now i wake up at
five a.m. insuring i've
sufficient time to paint
my face on kind enough

my hands
smell like coffee
i taste blood
from blisters breaking
down and around
my smallest joints

(in control
stay in control
i have to stay
in control)

smile until my face
aches in a kind of
competitive way
because my pain will
bring no gain if i can't
seem nicer than the next girl

(i keep saying that i'm
dead inside but the irony
of the joke is that i'm actually
too alive to want these thoughts)

and i'm sure if i told anyone
that anxiety keeps me wide awake
and depression keeps me asleep
they just might not believe it

(i don't think it sounds
reasonable to say i've
got a physical and chronic
pain in my head from the
pressure of my darkest
most brutal thoughts)

when i was thirteen
i told myself never
ever to use my mental
illness as an excuse

so i plunged forward
through depression deserts
anxiety avalanches
forests of fear
tired old towns
migraine mountains
warped wastelands and
suicide swamps

and just last week
i realized my downfall
in not letting my pain
tell me when to slow down

when what i would not
allow to be my excuse
became my
disability.

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 night you've
been stopping by my
room and asking if i want
to walk the dog with you.

and i
say no

because i know
what you want

and i am not
giving it to you.

the truth is not
pulled out of me
and lies are just
another thing to try.

the sun hasn't
even gone down yet
and i'm already
just a failure

(i should say
still)

THIS IS NOT
UP FOR
DISCUSSION
I HAVE BURNED
OUR BRIDGES AND
NOW IT'S YOUR
JOB TO SILENTLY
WATCH THEM SMOKE

you're not helping
my mental disarray
because you are
unaware of its existence.

she's out
in the living room
again
ranting and raving
at him about
all her problems

(they say men
marry girls just
like their mothers and
i'm beginning to see it
something about that
obnoxious extroversion)

yes
i just called
extroverts
obnoxious
or maybe i just
called you obnoxious
because you are
a textbook extrovert

(they say girls
grow up to
be just like
their mothers
so i'm sure that
i'm obnoxious too)

now you're back
i can see you and
the dog walking up
the driveway
and now it's time
to trim my thoughts
at the seams and the
corners where they start
unraveling and you start
tugging at the threads

snip snip
stop it.

i see
eyelashes
that you
can't.

they lurk
in the corners
of my sleep
deprived eyes.

fuzzy blurs
that struggle to
pull my swollen
eyelids down.

they frame
the entire
periphery of
my world.

sometimes i pull
them out because
they won't stop
dragging me down.

i don't know
if your
eyelashes
look like mine.

but i have always
imagined
that we're
all the same.

At nine p.m.
      they roll up
            the crooked
                  sidewalks
                        like they're
                              fabric bolts.

And every neon
      light in the diner
            window flickers
                  in commercial dim.

When winter comes
      sometimes i drive past
            the closed ice cream stand
                  and think about what i never did.

At nine p.m.
      they shut off
            their overhead
                  living room lights.

Every dog is
      in for the night
            and only the cats
                  are crossing the street.

Small town
      cozy village
            happy people
                  normal sleepers.

                  so incredibly
            law-abiding
      stability's key
Not like me.

                             at nine p.m.
                        they roll up
                  the crooked
            sidewalks
      like they're
Fabric bolts.

                              but i've always
                        felt the need to
                  walk the streets
           around ten p.m.
      pretend they're
Still concrete.

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.

February always makes me feel
Cheated.

Only twenty-eight days
Three less than
It could be.

February always makes me feel
Confused.

On the twenty-eighth you go to bed
When you wake up sometimes
It's March
And other times
It's not.

Are February's feelings
Hurt?

Who picked the second month
When the year is just beginning
Who picked February to be the one
To die young?
Why not another month, why
February?

Did they merely want to
End winter
Faster?

February always makes me feel
Cheated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

january

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

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

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

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

february

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

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

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

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

march

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

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

april

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

starting
poem
after poem

nothing
making sense

throwing words
at the paper
like maybe they’ll stick

there’s a difference
between writers block
and whatever this
funk i’m in is

that is
an outage
this is
a blockage

all the things that
cross my mind in
streams and parades
and winds that whistle

stopped short of
escape by teeth
in my ears that prevent
the thoughts from
getting onto paper
but instead chew
and rethink and
chew and overthink

i know
what i want to say
i just can’t
make myself say it

i want to to scrawl every
lovely and positive thought
on an old brick wall and
then let the ivy grow
up over it and watch it turn
red as fall comes in

to paint flowers
up my arms and pretend
that plants can help the
chemicals in my brain

that drinking water will
wash away the doubts
and that shiny green leaves
are the only shade i need to
protect me from the burning
light of the reality of pain

all the thoughts
that flicker around
will i be happy?
i hope i’ll be happy

but until then
i will sleep

naps aren’t about
being tired
naps are about
peace of mind

stealing an hour
or two from your own life
to close your eyes and
find a quiet space
deep inside your
scattered thoughts

what if i’m
not happy?
what if all the
effort i make
to find happiness
is all in vain?

and what if everything
falls apart and my
own heart slips
out of my ribs and
shatters on an unsanded
barn-board floor?

or what if

(and this is an even
worse concept with
even more possibilities
to consider)

it all works out?

and what if
i end up happy and
content and fall
asleep at night
without worries
plaguing me
and wake up in
the morning and
everything is fine
and i don’t need
to take naps
to find my calm?

and what if
the words
begin to
flow again?

in floods and torrents
so fast my fingers
can’t get them out in
enough time and they
pile up and overflow
like the ponds and streams
this spring when the
rain wouldn’t stop?

what if my
future happens
and it’s all
just fine?

and what if the
plants that keep
me sane can’t grow
without downpours
of passing obstacles that
just feel like drenching rain?

it's like suddenly
the dam has burst
and the words
won't stop tumbling

and isn't that what
you get after
a drought
the flood?

my scalp itches
but i just washed my hair
it itches
begging me to do something

a dozen half-baked
thoughts accumulated
a blank space in the
narrative of my life

to recap
what i missed
the things i
never wrote about

a toxic job and quitting it
watching my friends
and former friends
get married

watching myself
get married

that time when
i almost died

the constant struggle
between myself
and the body i so
tenuously inhabit

my boring job
where i sit at a desk

there's a lot i haven't
let myself think about
and maybe now
is the time to do so

my doctor told me last
time i went to see her that
she understands why i don't
want therapy right now
therapy is just a tool
that doesn't work for everyone

(it certainly works
if you find the right
therapist and the odds
align to keep them
but i've done this before
and i will do it again)

so i should do
something that
restores my soul
to maintain myself

and i must have forgotten
how calming
it is to put things into
words on a page
in lines and rows
to let myself happen

hate that it took me
this long to realize
what i'd
been missing

after the drought
comes the flood

you’re the swimming pool i want
to sit at the bottom of forever
watching the tiled sunlight
letting the water
drown the world to a
muffled bubble
as peace descends
like it can’t above the surface

you’re the shooting star
i knew was nothing more than
an astronomical anomaly
assigned superstitious significance
and yet i let my foolish wishes loose
out the hatch of a blinking
midnight airplane and impossibly
every one came true

you’re the patch of sunlight
on a mahogany floor
and i wish that i could lay
in your warmth forever

you’re every birthday candle
i’ve ever blown out
every aspirational dream i never
deserved to see realized

you’re proof that
love is real and warm
alive and breathing
proof there is good
left in the world
and we all can find it
proof that angels still
roam to keep me safe

you’re the feeling in my
throat when i remember you’re
the best thing that ever
happened to me and when i say
i love you
i don’t mean i want to
kiss you in the rain
(although i do)

i mean i want to keep
you by my side forever
let our skin grow papery
and fade like crumpled
ten dollar bills worn with
fold marks around our
eyes from laughing together
and our thoughts twist and
vine their way around each other
so you can’t tell where one of us
ends and the other begins
until all the parts of you that
are kinder and gentler than i
shed like dandelion seeds and
float into the meadows
of my subconscious

the feeling in my throat
turns into a traffic jam when i
desperately hope for the
thousandth time that you know
that’s what i mean when i
say i love you

that i could struggle for
hours and write thousands
of words trying to explain
myself but you’re the one
feeling so huge and immense
i just can’t find a metaphor

i’ve often wondered if
i love you too much
but i never want
to love you any less

you are my sun
my moon
and my entire
solar system
the milky way
turns upside down
and pours out in a
wash of meteors
when i start counting the
constellations in your eyes

i hope i never stop
feeling the flutter
of a million microscopic
feathers in my stomach
beating in time to the
sound of your footsteps

but if the butterflies ever
fly away we’ll both be okay

because there’s no place
for even the tiniest
glimmer of fake
crystal anxiety
in the arms of
the only one who
has ever really
felt like home

and if home is where the
heart is than i’ve hung
curtains in your ribcage
covered us both in a
layer of fresh paint
placed my pillow
on your chest where
i sleep at night

i’ve spun castles
in the air and
now we’re building a house
from the ground up

you’re my present
and my future and
i want to keep you
as close as my
freckles and as
loved as my tattoos

i dread the day
the universe takes
you away from me
but until that day
i will live as if nothing
can separate us

you
and me
forever
and always

it’s not that i was
made this way
it’s that i was forged
in the fires this way

born
blank
formless
ready to become
something
someone

raised behind
fragile glass walls
they tapped on
and i could not
defend myself without
cracking the seal
and being blamed
for destruction

until one day
the fire came
burning around my feet
and i had
to get
out

i smashed the glass
shards in my fists
blood on my knuckles
and i’ve been fighting
ever since
that day

i was not
supposed to be this way
i was supposed to be
a fragile china doll
but this is who
i ended up

a fighter
a warrior
an impudent
little girl who
doesn’t know
when to quit

supposed to faint
at the sight of blood
not be someone who
seeks it out

supposed to be
meek
and mild
mousy

not loud
and bouncy
chatty
impulsive
or daresay
even funny

but i am
a fighter
and i will not
be stopped
i refuse to be
walked over
for any longer
than i already have

and taking my
power back means
sometimes i must
punch
sometimes i must
snarl
bare my teeth and
sharpen my nails

but it also means
sometimes i must
stand
with all the power
i know i possess
underneath the
surface
hold it back

allow my spine
to straighten
and my shoulders
to stretch

remember words like
imposing
badass
competent
and for all i have felt
that i take up too
much space in this
body of mine
i am this size because
nothing smaller
could contain
what i have inside

let my full
height rise
and my full
weight surmise
to anyone and
everyone that i

might not always spit
fire and flames
but there is a furnace
roaring at my feet

I had a dream once
Where I stood in a
Dark city and stared
Up at the tall rectangle of
A skyscraper, watching the
Squares of light reflected
Although there were no
Streetlights, just the vague
Idea that the moon must
Be out there somewhere.

Lost somewhere came a
Muffled sound, the faraway echos
Of a darkened city needing
No light.
And in the dream I had
Deeply poetic thoughts about
The invincible silence contained
In noise and the languid light
Minced in frenetic darkness.
I felt the feelings of the
Tousled screams of loneliness
Trapped in oceans of men
And the panicked skepticism of
Sinking ships, falling into asphalt.

Unfortunately before the thought
Was entirely formed I
Woke up and
Couldn't remember any of it.

i'm not trying to
write something good
i'm trying to write something
for myself

something to remind me
i'm still alive
breathing feeling
existing in this world

to be honest
i don't know why i'm trying
it's like i've been away
from myself too long

i'd like to go back to
maryland for another weekend
your hand in mine
a long walk in the dark
for an overpriced dinner
but i still remember that
cup of bisque
how the inlet stank
creeping through deserted
pitch black parking lots
the late night fishermen
set up on the overpass
sunburned legs
boardwalk taffy

i'd go back through
williamsburg
winding roads through
the historic district
to the red roof inn
maybe a little drunk
a little young and a
little dumb
i can't recall why
we didn't just take
the car but i sure
don't regret the walk

guess i just miss the
sense of peace
in my gut
so foreign to me

i have this feeling that
life is about to change
drastically
significantly
and i'm not scared
just a little nostalgic

it doesn’t matter
to anyone else
but i’ll always remember
the way the ocean looked
under the bridgeway
apple fritter for breakfast

i’m scared
of growing up
how pathetic when
i’m literally an adult

fuzzy socks
pulled up to my knees
my favorite t-shirt
the blue pokemon one
so old that polywhirl has
completely worn off
i’m going to sleep tonight
like every other night
with my stuffed wolf and
your arms around me

tomorrow i’ll get up
go to work
get the things done that
i didn’t do last week
you’ll pick me up at 3:30
and let me in the driver’s side
i’ll check the mirrors
and white knuckle my way
up the hill to the dentist office
where i’ll be reminded that
my genetics are against me and
i need to wear my retainer more

(i get reminded of the
genetics part enough
every time a holiday
or disagreement rolls around)

i don’t want to be famous
i don’t even want to be rich
i just want to make enough
money that i can afford therapy

because i could write three
poems a day and i don’t know
if i’d ever get to the bottom of it all
i think i’ve started to make
some sense of it and then
something will remind me that i don’t

like the other night at the bar
when i recounted something
i’m almost sure i must have
mentioned to you before

but i must have been mistaken
because you set down your drink
and looked at me and said
“that’s really ****** up
that she would ever say that
i’m sorry that happened to you”

so it’s safe to say that
ignoring it isn’t making it
go away and thinking
about it is only making me miserable
so i guess all that’s left to do
is write about it

and there’s not much to do with
pages and pages of your own
thoughts so i guess i’ll just
keep it to myself for now

but i’m not trying to write
something good i’m trying
to write something
for myself

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

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

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

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

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

i want to run
but i won't

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

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

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

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

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

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

(i'm not
using any)

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

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

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

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?

Once in awhile
I feel inclined
To stay up all night
Writing stanzas like this.

And having drunk three
Shimmering tumblerfulls of
Self-doubting coffee
The prospect seems alive.

The longer I stay
Awake
The sooner I can
Reinvent myself.

My body is
Changing
And so is my
Soul.

And I'm beginning to see
Where I went wrong
In this world where I
Raised myself to be right.

However, if I stay awake
One cannot forget the issue of
Filled notebooks, attractive men
And tomorrow's frosted gaze.

Perhaps I will shower in
Whole-grain mustard at three a.m.

i'm feeling empty
inside
like someone took an
ice cream scoop
and hollowed out my
stomach more easily than
sawing open and
gutting out a cantaloupe.

there's nothing in there
nothing where the seat
of my emotions
used to be
because when i'm alone
even the anger
dulls to the stab of a poorly
sharpened knife.

i've stood in the hot
white kitchen with the tall
metal countertops
some stiff sort of summer
breeze fluttering the
ineffective flypaper
stringing the low ceilings
and watched you
precisely section off a
watermelon.

but now i'm the one on that
hackneyed cutting board
and you don't even notice the
juice streaming to the edge.

my overactive mind
used to be a razor
slicing quickly
almost painlessly
but now it's just a dull
serrated edge scraping
along my slowly
ripping skin.

everyone sitting at
the dinner table
passing me around and
laughing as they sink
their forks into me
and you always wondered
why i avoided family
meals at all costs.

i'm being
eaten alive
like fruit
in the summer
and your only
concern is how
many slices you'll
get out of me
and whether or not
i was sweet enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

where my
problems
have twisted
their roots deep

hear me
out here

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

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

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

hear me
out here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and i've
done it
enough times
to know.

it's not me
pushing you
away except
it actually is me

it's the kind of
morning that the
wind is blowing
just right so that
the open flag
flutters in front
of the window
where i can see it

the kind of morning
i don't need coffee
and i try not to
think about

it too
much

(i just wanted to
be the girl in
an owl city song)

pacing back and
forth in straight
lines and gritting
my teeth against
an onslaught of
small town gunfire

(i'll bet annmarie
never had scars
or scratches
brielle didn't cry
and shake for
hours thinking
how to end it all
it turned out
okay for anna
and vienna probably
knew how to dance
between the snowflakes
and underneath her regret)

i've never been good at
drowning out thoughts
they just get louder the
longer time rolls on

good at rolling out
cookie dough and
good at drowning
in dishwater when
the brownie batter's
baking and the bowl
needs washing when
nobody's looking

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

girls like me wear flannel
khaki too much day old
eyeliner too many day old
scones have half heads of weird
colored hair and spend valentines
day alone watching tv

so maybe why i'm bitter
as the inside of a lemon is
that i'll never be able to change
to someone drenched in verbena
spinning through the sunny
skies between your fingers

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

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

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

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

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

and shockingly
blindingly
i can see myself
clearly

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

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

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

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

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

at three a.m.
your breath should be
rounded
rising and falling
peacefully
calmly

like waves on a
smooth beach
but now everything
has fragmented
pixilated and
deconstructed.

your breath is being
dragged through your
lungs in triangles
half shapes without
softly curved edges or
serenity of form

gasps of air so
sharp they could
slit your own
dry throat
from the
inside.

and tears
so cold you
wonder if they're
shards of glass.

please
the next time
your body
becomes a vandal
against the windowpanes
of your mind

please
oh please
remember that
deteriorating
stained glass
can be taken down
from rose windows
by a master artist
and restored
pane by pane
each inch of leading
one at a time.

but repairing
is a process
and a process
takes time.

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.

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.

it wasn't until years too late
that the oceans once painting
your skin into a weepy
vacation canvas finally
dried and made their salty
descent down your throat.

i hope that one day
you find your mind wandering
back to some sunbleached
air conditioned antique shop
a cool and dim refuge of
kitschy proportions

and i hope one day you can finally
appreciate an afternoon that
may or may not have held
your greenesque day of peace

(by greenesque i mean that
not only was it green but
it also held whispers of the last
chapter in your favorite book
the part where all the pieces fall in place
and nobody is happy with the outcome)

you're just a bundle of
nerves and memories
the kind that keep you up at night
and your hair uneven lengths
the kind that flash before your eyes
through grainy old photographs
and pictures engraved so deep
inside a screen you question
whether or not they
ever even happened.

there are gravel roads
somewhere out there
that smell like home and
kind cold water in a july drought

and i sincerely hope
that you someday find
one of those state-parkish
leafy hollow spring hills
settled deep somewhere
inside your heart

and i hope that someday
you drive all alone for an hour
park on the side of the road and
watch the woods for no reason
except to listen to every love song you
ever knew in your youth
and i hope that your breathing stays steady
and your eyes stay dry and starkissed.

i would cross my fingers
shut my eyes and tie my
esophagus in a knot if i knew
my wishes could grant you peace

and i hope that when you're older
your beachside sunburns and
deep fried fatigue are washed away
by all the seasons of upstate mountain air.

I've made a shocking
Discovery.

None of us have
Chests.

And none of us
Ever did.

We all have green screens
Stretched over our hearts.

Stretched tight
Tight enough to suffocate.

Green screens that show us what
We want to see.

What we want each other
To be.

And it's easy to suffocate in the
Green screens they put on us.

But before you tear that fabric off
Keep one thing in mind.

You keep the editing program somewhere
Deep inside your mind.

And you're the one splicing the pictures
For everyone you meet.

And that's harder to uninstall than
What we put over our chests.

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

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

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

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

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

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

maybe more
like a whole
half week of
anxiety

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i don’t live here
anymore

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

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

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

time in between
that’s now

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

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

that nobody
wants me

so close and
yet so far
almost there
but stuck here

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

this is my town
this is my home now

this town will take
care of me

as i’m wandering through it
halfway homeless

prayer huddles
more like
prayer
hurdles

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

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

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

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

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

nod politely
accept
the words they
speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

when i lose
those games
i play behind
my eyes

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

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

because
my eyeliner
is not
what happens
to be
running.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey Dixie.
You were pretty
Smart, weren't
You?

You packed up
And left your
Dead end town
Deadened life.

Hey Dixie.
You were pretty
Sad, weren't
You?

Girls like
You, girls like
Us are
Often sad.

Hey Dixie.
You were pretty
Scared, weren't
You?

Ran, you ran
And I never found
Out if you ever caught
Up with yourself.

Hey Dixie.
You were pretty
Strong, weren't
You?

Stronger than the
Coffee and whiskey
Stronger than your
Lipstick lullabies.

Hey Dixie.
You and I are
Not the same
Are we?

You had a heart
And I've got a soul
Yet you took the
Easy way out.

Hey Dixie.
I guess you were
Pretty smart
Huh?

the person who decided
to put their old
movie theater seats
in front of the
swimming pool
was a gosh **** genius.

and i often think
about streetlights
harmonizing with
brick walls.

(don't you hate
travel, though?)

yes, i do
but to get out
of my mind i'd
go straight to anywhere.

(i've missed this
but now i know
that straight lines
aren't static.)

THE SOLUTION
(you see)
IS PAIN
(fully obvious)

I DON'T KNOW WHY
WE'RE STILL SUFFERING

are we hurting
or are we back
to where pain is
felt as strength?

when you see
blood
do you see
regret?

you should
i should.

STOP PLAYING
THAT **** PIANO
I CAN HEAR HOW
OUT-OF-TUNE YOUR
FINGERS ARE WHEN
YOUR EARS DON'T LISTEN.

(and don't you know
that when you lay your
voice flat on the sidewalk
it sinks in the cracks?)

there's nothing like putting
poetry in a music notation
book to make you
realize how useless you are.

i have my reasons
all written in
hieroglyphics that
i can't read
and i have more
reasons
all written in
shades of lonely and
ceiling tiles.

so sue me
for the truth
i'm just afraid
of being hurt.

I've been staring out of this
Hole in the wall
For about
936 weeks.

I say
Hole in the wall
Because they replaced
The window
About
Two years ago.

The frame is
Different, more
Energy and
Efficiency.

Same wires, trees
Night and day and seasonal
Intermittent poser runway.

Headlights, I counted the
Headlights once
Once.

Gray skies
Snow and sunshine
The frozen summer exile of
My focus.

I've been staring out of this
Hole in the wall
For about
937 weeks.

people build
their homes

out of the age of
their tea kettle and
which plants they keep
on the windowsill

by whether or not
the cups and plates match
if the cupboards are
minimalist or overstuffed

from the color of the walls
and state of the floor

right down to what they
hang on the fridge
the scent they choose
for their dish soap

and the way the words
come out of their mouths

i am tired of tending
to other people’s homes
using their sponges
watering their dead plants
sweeping their floors
and smelling their dish soap

tired of listening to
my words crumbling
as fast as i can
get them out

and i want a home
with fresh flowers on
the counter at all times
something delicious
simmering on the stove
with hot tea every night
and cream line cappuccinos
every morning for breakfast

the plates don’t need to match
although i’d like them to
i know i’m not that type of person
and the mugs and washcloths don’t
need to be handmade but i’m sure
most of them will be anyway

with a goldfish
and succulents
both of which will live
long healthy lives

yellow walls and maybe a
sunny breakfast nook
with a crochet lace valence
over top the window

your hand
to hold
your chest to rest
my head on at night

and when the dishes rattle
it won’t be in frustration or
anger but in peels
of citrus and laughter

*i’m ready to build
a home of my own
and i want to build it
with you by my side

i once watched
a documentary about
transgender women
in pakistan

thrown out by
their families and
ostracized by
society

all they had
were each other

but instead of compassion
for the struggle they shared
solidarity
in each other

there was a pecking order
where the elder women
abused and beat down
the younger

i never thought
about why this
made such an
impression on me

until today
when i realized
it illustrates
the incomprehensible fact

that women
regardless of their
age or gender
assigned at birth
or ethnicity
or economic status
or the society
they live in

women
are just
horrible
to each other

my grandmother is
83 next week

family is
coming into town
and there will be
a party

and i
will not go

why?
because
**** her
that’s why

and will i regret
my resentment
when i’m as
old as she is?

i just might
but that doesn’t mean
it's worth putting
myself through the
experience at this
moment in time

i was always
papa's girl
his little
shadow

and after he died
it was like
suddenly
i didn't have
him anymore and
she didn't have any
reason to be
nice to me anymore

now that i've put
my foot down
my mother is
telling me off

and i just don't
think i need to
put up with this
any longer

and i just don't understand
why women
have to be so
horrible to each other

how do you start a
poem
it's been so
long

i remember how to let
the colors do the talking
textural inflections of
what's internal

except i have a hard
time expressing pain
and sadness in color
because i love colors

and that has left me
with a lot of ends i
can't weave in so
now i'm trying to
remember how to
write a poem

guess i should
start like this

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

my hands are covered
in scrapes and calluses
three week old blisters turned
gray with scabs and dirt

i paint my face on bravely
every morning and grind
the glitter into my skin
with a smile until i get home

and can let my cheeks begin
to droop and the hateful
thoughts i push down all day
begin to tumble out

i spend all day saying sorry
for things that aren’t my fault
and try to make
strangers laugh

and i work
and hustle
and sleep
and work

listen to the voices
tell me i’m not
trying
hard enough

and sleep
and hustle
and work
and sleep

and keep myself fighting
for something
but i don’t know yet
what that something is

sometimes at the end of
another day when my
body melts into bed
the glitter washes off
with tears

and the fear
pins me down
so i grit my teeth
shut my eyes and sleep

then i get up
pour another
cup of coffee
and just
keep
moving

Of all the things I am
I am not insane.

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

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

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

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

All the plastic communion cups in my purse
Cracked.

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

This kayak of mine
Has tipped.

i am the
crockpot
on the
counter hot
above my rubber
bottomed feet that
scrape when
you move me

something's bubbling
around my edges
is it soup
or discontent

how should i know
i'm just the crockpot

something's burning
on my sides
is it chili
or my confines

i can't tell you
i'm just the crockpot

leave me out on weekdays
say you need me
say i'm useful
to keep things warm
all afternoon
but before you know it
touch me and
you'll get burned

i don't
leave
easy

not places
not people
not anything

i don't
leave
easy

i love
too
much

and hate
too
often

but i don't
leave
easy

once i've
chosen that it's
worth my time

i'll fight
to the
death

and cry
through the
night

but i sure won't
be leaving
easy

i'll
stay

lasso stars
to pull apart
constellations

run through
hell in
bare feet

to
stay

i don't
leave
easy

maybe
i've already
gone.

I don't think I'll write
A suicide note.

What an obvious
Statement, when
I'm plainly not
Contemplating suicide.

But I never liked the idea
Of suicide notes.

And it was not
The idea that
Somebody had
Killed themselves.

It was the idea that
Somebody could have such a sad
Life that they could fit
All they had to say into one letter.

i dread the day you learn
for the first time that
you can't just love all
the darkness in me away

and no matter how much
you care i will still toss
and turn at night and scars
might still appear on my skin

i dread the day you realize
that you can't cure me
and sometimes all you can do
is stand next to me and
hold my hand through fog
pouring out of my ears so black
and thick we can't even see
each other's faces

i dread the days i can't
get out of bed
the days you want to
take me out and all
i can manage is a prettified
shell of myself

i dread the day you learn
that sometimes no matter
how hard i try i still can't
pull myself together

the day you learn that
there isn't an answer
you can give that will
save me from my fears

you aren't the first person
who has tried to love the
darkness inside away
my family and friends
have given it their all
but someday you too will learn
that if love could
cure mental illness
the world would be
a much better place

oh the joys of idyllic
small town life in this
whitewashed village where
everyone knows everyone
and everyone knows
everyone’s business

where the groceries are
overpriced and the taxes
are high and everyone but
the wife knows he’s cheating

where everything is a scandal
and nobody will admit to knowing
anything but they’ll still talk
about it behind closed doors

there are supposedly prostitutes
on main street but i only ever see
the drunk and drugged out there
and if someone is single there is
someone determined
to find them a match

all and all a very pleasant
charming life we lead here
what with all the arrests
and the highway department
yammering away on things
and the way the tops of the semis
scrape the bottom of the
traffic lights on their way though

something charming about
the way the sides of the buildings
all need a good power washing
and there’s probably lots of
good clean arsenic in
the water supply

scenic
a most sleepy
little burg
they say

spend some time
with us and
you’ll find a community
you’ll find a home

you’ll also
find a thing or two
you’ll wish
you didn’t know

Once in a rare while
The stars align.

And next time the clouds
Part I'll remember to
Appreciate
The moment.

Once in a rare while
A star falls from the sky.

I once caught one
Wasted it on a frivolous wish
When all along I
Should have used it on you.