the neighbors
peonies are
unfurling
but not ours

the rhodies on main street
are starting to fade
but the in-laws’ row
is in full explosion of color
the one we planted
was taken out by a deer

the blackberry bushes
likely won’t give us
fruit this year
and the peach tree died

but the wild
strawberries
are creeping
through the lilies
of the valley and
towards the mint patch

and every day i look
out my living room
window and am
grateful

admiring the perfect
division of crab grass
down the property line
at least i’ll never
have pedestal planters
full of ornamental grass
or pesticide notices
sent to my neighbors

it can be
bittersweet
admiring someone
else’s garden
when yours
doesn’t look the same

but you have to
work with what you’ve got
and trying to fight nature
is a losing battle

they say to bloom
where you’re planted
but they leave out
a crucial part

some people
don’t bloom

some people
spread
some people
trail
some people
vine
some people
reach

not everyone can
bloom on their own
some people have to
have help to get
dug up in the fall
or fertilized in the spring

some people
do better
in container gardens
some people
are invasive
and need pulling back

and i wish
someone had told me
that it’s less
important to
bloom where you’re planted
and far better
to stop
comparing your
garden
to someone else’s

i’m not afraid of
anything
except spiders
and my own mother

i’ll never understand
how you can love
someone and yet never
support anything they do

because it seems to me
that love isn’t what’s just
convenient to your
personal agenda

but all that is neither
here nor there
i suppose
after all i don’t really
know what i’m talking about
too young
too naive
to have experienced life

i am standing on a path
my friends laughing
and skipping ahead of me
saying “come join us as
we learn how to grow
old gracefully!”
while behind me my mother
shakes her head and grumbles
“you’re making a mistake
you don’t know what you’re
doing and i don’t think you
understand just how — “

“wait, i’m coming!”
i call as i dart
forward and i don’t
have to look behind me
to feel her
glare on my back

and so i run
ahead knowing if
i hear one more
can’t or don’t
or shouldn’t or
i’m-just-saying
i very well might
let it get to me

or maybe i already do
sometimes at night
when i can’t sleep
and cry into my pillow
because it hits me all
over again just how
i will never
be good enough

i’ve stared down
the pale light that
flickers off of razor blades
and i’ve looked into
the flames as they
licked my skin

felt pain but never
like i’ve felt the sharp
edge of her tongue
and the steel in her eyes

she always said she could
out-stubborn me any day
i’ve learned the tricks
and games she plays

and i’ve felt defeat
humiliation
fear and maybe even
subtle loathing

but now i’m feeling concrete
mold to the soles of my feet

and i can stand
repeat the rules
and beat her at
her own game

learned not to let
“you can’t”
“i wish you would”
into my head

but always the most
scalding one of all
“i love you”
still haunts me like a threat
i’ll try to outrun
for the rest of my life

how can you say you love
someone with words and
expect them to believe you
when you never say
you love them
with your actions?

Heartbreak tastes like
A bitter root, grown from
Lonely nights spent building
Airy sky castles made of
Imitation crystals or golden clouds
Lined with silver.

Dreams, hopes, stacked to
The stars and back
And yet afraid to be felt
Content with staying hidden in atmosphere.

Atmospheric empowerment, it's all
Just one of those subsidiary
Illusions, a lost line of
Endless pushing to be real.
I cannot create something that
Was never meant to exist
Not even the sheets of feeling that try
To choke the wasted, flowered beds.

Watch the fresh spring dirt until
Something happens, maybe it
Grows or moves, perhaps the ground
Talks, just wait, you'll see
Someday the sky and all its
Seemingly hopeless objections of freedom
One of these days, in perseverance
The sky will find a way
To touch the earth, to befriend soil
And reconcile the trees, to forgive, but
Will the heavens ever
Run to the ends of themselves?

don't cry because
i'm gone

laugh because
my whole life
was a complete
******* joke

some feelings now
have faded
like the tears and
panic i washed off

but others remain
still the urge to
cry and still the stings
where i am hurt

i am no longer
a child
but my sleeves
tell me i am vulnerable
and immature
seeking attention
and never think
about anyone's feelings
but my own

my sleeves tell me
i am selfish

and i want to cry
for if those things
were really true
i think hurting
myself would be low
on my list of priorities
and instead i would go
after targets less close
to the center of my
regrets

hurt and violate others
people i won't have to
see every day
for the rest of my life

but there they are
cuts and scratches
i'll keep to myself
trying not to be selfish

i guess all of us get
scared sometimes

some in front of
raging bulls and
snarling lions

and others in front of
crosswalk signs and
slightly raised expectations

either it's the flight or fight
response gone wrong or
worse yet a symptom
of the human condition

Some nights
I pick up my pencil
Open up my book
And the words flow
Like water, calm, cool
Smoothly winding, bitter wine
Sweet golden honey emotions.

Some nights
I can't quite
Gather up my thoughts
Churning out slowly
Stilted memories
Like a faraway, distantly sparkling party.

Some nights
I sharpen said pencil to a needle-point
Flip through the book
Reread old thoughts
Stare at the last page
Glaring, sad, blank
And have no thoughts to fill it with.

i had a nightmare
two nights ago

that i was running some
kind of winter errand
and had my family
and friends behind me

when at the top of the sagging
brown stairs before the darkly
scratched door i encountered
an unexpected sight

holly
spinning and twirling
in a black and white
polyester dress

curls bouncing as
she danced
she sang and
pounced on me

i tried to pull the
red scarf on my
head over my face
but it was too late

she was after me with
an aggressive laying on
of hands and smearing a
full bottle of bubblegum
scented anointing oil all
over my face and clothes

i was hoping for
some kind of backup
but my friends were gone
like we were fourteen again
and it was my job to
make a pastoral request
or deal with the questions
except this time they were
somewhere further away
than just behind me

and she was pulling
on me and my parents
were pushing me
further into the room

which was lined with
a dozen folding tables
and a single woman
at each one

gigi was there
and judith and a
lot of other people
whose faces i can't
recall and they were
all carrying on a
great deal and as
soon as they saw me

they all converged
on me asking how i
had been and what
i had been doing and
trying to make me
dance and praying
and shouting and
singing and hollering
in tongues and
my parents were
insisting this was
what i really needed

and i couldn't breathe
the side door was
cracked open car
outside but the more
i fought to get away
the more they held
me down i could smell
the cold winter air and
was so close and yet
so far from escape

i had a nightmare
two nights ago

and you might
call it a dream but
i call it a nightmare
because i woke up
gasping for air and
twisting in my sheets.

the problem with alcohol
is that it’s flammable

you could set the whole town ablaze
if you started at the liquor store

you can set my whole
train of thought off the rails
flipped and on fire
after a few drinks

and when i drink i fall
prey to a different type of
burn than the one
in my throat

and it’s mean
a nasty little
whisper of a flame
on a petty match

the kind of burn
that destroys what
made it as it swallows
whatever is in its path

the problem with alcohol
is that it’s flammable
and it won’t cause an explosion
unless ignited

and the problem is that
i am the ignition

the thing about
first jobs is that
they’re never
your last job

and for all the years
spent behind this counter
i’ll spend ten more
somewhere else

and now it’s time
to leave

i wish it didn’t
have to end this way
wish things would have
turned out differently

but at the end
of the day i know
i made the best
choice i could
as long as my
hands were tied

and i don’t know
where i’m going
from here and
i’m afraid

but not so afraid
that i can’t see
there’s something
better for me

and this time
change
is good for me
because who knows
how long i would
have let myself grow old
saturated in coffee under my nails
grease on my apron
and tears that
didn’t come from onions

and i’d like to hope
that i won’t be forgotten
like to hope that when
you put an extra tablet in
the sani water that you
think of me as it dissolves

like to hope that you
miss the way your
coffee tasted just perfectly
sweet enough when i
was the one
making it

like to hope you’ll
miss my scones and
coffee cakes and the way
i always tried to be
a forceful source
of encouragement

i like to hope
but i know
deep down inside
life just rolls
onward and soon
someone else will come
along and all i did
will be forgotten

but i do
like to hope

the price of coffee has not
necessarily gone up
most people are just buying
the wrong brands.

i didn't shed a tear
not one
i'd lost them all two
weeks before
and my waterproof
mascara laughed at
my mother's assumption
that i needed it.

for someone who is
loved i suggest a tombstone
but for someone like me
cremation is better
because there is already no
question of the likelihood
of eventually
being forgotten.

i found a tension rod
in the hall closet this week
i don't know where it came from
or why it was there
but i know that when we find
something we've been wishing for
chances are we will commandeer and
use it for our own selfish purposes.

pearls in a pill bottle
cursive handwriting on a silver tray
ivy up the noose
razors with the rouge

i don't think it's romanticizing
suicide
i think it's showing how normalizing
suicide
becomes when it's always
in the back of your mind

when there are many
many days where you spend all your
spare moments contemplating if
your out is a better alternative to this.

they thought i was lying
when i said i didn't care
but i wasn't lying
at least, not about my hair
if there's a truth that's found in lying
that's something i'd gladly dare.

a thin sheet of ice
on a windshield
beach glass green
in the morning light

a frosted vase
in milky seafoam
red roses proudly
piled upwards

windows
you can’t see out of
and doors
that won’t lock tight

eyes that see
everything
and a haze over
my mind’s eye that
prevents any of it
from registering

reality reduced to
coffee and bread
aches in feet and
crumpled tissue paper promises
to be kind to myself
to not be so sad
so needy
so weak
so tired
so fogged

this part of my life
(the current present that has
continued on for years)
is the purgatory between
the past
and the future
so i spend my days
banging on the glass and
screaming for purpose
and nights letting slippery
tears freeze over
and crystallize on my pillow

if i could fix myself
don’t you know i
would have by now?

if i could make up
my mind do you think
i would still be here?

hurt me
please
but please don’t
tell me i can do this

if i could do this don’t you
think i would have?

i can't even explain
how much i just
love being a
disappointment

(i hate making decisions
because whatever i
choose i will experience
extreme guilt and regret)

how much i love standing
in the kitchen at seven a.m.
being told i'm going back
to therapy until i'm fixed

repairing a car that
keeps on breaking down
is not cost effective
and is very frustrating

(you get mad when i don't
say what i'm really thinking
but when i say what i'm
thinking nobody listens)

i just love staying up
all night and not
breathing for a week
and never going outside

(avoiding churches
certain music
riding in cars
parking garages
elevators
crowded places)

being surrounded
and told that i just
have to face my fear
because i am

i do it every morning
when i wake up and
remember that
i'm still alive.

the flowers will still poke
up to bloom this spring

and empty airline bottles
will still litter the sidewalks

and good and bad
will still reside
in all of us

and the struggle
between them
will still wage war

regardless
or perhaps
because of
what falls apart
or comes together
all around us

maybe if the
art store
that it feels like i spent
most of my lifetime in
had never closed
i'd be doing better

(maybe i wouldn't
but that's less likely)

and maybe there would be
a stack of canvasses
somewhere in my room
all covered in words

poked through by
needles and stretched
with yarn
laced and glittered
within an inch
of their lives

and i'd be crying
glue
and bleeding
paint

and maybe my
tension would be
strung looser than their
stretched and stapled frames.

i'm wondering if
we ever get
over our losses
creatively
or if we just find
alternatives
to abusing the
canvas.

once we were
young
dangling our legs
off the stone
wall dividing your
backyard in half.

we got a little
older
and you ran your
father's truck
backwards off
that same wall.

the truck was fine
(until the wheel
fell off awhile later)
but i daresay you
killed a few flowers
in the process.

during swimming lessons
i never jumped in the pool
but a year or two later
i fell off the deep end.

you never understood
and i doubt you
ever will but you've
sure as hell stayed.

we both realized
what was wrong with
everything
and that was
when we left
for war.

sharing music
and things that smell
wonderful
linked-arm goose-stepping
down hills
lazy sunday afternoons
with the rat-tat-tat
echoing through the house.

last summer you were
cursing for the fun of it
in the church parking lot
when the pastor showed up

you'll never agree
with my stupid *** reasons
and i won't say the
s-word if you don't want me to.

and in two or three years
we'll be full grown adults
leaning up against some
wall somewhere
(probably not the one
in your backyard)
and i will fish a pack of
cigarettes from the bottom of
my purse and you will proceed
to *** one off me
then offer me the use of your
vintage lighter

then i expect we'll stand there
smoking in silence
and we'll both be properly
****** up

you're d-day in
a floral dress
and i'm a radio signal
lost on the airwaves

we're both scraps
of destruction
whispers of a truce
lost in taffeta and lace
because we forgot
to bring the blood
and choked on
gunsmoke

we go together like
fire and gasoline
toxic
volatile
and having a whole
lot of fun in the meantime.

the fear
is suffocating
the anger
is motivating
the sadness
is paralyzing

what do you do
when you’ve been doing
your best
and it’s still
not enough?

what do you say
when you know you’re
beaten down
and nothing will
change their minds?

my eyes are tired
of being dry and puffy
my brain is tired of
feeling like cotton
nose is tired of stuffy
throat is tired of lumpy
but mostly i am
just tired

please
all i want
is silence
so complete
and still that
even the ringing
in my ears
quiets

just a little
bit of peace

to reestablish
a connection
from the crossed wires
between my ears

a warm
hazy feeling
beginning to
grow up through
my stomach and
sprout blooms
into my
chest cavity

i don’t want to
live on the run
anymore

on the run?
but all you do
is work and sleep

exactly
i’m on the run
from the rest
of my life

the only place i
feel at home anymore
is a little blue car with
his hand in mine

i’m safe there
we go places
that take me
away from it all

but i always have
to go and ruin it
don’t i?
muddy footprints
on the door
streaks on the window
balled up napkins
propelled by tears
and emotions
onto the floor

i don’t want to be
taken care of
i want to grow
unhindered
up the wall like
the ivy that climbs
fill the lawn of my life
with endless may violets

not the mat
in the floorboards
with trampled debris
of leaves and winter wet
under someone’s
cold feet

i am my own
worst critic
though not my
only critic

but i am the one
i must listen to
in the still after
i’ve locked the doors
i’m the one that
keeps myself from
complete
peace and quiet

i can understand
people and why
they might not
like me
but it’s harder
to understand
why i can’t
like myself

but please
oh please don’t
put me under
a public microscope
please don’t turn
the far side of this
counter into some
kind of fishbowl

because i swear
i am doing my best
but it’s hard and
i can’t handle the
feeling of being
watched

all i want is
peace and quiet
a house
that feels like home
to come back to
at the end of the day

and the only
vicious voice
i must fight
to be my own

you've tried
to pinpoint
the exact time
and place in
life that i
went wrong

(not wrong
i should say
changed
depressed)

and so far you've
come up with a
whole bunch of
different situations
you believe
contributed

and i've come up
with a whole bunch
of questions
as to why i can't just
be wrong in
peace
instead of wrong in
pieces.

here is what
we are not
going to do

we are not going to
play taylor swift’s
latest album a
half dozen times

and we are not going to
get drunk on ****** sweet red
wine from a three liter bag
mixed with lime gin

and what we are most
certainly not doing today

is crying
and crying
and crying
and crying

mostly over what
didn’t happen
and what won’t happen
and what can’t happen

not
doing
that
today

and we are not
slipping darkly
down into the space
between the bathroom floor
and reality where
the bath mat lives and
i start to get afraid of myself

we are not falling
into the trap
of blood on skin
like drops of that bad
red wine dried and
left to oxidize

so here’s to what we’re
not going to do today

but then what
are we going
to do today?

first i would take the
grassy fields that
touch the blue

and i would roll
them up
like when i was

a child helping
put away the
tape-lined carpet.

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

and i would stir the
sunset from straight
red plains

into a hazy
blur in the
eastern sky.

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

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

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

and i would
do all of this
for you.

there is a
downside
to recovery

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

being clean
doesn't necessarily mean
being okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you find yourself
waking up
gasping for
morning air.

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

champagne tickles
the roof of my mouth
like the fear bubbling
up in my chest

and sweet yellow
orange juice is what
i imagine hope for
living life tases like

is peering down
the aisles of this
narrow small town
liquor store
just peering
into my future?

**** it
and sink it
hope for
the best

happy birthday to me
now it’s time to tell
my mother that her vivacious
little girl has grown up
into a young woman who only
wants flowers in her hair
a pillow fort of quiet solitude
and a little peace of mind
maybe with a stiff drink
in her hand
or maybe just with
an iced coffee

swish the drink around
in the crystalline glasses
used to being filled with
water or cola
swirl it into the
confusion dripping down
the frosted walls and puddling
in the dip of the floor of my brain

alcohol
***
solitude
all tempting
and timely vices
now that i’m grown

everyone
leave me
alone
don’t leave me
alone
i’m scared

i’m scared
of who i’ve become
of who i will find
myself to be
when i reach the
bottom of this cup
full of old
memories

and when you asked me
what I wanted for
my birthday all
i could think of was
to be seventeen again
and not afraid of
what tomorrow
might bring

or to have a day
or two completely
to myself
nobody to ask me
silly questions and
nobody to answer
my doubts being voiced
just me
learning the art
of trusting myself

to lean into my
emotions without
spiraling down
into them

i’m growing up
growing older
learning change is the
only constant in life

empty the glass
brush my teeth
shake out my hair
crawl under the blankets
go to sleep and
wake up tomorrow
one day older
one day wiser

the future
is trash bags full of
old clothing
boxes full of
old books
a reinvention
of myself and
maybe finding a life
that brings me peace

this moment is coffee grounds
***** pennies and soft dollar bills
wind cutting through
the corners of the windows
always a couple degrees
warmer inside my bake case
jabbing keys on a grimy calculator
and a persistent ache in my heels

so i’ll sit down for
a snatched second here
or there and lose myself
in the quiet for just
a moment until the
bell rings and i
shake myself out
of the revery
shut the notebook
blue lined with
thoughts that won’t
stay in neat rows

back to work
an endless stack of
the dishes of
strangers

scrape
wash
rinse
soak
dry
repeat

washing dishes
a chore that never ends
perpetual transience of
soap through my hands

i tell myself that this
is just a season
that it won’t always
be like this

change is now
i am changing

i must learn to live
my life now and not
as a vague concept
misty in my future
clinging to me like
floral perfume that
isn’t mine but covers the smell
of bleach and bacon grease

water is a force of nature
that people have learned
to route through pipes into
small town water lines
contain in faucets and run
through sinks into bathtubs
pitchers and dishpans

oceans distilled into
jugs and splashed into
my cut glass cacophony
ice cube trays
frozen with complacency
something like me

and now it’s time to tell
my mother that her vivacious
little girl has grown up
into a young woman
who is growing her hair on an impulse
and who has found a family
beyond flesh and blood
who soon will lie on the floor
of her own home and solve
her own sadness in her own heart
surrounded by people who love her
because they chose to
not because they only wanted
love in return

that she is going to age
without resentment
and has made the choice
to lean into the wind
taste the change
entering her bloodstream

the future
is now
and change
is coming

it's back
the urge to cry
gone only for
three short days

the lump
in my throat
my family thinks
i've got a cold
my coworkers think
it's allergies

but i'm lying just
trying not to cry

because crying makes
me feel weak and if
there's anything i can't
stand it's feeling powerless

i'm trying not to let
myself have emotions
trying to stay strong
trying not to scratch
at the wounds and
trying not to cry

but there aren't
many pills left
in the bottom of
the bottle and i
don't have refills
so i don't know
what i'll do
when i run out

trying
failing.

i'd put my lips
to the exhaust pipe
and breathe in the
fumes if i thought
that exhaling them
would help.

and i would go back in time
listen to a rambling
speech each week
again and again
if i knew that it would
actually teach me to breathe.

or perhaps
but no

have you seen the way
it pools in the cold air
a man-made mist
of toxins and forgotten
words that we never
cared enough about?

i could choke
on it
it's not real
anyway
it's just vapor
burning papers

burning bridges
burning gas.

one of these days
i'm going to start
walking
and heaven help
whoever tries
to stop me.

i'll walk past
the town line
the cutoff where i should
have turned around
and fall straight off
the edge of the earth.

and all that will be
left of me is
a passing whiff of
exhaust on the breeze.

every raindrop on the
car windshield turns into
an ocean

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

perhaps the electrical impulses
could cosmically and
inexplicably change me

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

so i'll stay
in this parking lot

and i'll
wait

for the blue
flash of fallout

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

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

the damp spring
suddenly coming up
on traffic islands

i should be
absolutely
thunderstruck

flying through the air
head buried deep
in the wispy clouds

but i'm finding myself
lightningstruck
in place

feet on the ground
drowning in
pavement.

it's november 21st again

2016
the snow is piled
up on the tips of
the tree branches
mounded on cars
blown down my neck
and through the sky

i know it didn't snow
seven years ago but i
can't remember the
weather of every anniversary

2013
just a dusting on the
grass and on my
braided hair
red plaid tunic
i have selfies and
pictures of the dog
my legs covered
in red plaid wounds

today would have been
three years clean

2011
windwhipped trees
black walnuts naked
it rains all month
and never seems to stop

2010
dress me up
take me out
fall back in love
with life but my
past is starting
to bleed

i just can't remember
the weather
i just remember
the date

things get burned into
our minds so we can
never see them the
same way again
we remember moments
and faces that don't even
matter they just stick
in our memories

it's november 21st again

2009
we're all afraid
of dying and
we're all afraid
of changing
terrified of
growing up

i don't know why
it scarred me why
it changed my
family but maybe
i need to stop asking
why and just move on

it's november 21st again
and i'm not saying anything about it

it’s two am
and i can’t sleep
so i’ll take a shower
try to let the hot
water wash away
the words that ring
constantly like
alarms in my ears

i want to drink
to forget
that i am a
selfish
disappointment
to forget that
my mother
doesn’t love me

and i might spend
my whole life looking
for what she didn’t
have to give me

being told i’m doing
a good job from my boss
learning how to keep a home
neat from my best friend
advice that has my best interests
at heart from women who care
and from him all i ask is love
that isn’t conditional

and i’ll teach myself
to finish a job once
it’s started and to
never rely on other people
to keep money
in my bank account

and i’ll never say i love
someone and then let
my words and actions
prove me wrong

my hair is wet now
and heavy on my back
i have hair like she did
when she was young
and it’s weighed down
dripping with expectations
of who someone
with such hair should be

i don’t belong here
in this house
this home that isn’t
mine and never was

home is where you
go at the end of the
day to feel safe
where others aren’t
out to trample on
your emotions

home is where you
sleep with ease
but here i barely
even sleep
not knowing if tomorrow
will bring a tornado
or if the sun will rise
peaceful on the meadows

the question keeps
me up and even though
i know the answer it’s the
hardest one to face

why doesn’t
she love me?

because she isn’t capable of
giving what she never had
and it isn’t a me problem
it’s a her problem

that’s the answer
i know but i can’t
make myself
understand it

so i’ll rinse my hair
dry off and climb
back in bed hoping
tomorrow will make sense

but when tomorrow comes
so does the reminder

i’m alone now
and i have to
take care of
myself now

that’s my only problem
not the fact she
doesn’t care
that’s a her problem
and my reactions are
a me problem
and despite what she
tells me i’ve never been
a problem only a
problem to her

c _ l _ e _ a _ n
d _ i _ s _ h _ e _ s

c _ l _ e _ a _ n
f _ l _ o _ o _ r _ s

something about
the lighting?

i haven't felt
right in days
a headache behind
the eyes and a
knot in my
stomach

(i know how
this one ends)

i'm the most
worst version
of me that i've
ever met

e _ v _ e _ r
m _ e _ t

m_ e _ e _ t _ m _ e
s _ o _ m _ e _ w _ h _ e _ r _ e _ e _ l _ s _ e

I WANT TO
GO BACK IN TIME
TELL MYSELF THAT
I WAS WRONG

W _ R _ O _ N _ G
S _ O __ W _ R _ O _ N _ G

(i'm stuck in my
own head again
can't get out can't shake
any of the thoughts loose)

BUT I CAN'T
THIS IS THE FUTURE
AND I'M JUST AN ECONOMY
PRICED PACK OF MISTAKES

m _ i _ s _ t _ a _ k _ e _ s

i want to hit
my head on every
solid surface in
the whole house

(wouldn't matter
it already hurts)

want to be
better
good enough so
people like me
so that i
like me

(but it's too late
and i'm not ready)

I HATE IT
THAT I'VE MADE
UP MY MIND
FOR ONCE

and if i will not
destruct
i may just turn
myself purple

(red and spotted
itchy and allergic)

BECAUSE I CAN'T
STAND BEING
ME FOR ANOTHER
SECOND LONGER

it's 2:53
is it wrong of me
to think that sometimes
the devil turns us
against each other
for his own schemes?

hours past my bedtime
but i can't sleep because
i'm over the edge and
if i turn out the lights now
i'll be awake until the
sunrise with panic attacks

it's 2:54
is it wrong of me
to think in terms
of either-or?

i'm a little weird
in that most of the
music i listen to lately
is just ambient noise
instrumentation
designed to make
me feel less
choked

2:55
a pain in my chest
i'm afraid of death
even more to stay alive

i get scared
of myself
sometimes at night
when i'm alone
because i know
i'm the only one
with the motive
the power
to destroy
myself

and i start feeling
powerless
helpless
i know where the
knives are
i know where the
pills are
i know i'm smart enough to
figure out how to tie knots
but sometimes i don't know
if i can talk myself
down from that ledge

and i get scared
of losing control
i don't really want to die
i don't think?

is it
3 yet?

stop it

i know you're
lying in bed
and i know that
before you fell asleep

you went through a
mental list of all
the people you love
and prayed for each one

and i know
that i was
somewhere there
in your liturgy

stop it

i mean
it's great that
you know what
you believe like that

but please
don't get me
mixed up
in it

i don't know
why but
the thought is
bothering me tonight.

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

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

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

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

my dreams are
marzipan
almond paste and
powdered sugar
egg whites beaten
kneaded
wrapped in
cling film and frozen
i took them out
to thaw last month

my dreams are
chickens
unhatched
i’ve counted
done the math and put
all of my eggs
into a single
provincial french basket

my dreams are
castles
in the air
or castles
in spain
depending on how
far back you want
to take the saying

either way
their spires are
dark toned
bordeaux bottles
narrow and
full of deep
burgundy
nero d'avola
and beaujolais nouveau
those fit into the
hamper with
my eggs

pinotage
zinfindel
shiraz
malbec
cab franc
take me around
the world
and back again

swooping past
the buttresses
i built of
carmenere
monastrell
grenache

deep and
treacherous moats
filled with every
kind of filler
red that pads out
your favorite blend

(some day i hope
to go to spain
to see my ambitions
in person)

my dreams are
highly breakable
when dropped
on concrete
and notoriously difficult
to clean up

my dreams are
clouds of
small batch
irish cream
swirling around
in espresso ***

my dreams are
right in front of me
and yet i can’t quite
reach them unless i
lean forward
knock over some
neatly arranged plans
spill out school
let it pool and
run off the edge
of the table
and onto the floor

my dreams
are spite
shards of
broken glass
a fallen shelf
astringent
eighty dollar whiskey
wafting through the air

my dreams
are for the future
but are somehow
impossibly
inseparable from
the past

(i always tell myself
if i could live through
a pandemic i can
do anything
including making this
phone call)

my dreams are
motivational
hobby lobby signs
strung up with
fairy lights in my head
“the difference between
a dream and a goal
is a plan”
“just busy building
my empire”
“hustle and heart
will set you apart”
but the signs don’t mention
the heavy feeling of
dread in my gut

don’t tell me
what it’s like to carry
a dream
tell me what it’s like
to carry
aspirations of
something
better for myself
while schlepping
along an intense
fear of failure and
the itching dread
that i’m making the
wrong decision

my dreams are
olive drab and
dried out californa
soundstage brown
a younger me
who could never
foresee who i
am today

my dreams are
the skeleton
hanging in the corner
of henry blake’s office

my dreams are
99 cent
shots of blue liqueur
on my 21st birthday
burning
the back of my throat

my dreams are
lit candles
on the cluttered
coffee table
greenery and
light florals
wafting
into the night

my dreams are
chronic
the thing my parents
warned me about
a genetic predisposition
to addiction

my dream is not
to be rich
my dream is to
afford therapy

Nose pressed against the cold glass
Blinking at the streetlights
That are trying to outshine the stars
That retreated behind their clouds.

Watching the orange bulbs
Glaring relentlessly at me
Marching in straight lines
Along the street.

Because at some point
The lights started to think
That in their overwhelming number
They outnumbered the stars.
And that in their sophistication
They were better than the fireflies
And the stars and fireflies left
Leaving the streetlights to rule.

But there is none of that
Familiar choking in my throat
And the weirdest calm
In my head.
And that is stranger than
The streetlights governing
But not as gnawing as
The empty space in me.

i've been thinking about
a second tattoo

this time
across my forehead

I KNOW I'M NOT
GOOD ENOUGH
SO DON'T *******
REMIND ME

and every time you
started talking at me

i'd point one *******
to my face and then to yours

but somehow i don't
think you'd notice

There's a lot of mercy out there
For sinners like me
But a lot of things are going on
That I won't let you see
While I'm too afraid
To seize this day
Well, I swear I'm not
The girl in this glass box

Once there was a time
We were sons and daughters
But men, like lambs
Get led to the slaughter
I'm so afraid of falling
In this love I don't deserve
But I'm gonna die if I don't accept
This grace I didn't earn

There's a lot of forgiveness due
That I don't have the means to pay
It's hard to know that any blood but mine
Could take this pain away
But I can't sneak out
One more back door route
And though I don't lie
I've still got a lot to hide

Once there was a time
We were sons and daughters
But men, like lambs
Get led to the slaughter
I'm so afraid of falling
In this love I don't deserve
But I'm gonna die if I don't accept
This grace I didn't earn

Cause I can't live on front row chairs and pinned on prayers
My good deeds, historic creeds, Thursday night salvation
And I've gotta shake this fourth-floor faith
But I'm drowning in alternative translations

Empty church chairs
Keep the light on upstairs
You said You had a plan
But here's the moving van
And I wonder why I ever cried
To leave these halls and whitewashed walls
And learn to be.

Woodgrain runs through the patterns of my youth
And I keep running from the truth
Those hundred and eighty eyes were blind
To what they put me through
The truth, the truth
I just keep running from You.

Dewy morning haze
Lazy pajama days
We just need perspective
To find our real objective
And I wonder why I ever tried
To fit myself into that shell
They made of me.

Woodgrain runs through the patterns of my youth
And I keep running from the truth
Those hundred and eighty eyes were blind
To what they put me through
The truth, the truth
I just keep running from You.

I can play the victim well
Walking on the line between Heaven and Hell
We're living in this great divide
Of time and space and sin and pride
To take a stand you will need nerve
So choose today who you will serve.

Woodgrain runs through the patterns of my youth
And I keep running from the truth
Those hundred and eighty eyes were blind
To what they put me through
The truth, the truth
The truth
The truth is that
I can't stop running from You.

When you cracked
The sky cracked, too.

And all the feelings
I had tried so hard to
Get past
Fell through the shattered atmosphere.

And in the chapel
Bathed in fragile glass light
The coffee was well-disguised
But bitter, like you.

And the hard bench and off
White wall
Reminded me well of
A home no longer mine
Reminded me well
We all have demons.

When you cracked
The sky cracked, too.

a guillotine
vs. a guilt

i don't believe that
i have anything
to truly regret

but guilt
is so appealing

i don't believe that
execution is still
widely used

but death by society
is still oh so feasible.

have you ever
felt homeless?

i have
living like a
stranger in
a glass guesthouse.

but then i took
a baseball bat to the
transparent walls

and now
i just feel
homeless.

what shows the true
color of a house as a home
is the number eyes watching
through the windows

is a home someplace
out of the cold and rain
or is a home someplace
outside of icy critical pain?

a house
vs. a home.

greeted by the musty smell
of yesterday’s bacon grease
the familiar scrape
of sliding glass and brass
and the blast of hot air
from an open oven

turn on the lights
unlock the doors
whining and whirring as coffee
falls from the grinder chute
the steam wands hiss
water spits through
the filter basket and i
find myself awake

and standing with my
elbows in a bin of hot
water and soapy dishes
the crust over my eyes
loosening with the
warmth and wet

flip the sign
wave the flag
the plates clank
as i walk by

smile
chat
say the same lines
i say every day
toaster to register
sink to grill

an autopilot person
as the world spins

ivy on the brick walls turns red
snow blankets the stone steps
the streetlights stay on through
the fog all morning

the picture windows
rattle when the semis
roar around the corner
at night i lie awake
and imagine them
cutting the turn too close
and crashing through plate glass

i can’t sleep
not when morning
looms so soon
when the sky out the
window will be black
when i wake up

black when i
eat dinner
and gray whenever
else i look

and it’s true
i don’t have it
as rough as
some people

but that doesn’t mean
it’s all so easy for me

i’ve found by living in
the early morning
i can achieve the same
effect as staying up
too late but with less
negative consequences

but the things that are whispered
when the world is still dark
aren’t things to be whispered
to the faint of heart

Clocks tick
Seconds slip
By.

Leaves fall
Babies crawl
Kisses end
Branches bend
And break as
Hearts ache.

We'll forget, forgive
Move on
But stay in once place and
Hurt to fill empty space.

And still the
Ceaseless passage continues
Of the monolith called
Time.

Clocks tick
Years slip
By
Don't live your life
In regret
Don't be afraid
To forget.

i can only promise you
one thing

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

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

but this body of mine can only
hold so much

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

i'm already
cracking

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

i can only promise you
this one thing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to this day
i don't know why.

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

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

they told me that it was the
adult ward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the story of a family
that slowly snapped.

(i wonder sometimes
if they miss me)

on saturday nights
of poking away on
someone else's laptop

on sunday mornings
of flustered staggered
movements behind backs

(do they miss me
do they even notice that
i'm gone or is somebody
else better than i ever was?)

is anybody else as
frustrated as me?

or was i the exception to
some typographical rule?

and do they wish that
i was still around to fix
all their mistakes

(to get walked on
at short notice)

can they even tell that
i'm not the one behind
the screen anymore?

i don't know
but i wonder

(if anybody
misses me)*

if anybody
remembers me

because i can't
forget them.

It was so hot
The dogs stretched out flat
In yards and flopped on
Front porches were
All running like Boeing 737s.

It was so hot
At the end of the
Church service all the
Church ladies scattered
Just like that.

It was so hot
That even the
Atmosphere groaned
And the forests wished
For air-conditioning.

It was so hot
The letters threatened to
Melt as fast as I
Could possibly apply
Them to a page.

It was so hot
I simply forgot
To breathe and instead
Wondered why
The stifled world still turned.

Every morning as a
New day
But that doesn't mean the consequences
Of our actions are taken away.

Every night I'm
One day older
But that doesn't mean I have less of these
Burdens to shoulder.

Every afternoon is
One more chunk of trickling time
But wasted hours add up fast
Like millions are made of nickles and dimes.

Every single late
Night I spent awake
Could have been used
For society's sake.

Now and then and
Here and there
Are the seconds I surveyed
The ones of love to share.

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

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

there’s a thin layer of
dirt on the top of my thoughts
gray rivulets of memory
drips of things that
haven’t happened yet
bleeding into my actions

i need a pressure washer
for my mind
to blast off the grunge
and road dust

there’s an incredible
crick in my neck
but worse than that
the panic is back

my bones ache
carpel tunnel is settling
in my pinkie finger
every callus i’ve collected
has fallen off my palms
the urge to create
something
anything
making my
skull pound

i wish i could just
pressure wash it off
clean out the corners
force it all away

I live in an
Enchanted Forest.

If you were to pull up
The shaggy rug and
Peer between the blonde floorboards
You would see the grassy carpet.
Behind the bookcase stands
A grove of old, wise trees.

Scrape away the ceiling to see
A cloudless blue sky
Echoed by the secret pond
Beneath the window, and at nights
The purple lava lamp
Becomes the moon.

Under my zebra sheets
Is a mossy bed of magic
And in my dresser drawers grow
Patches of wildflowers, eagerly
Awaiting the day I wear
The t-shirts covering them.

Hear the echos of the laughter
The elfin mirth hiding in
Country radio, can't you hear
The fairies plucking my
Guitar strings, as the wild
Animals sing along?

I live in an Enchanted Forest
But it doesn't take perfume to smell the magic.

I think you were
Proud of me
I was always your
Little girl
You forgot I wasn't
Little anymore but even
When you couldn't show it
You still loved me.

Were you proud of me
When I played guitar and
Sang badly or well, depending
Because you loved it?
Even after he told you the
Secret I wanted you to
Die not knowing because
I didn't want to hurt you?

Would you be
Proud of me today if
You'd been dealt a fairer hand?
Would you love to hear
The poetry I write in smeared
Pencil and read aloud to airy rooms?

Would you smile when I
Let loose a sizzling lick
On the guitar I bought with
Money you left me?

Would you hurt when I
Stood in that hallway crying?

Well, tonight I turned sixteen
She sent me money in a sappy card and
A scarf and I called her and you
Weren't there to hear.
Tonight I turned sixteen and
They gave me a beautiful ring
Would you have been in on
The secret?

You weren't there
You weren't there
You weren't there
I wasn't there.

Erase another line keep
On trying to forget but I
Can't ignore these
Graphite graveyards.

Would you love to see me
Stand tall and become
Beautiful, a leader
Myself?

Wherever you are tonight
Do you wish you could
Know the me that losing you
Made into me?

Because I'm proud of me, I
Smile, I hurt, I love, I
Wish, I wish
I wish
I miss
You.

i'm not
suicidal

or maybe i just
don't know
how to tell
if i was

do random
thoughts
crossing
my brain
while leaving
the house in
the morning or
taking a shower
equate to suicidal
or just little electrical
blips in the sack
of meat piloting me?

my veins
ache

i suspect it's
a side effect
of the
permanent damage

and i think
about death

i suspect it's
a side effect
of thinking
about taxes

(you know
the two
go hand
and hand)

and 35 hours
a week of
thinking about taxes
leaves a lot of
unoccupied time
to think about death

she always used to say
"this is the most
boring job
to become an
alcoholic over"
and she's right

i have the most
boring life
to ****
myself over
too boring
to even bother

but the ticklish
surges and bursts
of thought
continue
unbidden
trespassing
traipsing
through

it gets
boring
slap myself
on the wrist

(they can’t tell me
how long it takes
a clot to form
and they can’t tell me
how long it takes
a clot to dissolve

but i can tell you
i’ve got the thinnest
blood this side
of the mississippi
a constant
ache in my
left calf
and stretch marks
on my knee
no matching ones
on my right

it’s easy for me
to forget the
part where i
very could have died
not so easy
to forget the
part where i
was alone)

life is
tenuous
and my grasp
on it even more

i'm just not sure
some days
that i'm meant
to be alive

it's hard to believe it
when my brain
and body
both say otherwise

(maybe i'm lucky
or maybe i'm
defying my
own odds)