
split my heels
**** winter
except don't because
i like winter i just
want something
anything
to curse at

blame my
mood on

scuff my
cash on
knit my
apron on
***** my lid
on so tight

that someday
i'll explode

this is what is
going to send us
all over
the edge

*(i don't live
in a vacuum
but neither
do you)

i remember being
younger
and the black cloud
over my head
was some kind of
novelty

something weird
that would go away
someday if i
changed my attitude
shaped up and
started trying harder.

well i tried
tried my hardest
to push through
did my best to
smile when things
got too rough

i tried to be
the kind of person
they wanted
me to be

(i tried hard
but black holes
inside souls don't
just get filled)

i _ t _ r _ i _ e _ d

t _ r _ i _ e _ d

*(try switching just
two little letters)*

t _ i _ r _ e _ d

i _ m _ t _ i _ r _ e _ d

(is it worth
being real
if you're
sad?)

and i still
still
after all
these years

i am still being
told that all
i need to do is
look on the
bright side
remember there
are people out
there who have
it much worse than me

that i'm going
to get through it
if i just give it
time and try harder

t _ r _ y _ h _ a _ r _ d _ e _ r
t r y

i _ v _ e _ t _ r _ i _ e _ d
a _ n _ d __ t _ r _ i _ e _ d

b _ u _ t _ i _ m
t _ i _ r _ e __ d

i can't keep
you happy and
me happy at the
same time and
quite frankly
i'm tired of
neither of us
being happy.

*(i'm sure you get
tired of hearing
from me but just
imagine how tired
you would get if
you tried being me.)

i’m disconnected from reality
and hemorrhaging anxiety

i don’t
belong here

i don’t
belong there

i don’t know if i
belong anywhere
anymore and i don’t know
if home is a real place
or just a wistful
concept shrouded in
the shadows of other
people’s perfect families

but i don’t
belong here

and i don’t
belong there

this town turned
into my town
and now i’m wandering
the sidewalks wondering
where i lost
myself

was it in the library
between the pages of
a book i’ll never
pick up again?

was it in the gas station
dropped with my pennies
and dimes for an
eleven pm cola?

or the grocery store
somewhere in piles of
scratch and dent produce
in the bins of beef bones
or hidden under loaves
of overpriced bread?

maybe in the liquor store
it got pushed behind
forgotten bottles on a
shelf so high you need a
ladder and a grabber to
reach what you’re looking for

i probably lost
myself somewhere in
the cafe on the corner
dropped in the oven
and burned to a crisp
inside the espresso machine
covered in a thick layer
of grounds and oil
under a table or tucked
in a stranger’s to go bag

or maybe it was simply
that i got dropped
on the sidewalk
kicked to the side with
an old beer can
and nobody ever noticed

maybe i lost myself
in what i call
my own home
in between floorboards
or in a crack
in the paint

but i don’t know
what happened
and i don’t know
how to fix it

all i know is that
i don’t belong here

yesterday my therapist told me that it didn't do any good for me to beat myself up over my anxiety. she told me that if i felt anxious that was my body's response to what it perceived as a threat and that feeling guilt and hate towards myself for the natural instinct of wanting to keep myself safe wasn't the right way to think about it.

does that apply to depression, too? or just anxiety? because i can't keep denying how much guilt and hate i feel towards myself for just feeling. or a lack thereof.

there's no way for me to deny it -- i want to die. that's it, there, i said it. i want to die. cue the part where i immediately regret saying it because every time i say i want to die people don't seem to think that's an acceptable thing to mention in passing conversation. and then the guilt starts. i shouldn't have said that, now they're worried, i'm just selfish for wanting an out. around and around and around. and the more i think the more i feel guilt and the more guilt i feel the more i just want to die because obviously i'm not a good enough person to be here and i really should just die because --

if i had infinite time i could let the sentences run on and on forever around in my brain without cutoff or constraint. i don't have infinite time and they still do. and they build and build and build until sometimes i feel like i'm just going to explode if i don't let them out. but if i mention it, even think it to myself, the guilt starts again. don't let anyone know. don't tell them, you're making a mistake. it's getting old here, they've heard it before. so maybe i don't mention it. so then what? then it hurts worse, stabs me in the chest and twists the knife around until i start fiddling with my own blades on the outside. if only i could cry. but i'm too numb to find tears inside.

if only. if only. if only. if only i could shut the guilt and regret and rage and anger and hate up for ONE MINUTE maybe i could use that minute to grab onto something besides what i've got now.

oh well. it doesn't matter. nobody's reading this anyway. it's just me for one second of not pretending. so hey, here i am, i've said it. if you've made it all the way down here, i'd like to introduce myself, because i made closer to the end and i'm not yet dead.

hello, nice to meet you, i'm b and i want death.

"how do you
do it?" you
cried suddenly
as we walked.

"do what?"
i asked.

"balance things
on things that
shouldn't stay
but they do."

"i don't?"
i said
and remembered
that i do.

we decided
it must be
some vague
form of magic

that bowls never
fell off of tissue boxes
i never knocked
glasses of water
off of my bed frame
that terracotta pots
stayed put on water jugs
and the way i can
load a dish strainer
shouldn't be possible.

well
scratch that

because today at
eight a.m. i spilled
half a cup of
fresh coffee
all over my blanket
sheets shirt and ipod

nothing was
damaged just
smelling very
columbian

but i guess i'm
not magic after all.

you’re free now
to live your life
the way you want
for the first time ever
it’s all your choice
to make

and until you find
someone who can live
without telling you otherwise
it will stay that way

and what i forgot
to tell you is

(now keep in mind that
nobody can tell you
what to do this is just
a suggestion but
as you know i am blessed
with superior knowledge)

that you and me
(maybe macklemore
but we don’t plan
our futures around
such fickle creatures
as that disreputable
species known as men)
will find a cute little
lake town
the kind with rich
snobbish retired folks
and tourists
and boat tours and all
that watery nonsense

and we’ll open an
adorable little shop
and sell flowers
all sorts of
artistanal gifts
and we’ll have coffee
and warm homemade
pastries in the mornings

and we might not get
rich but we’ll make a
living which is all
that really matters

and we will retire
about 70
sell our shop to some
young whippersnappers
that remind us
of who we were when
we were younger
and more foolish

(but don’t assume we
will be significantly less
foolish at this point
in fact i hope that we
will actually age like
some sort of hilarious
variety of moldy cheese)

and we shall retire
to our tiny little
lake front residence
and occupy a front porch
with a glass crystal pitcher
of well-spiked peach tea
and jeer at everyone under the
age of eighty who passes by

and that, my dear
is what i wanted to express to you
that you’ve got
an entire life ahead
of you and cannot afford
to be put on the back burner
for somebody else’s
shimmery dreams of grandeur

so don’t think
too hard about my plan
because that’s all just
castles in the clouds
the story i tell myself
at night when i’m too
worried about the future
to get to sleep

but think
about this

today was not
the end
today was another
day in the very
mucky and unsubstantiated
middle segment of your life

(the middle is
the worst
like the middle of an afghan
or the middle of a poem
that is quickly derailing
from the original point
and i am afraid that when we’re
neither young nor old
but middle aged
nobody will laugh at our jokes
except ourselves
so maybe it doesn’t even matter)

and now
you get to
wake up tomorrow
and continue on
with your life
the way you want it

(which isn’t to say you’ll
live it alone forever but
you must live it alone until
you know you can survive alone)

so this is what i’ve been
meaning to tell you

other people come and go
(except me
you’re stuck there)
but you will spend
more time with yourself
than anybody else

and i’ve been
meaning to tell you
life goes on and
you’re going to get old
and it’s better to grow
old at peace with your
choices than to be
young forever and fooling
yourself into thinking
things will change
so there’s no doubt
you did the right thing

so here’s the
point of all this

i love you
and have always tried
my best to be your
biggest supporter
but that’s going
to change today

because today
was your first lesson
in being your own
biggest supporter

so cheers to this
the future
growing old
and growing happy

now get out there
an knock em dead

found myself washing dishes
in a bra and pajama pants
watching the rain like
i would watch a movie
with half my attention
and my hands full

anxiety and rage
had hit me again
but halfway through
what i had set out to do
i found myself so tired
i had to sit down and
watch through the oven
door as my life burned away

and i knew that my
five a.m. had
come this time at
five p.m. and
things had finally
gotten bad

but i have to pretend
i'm okay as long as
it's still daylight out
thank goodness
the days keep getting
shorter and shorter
because i do so get
tired of lying to myself.

i'm not who i
used to be

(and can't remember
who that was exactly)

my hands shake

uncontrollably
and i can't focus

except on mistakes

(there's a monster
sitting in my chest)

i can't sleep
can't think

can't

think

can't

breathe

(there's a monster
living in my chest)

can't

breathe

i may never have
spain or france
but i’ll always have
this

sun bleached
pavement of rt 89
that crawls its way
through tiny towns
over hills
and around
haze kissed
blue water

a tickle
of crisp
cider

wine
swirling
splashing

it all pools together
in my head
terms and types and
flavors

spontaneously fermented
ambient yeast

funky orange wine
geodesic concrete

ducks and geese
and state regulations

i want to take notes
pour drops on
the page
absorb every
milliliter of
information

hold it in my hand
and squeeze
until streams of
honey and pear
citrus and ginger
and every other
golden
unattainable ideal
run through
my hands

until the cold weather climate
native pink catawba
fermenting inside me
turns into something more
than the sum of its
component parts

saying i want it
doesn’t even begin
to cover it
it’s not just want

it's an ache
and the
ache is lust
impure and sticky
trapping itself between
my fingers

the ache is greed
green and trailing
the ache is desire
blue and rolling
the ache is passion
blood red and dripping

the ache
sinks itself
into my skull
like a nail

the antidote
is the very
thing that
caused it

pain and comfort
are both the same
and they come
in an opaque bottle
with a label that says
"made in new york"

so was i
and when i die
i hope i come back
as a cat
on an old man’s
patio or the echo in
a cavernously empty
tasting room

the sediment in
the bottom of your glass
the urge to try
something new

i don’t know what
my future holds
but i know
i’ll always have

this moment
moss on rocks that
have never had a
chance to dry out
water pouring out
of a pipe
in the side of a hill
into my insulated cup
the coldest
purest
most delicious
beverage my
this day
has to offer

i don’t know what
my future holds
but something tells me
i’ll be okay

and i may not have
spain or france
but i’ll always have
today

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and i've
done it
enough times
to know.

today i drew up a
crime scene
out of my thoughts

which sounds
perplexing

unless you're someone
like me who can't think
one thing without thinking
about another

so i drew lines on paper
connected people to events
places to regrets
circled notations
and perhaps little
is relevant

if i wear my heart
and emotions on my sleeve
which i do
can you possibly imagine
what kind of things i don't
admit to thinking?
and for awhile i thought
i didn't have any hidden
feelings but then again
the deeper i dig the more
i find that i do
once i get past the fact
i don't want to admit
they're there

my gut response is
to wait until the
wound itches
grab the
band aid and
rip it off

but this is a much
slower process
of hot steam
and stinging
soap and water
peeling bit
by painful bit

trying not to let the
crime scene thoughts
take over my life
but slowly snipping
color coded threads
until things begin falling

learning to live my life
with less explosions
less catastrophic
breakdowns to push past
and more tears that wash
off in the morning
and less that drip
into open cuts

letting
light in

disassembling my
crime scene thoughts

It's two a.m. and I'm suddenly thinking about how what we love most can make us the saddest. Out-of-state asphalt can't help me now. And I'm not upset about what I've lost, I'm upset about the things I can't lose, no matter how hard I try.

It hurts in the sense of being shot up with Novocaine and knowing you should feel pain but can't. It hurts like having fingernails that aren't short and playing my brother's guitar when he's not home -- uncomfortable and exciting. And I've been in bed for the last eight hours, but there's no way I can sleep now. Not when I'm consumed by all the petty facts of failure I define myself by.

I was crying this morning as I put on my makeup, and I'm still not sure if it was the eyeliner or the song playing. My face just deteriorated from there and I'm emotionally drained of all motivation to do anything but hide under an old afghan or shrink into a huge sweatshirt on my kitchen floor.

Good grief, it's just flannel, it didn't really matter. But it was her flannel, then it was my flannel, then it was my friend's flannel. Now it's just flannel, and who knows who should have it. I'm just doubting my own sanity. Every second is like reading my walls a hundred times and feeling it the same every minute.

I was expecting to write a lot of sad poetry but I wasn't expecting to be too sad to write poetry. And I don't want to move from this spot, but I guess I'll have to in the next two weeks, even though I might shake uncontrollably in the middle of the night when the lights are out. I'm not losing my mind, it's falling out, I swear.