i swallowed the
bathroom mirror whole
threw an entire bag
of lemon drops
into the highway and
danced on someone else's grave
in a failed attempt at
self-acceptance.

it's hard
to shatter the
saccharine sweet
taste of personal hate
sticking to my hands
like half melted wax.

i've almost
given myself permission
to fail
but not yet.

hasn't it been
stovetop memories
a couple haircuts
and one hell of a year?

scratch the back of my
neck
in a halfhearted attempt
to forget
and i'll take up burning
aluminum pillows
like i took up
loving myself.

butterfly>
biscuits>
olive =
get emotional

butterfly>
needles>
stitch=
me up please

something
is very wrong

tis the season
to smile
go home
and cry

hope??
haven’t seen her

it’s all
blood vials
dead dogs
expired wine
fruit dropped
on the floor

children walking by
looking for a
drunk nutcracker
named tipsy

and i can’t even
syphon off some
of their joy
because something
is definitely wrong
and they’re fresh out

where do the
butterflies go
when it’s winter
and hopeless?

why do they
leave when
we need
them most?

get emotional
stitch me up
rinse
repeat

happy holidays
let the worry
creep through
the greenery

drape some
guilt on the tree
wrapped in twinkling
strings of panic
cranberry flavored
family fights

anxiety but
make it festive

depression but
make it seasonal

could i get a
butterfly down here?

just some kind of
hopeful flutter
a dog
a needle
anything to
grasp onto

just to get
through
december
find a butterfly
on a ransacked
holiday shelf
70% off and
picked over

get emotional
stitch me up

something is
very wrong

depression
but make it seasonal

They're lighting the
Candles
In front of the
Pulpit
And the edges of the
Music stands are
Wavering as the
Heat begins to rise.

The greenery
Around the
Cold windowsills
Just sits
There's a scar on my right
Thumb from that one
Time during Silent Night
When I got too close to the flame.

And I could reach out
And touch the table
They're sitting on
The purple and
Pink and
Waxen white.

I could come in the
Dead of night and
Light one
Flimsy match and
Watch all five candles
Drip down.

And then I could
Push the table over and
Watch the rug catch
And spread to the
Walls and watch the whole
Building take like a
Gasoline-soaked
House of cards.

But now somebody's
Passing the offering and
I'm scrambling for my wallet
The nickles and dimes add
Up to new windows but my
View never changes.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

there are five
and a half
blankets
piled on the end
of my bed
and if you're wondering
how i can have
half of a blanket

(well
it's a long story
but rest assured
it's not complete.)

in any case
i've tried all
of them
and none of them
are managing
to make me
feel
any better.

tomorrow
i will turn on
the printer and
attempt to salvage
what's left
of the collective
innocence of this
thwarted generation.

doubt i'll get
very far
but i can claim
what most can't
and that
my dear friends is
a little thing called
courage.

(scratch that
i'm still afraid.)

in fact
i could write
a long and
boring list
of all of my
typical
and irrational
fears.

(but i won't bother
because i trust
that you
have enough imagination
to cook up a few
for yourself.)

i'm trying
to tie up
every hanging thread
but i've been
trying for so long
that i might give up.

i remember this one time
a long time ago
when you yelled
you really yelled
over some stupid
frying pan
that i hadn't washed
or something.

no
it was definitely
a frying pan
i remember that
and i will die by the
fact it was a frying pan.

once in awhile
when someone's
mad
i stand there
woodenly
and feel disturbingly
unsafe
and i think about how
i didn't wash
that frying pan
and maybe
if i had washed that
frying pan
when you asked
neither one of us
would have a few
thousand pounds of
suppressed anger inside.

i know
i just know
you're mad
and i know
you know
that i'm mad
whether or not
i'm willing to admit
that i'm really mad
which i'm not.

(but i am
by the way.)

i'm hitting the
breaking away
but i'm hitting it
late
and i'm hitting it
hard.

like an
overly confident
concrete
wall.

back to the printer
and tomorrow
i would
hope

(and i would also
pray
if i happened to be
the praying type)

(but i am not
the praying type)

that you all know
that the very
stubborn
streak in me that
could turn out to be
my most valuable asset
is also the thing
that will
promptly
and rather
unceremoniously
deploy a
bomb.

*(just thought i should
remind you that
in every strength lies
the ***** in the armor.)

The whole thing smells like chlorine, which is extremely unsettling because chlorine always tastes green and a lot like hereditary paranoia. These pants were only two washes  removed from brand new, and now there's a slit in the knee, a slit as precise as the shape my eyes make when I'm suspicious of wanderlusting newcomers who moonlight in my former prison cell.  And I'm unsure if I should call it like I'd like it to be and say the **** things were defective or if I should investigate further as to where I placed my legs while hacking bits of plastic.

I'm TIRED of hacking at bits of plastic. I daresay if things start looking up, I could get there. I'm desperate, while this pumpkin-leaf hole grows in my chest, I'm realizing I'll never get to Lancaster at this rate. Sure, sure, I'm obsessed. I also have a blonde tail hanging from a tack on my shelf and a lot of cards tacked to my wall. They either resemble a quilt, a window or a complete mess.

I'm relying on plastic cups and the Internet to continuously foster this false sense of belonging. And I don't want to shatter it, but I'm terrified by the threat of a midterm and I feel trapped by my own sky. I mean, have you SEEN the prices for quaint bed and breakfasts? But the sad truth is, I would be haunted by insurmountable guilt at leaving her behind. The cash flow isn't flowing, either. I'm thinking I'll have to forget about it and sit at my shiny laptop on an empty desk, staring at the cottage cheese ceiling and wondering if God is looking back.

She burst into our lives one summer
In an explosion of glitter and cat ears
And into the darkness of our young lives
She became a light.

She demanded my friendship
Commanded my respect
Reprimanded my bad choices
And expanded my views.

She's the one who got me writing poetry
She taught me how to worship
And how to question authority
She told me to speak up
To be myself
And I learned from her fearless example.

We shared some scars
And she was never afraid of telling me the straight-up truth.

She wasn't perfect
Sometimes she destroyed feelings
And shoplifted our hearts
But I learned from that, too.

And then one day with a toss
Of those red curls, one of those
Hugs that made everything better
And a swing of the metal heart hanging on her chest
She was gone, just like that
But I'll never forget she changed my life
And I'm still changing it through
Rachel, this one's for you.

There are
Cities
In me.

A small town girl full of
Cities.

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

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

There are
Cities
In me.

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

There are
Cities
In me.

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

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

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

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

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.

the day starts with shirley
who comes in just after eight
for her 20oz chai
"what kind of milk?"
"doesn't matter"
punches her own coffee card
tells me about her puppy
kayla is next her hair and
makeup always perfect
about as nice a landlady as
one can have in a town like this

from there it's a constant
stream of people
who i watch out for and
who don't know i'm doing it

janice lives alone and thinks
people are stealing her money
doesn't understand
the tests her doctors want
she can't remember
what she always orders
it's a turkey club sandwich no bacon
on toasted oatmeal regular chips no pickle
a to go box for the leftovers
and some kind of chocolate treat in a bag
because she only eats when
she comes in here

two weeks ago
i accidentally switched
barb's 12oz soy chai
with someone else's
12oz whole milk chai
it wasn't enough dairy
to give her a problem
in fact she didn't seem
to remember it
but i made her another for free

nic stopped for his afternoon coffee
didn't laugh at anything just stared
blankly into space and said he
thought he was getting sick
had too many things to finish
the day before when i was waving
to him from the parking lot
so i took my dog to the
back door of his office and
we barked until he came out
patted us both on the head
and said he felt better

we're all creatures of habit
like mckenna who arrives
like clockwork
between one thirty and two
tuesday through saturday
leans on my bake case while
i count my tips and add random
ingredients to different drinks
in a reckless attempt
to break up the monotony
and he drinks them all
like clockwork
no matter how bad they are

rita doesn't smile since she broke her hip
in fact i haven't seen her since
walt got sick and he and joan
moved upstate to be closer to their son
i worry about something happening to ray
who will take care of rita?
whose laugh used to echo off the walls
and fill the place up
pat's smoking again and it turns out
he has congenital heart failure
gail had a fall, a stroke and
suddenly died

i make the same dumb jokes
only a few people smile at
i sing to myself
and people point it out

karen sits in her motorized wheelchair
ice and snow dripping from the wheels
onto the scratched, muddy floor
and tells me i'm pretty and funny
and have a beautiful voice and
i look at karen, her head tilted to
the side and spit hanging from her
buck teeth and wonder why such a
wonderful funny girl with a heart of gold
had to have the body she's stuck in

why life is ****
and why i'm trying
i swear i'm trying
fighting
for something
i don't know what

why we fight
why we try
to make the world
a better place
when nothing can really change
any of these dismal facts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

keep grinding, girl
you’re doing a great job

Lukewarm mugs of
Mocha
On papery thin
Napkins.

Warm cubes of
Sunshine
On honey wooden
Tables.

I swear my coffee
Never goes cold.

But this morning I found
You gone.

And there was a
Gray sky on the
Honey wooden table.

Only one cup of
Black coffee on a
Single stained napkin.

Because not just the coffee
No, the whole
Scene
Had gone cold.

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

a shiny
distorted face
similar to a
monster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(help)

i'm incredibly sorry
for most things i do

*(never mind.)

it's valentines day
and there's this boy

he's got blue eyes
wears olive green
and this monogrammed
color pooled scarf in
red heart mexicana
that his grandma knit

(i'm also wearing olive
green with denim and
lace -- a skirt?? but
diggity **** he's looking!
i picked this outfit not
knowing it was the precise
shade of green made for
storming beaches on v-day)

i've been making his
espresso since last august
but today he came around
the back of the counter
to make it and chat so
i gave him some pie

...pie
many successful
relationships have
started with pie

(mental note: 2/14/17, 11:30
underbaked coconut custard)

it might be the 8oz
***** chai with
three shots espresso
making my stomach
flitter or it might be
him not the oven

that's got my cheeks
spotted with lightly
browned freckles and
cinnamon flavored blush

(he's a cook
i'm a baker
doesn't that
work somehow?)

***** it
now i've got a
heart shaped
pink polka dotted
sugary royal icing
cookie cutter crush.

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

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

fear
do not
let them see
the fear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the purpose
is fear
but only the
expression of it

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

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

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

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

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

when i came into
work this morning

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

last night your niece
tried to commit suicide

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

my stomach dropped
i don't know this girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

give us this day our daily
emotional breakdown
and forgive us our
blackout binges
as we forgive those who
starve themselves for perfection

and lead us not into
inherited obesity
deliver us from
the mental ward

FOR THERE IS SO
MUCH ******
BREAD IN THIS
HOUSE I CAN'T
TAKE IT ANYMORE

on mlk day i shut my eyes
and see scenes of
squishy white rolls and
pats of margarine

bread
leaden
deadened
feeling in my stomach

i can't eat any
more bread

but here it is
in baskets and
coolers in
toasters and
cupboards

my daily bread
made to sustain me
but turned into
the enemy

deliver me
from risen
yeast in
third degrees

a flour coated
tyranny
mind control
through sesame

swallowing
emotions
down
down
down

quietly settles
until spring
somewhere between
my hope and skin

you can see me
smile and stand
straight and tall
but what you can't see
is this shouldn't be
my body at all

*give us this day
our daily bread
and give us the strength
to chew meat instead

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

Remember when
We took a daycation?

Waterfalls
For days.

Milk bottle
Sepia vinyl.

Ice cream and
Truck drivers.

Ballerina buns and
Bare necks.

Waterfalls
For days.

Oblivion, the
Falling leaves.

Backseat
Views.

Gravel paths, we
Walked.

Waterfalls
For days.

Blue, blue
Skies.

Crystal
Springs.

Damp red
Leaves.

Waterfalls
For days.

Apples
Were just in season.

Photos
Wagging tails.

Honey tea
Quilted snuggles.

Waterfalls
For days.

Maybe it was
Just a dream.

Next thing
I knew.

I was throwing
A textbook at the wall.

Waterfalls
For days.

I was
Okay.

I swear, for
One day.

I was
Myself again.

Waterfalls
For days.

Remember when
We took a daycation?

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.

it’s all deadlines
and downtime

i’m trying to
keep my head
above waters of
“just following up”
keep from inhaling
gallons of
“sorry for the
late response”
don’t let the
anchor of
“limited
administrative
capacities”
pull me under

but i’m drowning
in deadlines
and choking
on downtime

there aren’t
enough hours
in the day
or hours in the night

it's all very vague
a kind of abstract
glimmer on the horizon
deadline

and then it's all
very obvious
giant blue swaths of
foaming
oceanic
downtime

one or
the other
in tandem
together

my shipmates
didn't sign
back on for
this run
so i'm alone
trying to keep
this thing
afloat

but i'm not
the captain
or even the
first mate
i'm just a
privateer
pulled off
the streets

but i’m drowning
in deadlines
and choking
on downtime

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.

and i pray
someday
the pain
behind
your eyes
eases

that peace fades
your scars

and your heart
finds hope

dear friend
i pray someday

you learn
to live
without fighting
yourself
and the fog
lifts

but until then
i pray

here's to hoping
i keep coping
or maybe just sleep
all this away!

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

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

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

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

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

i'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)

i wish i could turn
you into a liquid
something
softer than water
stronger than coffee
sweeter than lemonade
more sincere
than blood

i would bathe in it
watch it stain my skin
and stick under my nails
as it washed away my fears

i would water all my
houseplants with it
they would grow to the ceiling
turning sunset colors

i would drink it
the same way i drink
the summer rain when
it blows onto the porch

i would use it as an
all-purpose cleaner
acidic as vinegar and so
much better at polishing counters

if only
i could turn you
into a liquid
maybe i wouldn't
be quite so
dehydrated this summer

or maybe i would
just be slowly
poisoning myself
from the inside out.

Do you ever get
The feeling
Not of deja vu
But of the curious
Sensation that at some
Point in your recent
Past you already
Lived this day?

Oh wait
I think they
Call that
Deja vu
Now
Don't they?

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

eyeshadow ground into
a finely powdered bath rug
feet stained gold and as
straight as sink ringed coffee

(it's a perfect day
to run away
from all the crew neck
collars choking you)

fall face down into a
cornfield and climb
dead pine trees clear
up to the blackbirds

(i think you were once
upon a time the one who
never spent weekends
home and hurting)

i am not your past
not your mistakes
i am not who you used to be
but won't say it didn't shape me

(clattering red and
white checks skittering
across the floor as
hydrogenated oils)

i know you're
disappointed
sometimes in who
i've turned out to be

but i am also
disappointed
sometimes in who
i've turned out to be

(only ever thinking about
ceiling fans and my latest
mistakes or an odd assortment
of unspoken disagreements)

i can't breathe under
highway overpasses
in parking garages or when
my hands are made of leather.

(suburbia is just a
repainted mid-century
modern way of covering
up dysfunctional families)

here and there
then and again
i remember that you
probably don't love me anymore

i understand that
neglect destroyed you
but you don't understand
that involvement destroyed me.

i've got a soft
spot in my heart
for a good
harmonica solo

but also strings
banjos
synths
ukuleles
and tack piano makes
my heart skip a beat

don't even
get me started
on brass sections
they turn
me into a pile
of mush

so we can
conclude that
really just music
in general
makes me
disintegrate.

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

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

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

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

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

and
sleep

let me
dissolve

I had no mirror
No mirror that could look into my heart
So I went out and spent ten dollars
Buying one from Walmart.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Who is the fairest of them all?

I asked the question and
It sneered in reply
Mocking as it stated the answer --
Anyone but I.

Standing back I was startled
To see my face distorted
So I asked once more
To see what it reported.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Who is the fairest of them all?

"The ones in magazines," it told me
"And your friends with perfect luck
But it can be you, too
If you do as I instruct.
Change your eyes, your smile
Change your clothes and hair
Change everything uniquely you
And I will make you fair."

Here's to all prospective mirror buyers
Don't purchase them from Walmart, the ones they sell are liars.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

"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 live in an
Enchanted Forest.

Where woodland animals appear
In misty twilight from behind
The mineral-stained shower curtain
And dewdrops sparkle on
The toothpaste-spattered
Mascara-blotted mirror.

Tiny little elves
Rumple my sheets and
Throw my clothing on the floor
Magic fairies dance over
The dresser top and eyeliner-strewn vanity
To the mystical, elusive strains of Owl City.

Mushroom jewels spring up
In my closet while I sleep
Dreaming of princes and turning sixteen
Ruling a kingdom and graduating highschool
Christmas lights twinkle like the
Multicolored stars of a fantasy night.

I spend my days in
This little woodland cottage
My loyal mutt snoring on her rug
Notebooks lined up on
A shelf with drying herbs
Chattering mice and potions of tired hopes.

I live in an Enchanted Forest
Or maybe I just sprayed too much perfume again.

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.

Give me approximately
Seven seconds
To sit on
The universe.

It may take
A lifetime of walks
In green gardens.

Or perhaps ten years
Of white front
Porches.

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

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

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