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

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

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

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

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

but i never said i
believed in wishes at all.

i freaked out
last night.

blind spots
ripped blue
jeans sleep
deprivation.

and i freaked out
last night.

crying
i cried like
the sky was
falling.

maybe the sky
was falling.

hang these
powerpoints
from the tallest
tower
and come
sunday morning
we will
parade their
pixalated carcasses
through the streets.

but i'm not
leaving.

i freaked out
last night.

my palpitating
thoughts
my phone keeps
buzzing
like i have some
kind of
responsibility to
the sneaky sneaky
women on the other
side of my texts.

not when i freaked out
last night.



Copyright 12/6/15 by B. E. McComb

the problem with alcohol
is that it’s flammable

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

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

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

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

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

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

and the problem is that
i am the ignition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're wearing that plaid scarf like a
Scottish ****** again
Which technically only means that
You have no fashion sense
But what you're really communicating
Is that you're sad.

Light a scented candle and stretch
Out your feet like nothing's wrong.

Hold the stoneware mug in your
Cold fingers and place your
Lip on the rim but
Don't drink.

Just let the heat slowly soak into your
Bones and try to forget the
Ukulele melody trapped helplessly in that
Sleepy head of yours.

And let the steam fog up your
Vision, just let it all go blurry
For a moment until your hands burn and
You have to rub them on your jeans.

And inhale deeply what you're
Smelling
Although it smells
Foreign to you after years of
Drinking coffee you're finally
Finding some semblance of peace
With your hot liquids and your
Hot-headed heart.

And please remember it's okay to be
Weak sometimes
And it's okay to
Drink tea sometimes.

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

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

and now it’s time
to leave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but i do
like to hope

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

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

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

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

fall out boy is always
in season
rain or shine
sweat or tears

i honestly get
tired of having
problems but
doesn't everyone?

i'm escaping
stumbling into some
false reality on the other
side of my mind's eye

sometimes i get to thinking
about alcohol and
cigarettes and i get scared
for who i'll turn into someday

and sometimes
when i can't sleep i play
what a catch donnie
on repeat until i cry

"said i'll be fine
til the hospital or
american embassy"
gets me every time

leaves an actual pain
in my stomach
the ache of something
i want more than anything

to die
or leave
to no longer be
choked

convulsing on the
scratched wooden floor
legs twitching and
forehead sweating

i can't breathe
and it's not just
the humidity
it's the thoughts

it's the scars that are
too new to talk about
and the ones
too old to care about

eyelashes are
scraping irises
hands are
always sticky

how pain
is normalized
and anxiety
just happens.

the song is over
play it again
shuffle and repeat
until sleep

i should have stayed home
i always should stay home
but i don't like
home anymore

i never did like home
and it's mostly because of
who i find there
when i'm all alone.

I spent awhile
In a honey-barbeque
Chicken salad of
Cynicism.

And then one day
Instead of Frank
I was no longer Bryan
But a better version of my Mondays.

Or was it the
Lesser form a
Thursday takes
When you're alone?

I have a desire
Shaded in the glow
Of a stained glass
Display an hour away.

A wish, shrouded in
These filmy layers
Of forgotten words
And remembered sayings.

To be half of one
And twice of me
So I stopped seeing stars
And dropped the peace-sign for a dash.

Reinvented myself
To break all molds
And here I stand, slightly
More intact, I'm back.

a panic attack
in a parking garage
and an elevator
to escape

(a closed box moving
rapidly downwards is
not an especially
relaxing means of escape)

a summer of brief
digital inhalations
watermelon candies
sticking to teeth

(there's nothing like
rainy cities at night
to hurt your eyes and
make you dead inside)

cold feet somebody
has got cold feet by
the air conditioner
phone in hand

come to think of it
i never really asked
for love just expected
somebody would supply

i see everything
reflections and spray
painted numbers and
multiple ellipses too many

(i say nothing
let all the images and
thoughts collide so you
think i see nothing at all)

i'm afraid and my
hands won't stop
shaking so i'm never
going outside again.

i keep a red
second place
ribbon on my
bulletin board
to remind me that
i wasn't good enough

i keep defeat in
my back pocket
and failure
on my skin.

(i didn't realize
how nice it was
to actually be
good at something
and i didn't realize
how easy it was
to stop being
good at something)

took the things
i was good at and
cashed them in
for a quieter night

i can't eat
can't sleep
can't write
can't design

bake a pie
write a poem
cross stitch
crochet
i'm not
bad at it.

i still have
hobbies but
it's not like
it used to be
i'd rather
be cleaning
at least i can
do that well

(isn't that
a little odd
considering that's
exactly what somebody
a little bit too close
to me was feeling
when his world got
turned upside down?)

i'm just not
good at anything
not anymore
but it's my own fault i'm sure.

i never wanted to
be the reason you
found yourself wrapped
in a blanket on the patio
at sunrise one cool
september morning

i never wanted
to be the reason
you cried the
ugly kind of tears

(i never wanted to be this
selfish because come to
think of it i'm about
the worst for selfish)

i want to be the
reason you laugh
the reason you look at
the world a little differently

the reason you drop
everything in the dead of
night to go have an adventure
of hilarious proportions

the reason you go shopping
for an ugly wedding gift
and give some boy out there
half the hell i gave yours

the reason you go to
concerts and take road trips
or feel loved when you
crawl under an afghan

the reason you dry
your tears and decide
to commit an act you might
regret someday like
vandalism or climbing on
someone else's roof.

(and you can't change
my mind
only i can change
my mind
but you can say things
so profound i reconsider)

i never want to be the
reason you put on a black dress
get in the car and drive to a
funeral where you feel
compelled to stand up in front of
everyone we know and
make a speech even though your
tongue is frozen to your teeth

and i never want to be the
reason you lie awake
at night wondering what
you could have changed
haunted all your life
by the person you lost

i never want to be the
reason you leave a cursive
memento with my name
at the bottom of an ivory
program and a bouquet of
black roses next to the pulpit

and i never want to be the
reason you cry

(i never want to be
the reason you cry
but the trouble is that
i can't find reasons to stay)

and i'm sorry
i'm sorry
a hundred
and one times

i'm sorry for
everything

(i'm sorry
you love me
but i'm not sorry
for loving you)

and i'm
sorry
for making
you cry.

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

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

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

I'm
Done
I simply
Refuse
To be
Pretty.

Cute, maybe
Adorable, sure
I could stand a shot at
Beauty.

But I will
Not
I repeat
Not
Conform to
Pretty.

It's surely
Nice to be
Pretty
But I'd rather
Take my
Sincerity
Or hilarity.

And I won't
Sacrifice my
Dignity for
Regularity.

Pretty faces are
For sale at a
Dime a dozen on
Our magazines
But I'm looking for
More than eyeliner
And lipstick
Guillotines.

I moved past
Pretty
Lost my shot at
Perfection
When I found a
Crack
In my gritty reflection.

Not to say I'm giving up
On my beauty intention
But woman cannot survive
On wardrobe interventions.

(there are three grounds
floating on the top of my coffee
it's too late at night to be
drinking this coffee)

i'm just kind of
irritated is all

spending too much time
with myself gets to me
but other people get
to me more

my friends could tell you i hate
touching butter
surprises
and kisses
three things which tend to be
jarring and unsanitary

they could also tell you
they hate your guts

(i remove the grounds
with my spoon and swoosh
the coffee around in circle
so it hits the sides)

after that stunt you pulled
where you pulled me
too close for my comfort
and kissed my cheek

we're not counting that as
my first kiss because it was
not funny or sweet or
any other sentimental epithet

it was
irritating

(the candle is burning
low but i don't mind
i've got all night
to tap out my mind)

and you can only imagine
how pleased i was to find
a very neatly wrapped
package with my name
all wrapped up in ribbons and
a bow the day after my birthday

i didn't open it for
a whole day out of spite
put it in the lost and found
until you moved it back

it was actually a nice
useful gift which you
presumably spent
$40 or so on

which only added
to my irritation

(its getting cold so i start
chugging it but lukewarm
coffee chugged down isn't the
most satisfying way to drink it)

so i wrote a very
passive aggressive
thank you note about
how nice friendship was

and had a dream that you
demanded to know why
i picked someone over you
i didn't have a good answer

(and there's the bottom of
the mug with two more
coffee grounds stuck in the
pocket drop you never can get)

i get ****** when
i'm irritated

and i'm usually somewhat
irritated with you

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

strangling in
what's coming
from my
own skull

introversion turned
dark becomes

i s o l a t i o n

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

then brush your
teeth like it's fine

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

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

so i don't
but then
it kills me
inside

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

i s o l a t i o n

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

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

i s o l a t i o n

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

j u s t
l e a v e
m e  a l o n e

my legs itch

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

i give him scissors

and scratch one calf
with the other foot.

my legs still itch

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

or tried to scrub
away the past

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

i'm picasso in
his blue period

and i paint in
one color alone

salt.

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

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

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

and don't ever tell my
mom she was right

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

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

(well look who's
finally catching on)

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

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

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

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

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

"mom
i'm tired."

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

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

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

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

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

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

(and i've
stopped listening.)

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

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

"i think you're
extremely depressed."

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

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

but it's not so
much the skin

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

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

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

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

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

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

(the patience
to wait or
the daring to
change)

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

it's time
to face some things
and move on

it's time
to let go
of what hurts

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

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

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

why i'm
crying

why i can't
let go

it's time
to remember

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

with eyes
watching me

but i've never been so
scared of feeling better

i wish my parents had
loved me enough
or just had enough
good sense

to put me on a diet when
i was nine years old

because now that i'm
older i can say with
certainty that i would
have rather grown up
thinner and slightly
worse for the wear

than grow up the
way i did
(fat)
and be the way i
am now
(fat)

because i ended up
distorted and
unhappy even though
they told me i was lovely

and i would rather
have had me miserable
and skinny rather than
miserable and fat

i only wish they had
told me the truth
instead of letting me
discover for myself

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

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

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

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

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

i _ t _ r _ i _ e _ d

t _ r _ i _ e _ d

*(try switching just
two little letters)*

t _ i _ r _ e _ d

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

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

and i still
still
after all
these years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i was broken
once.

i don't even know what
i was before
maybe a vase or a
common water glass
a ceramic mug or a glowing
stained glass window.

i don't know how
it happened maybe i
got dropped or cracked through
contact or the temperature
changed too quickly for
my fragile self to handle.

and i don't know who or
what cracked me like my
twelve year old cd cases
or if it was a slow stress
fracture brought on
by myself.

but the signs are
there
that i was broken
once.

yes, i was
broken
once
and i am still
shattered
in my darkest places.

but i make a
**** good mosaic.

i would love
to leave the house.

walk downtown
in broad daylight
find a cute coffee shop
to haunt

(with my notebooks i'd never
notice any lack of internet connection)

stroll along the moonlit
shore
dip my toes in the water
off the dock

(the only thing i'll take
advice from is a lake)

read books
all afternoon
in the stilted quiet
of the public library

(perhaps pay off my longstanding
fine like a responsible adult)

go shopping for a
brand new skirt
worn once or twice
by someone else

(and i swear i would dance
in the rain until it was soaked)

find some kind of local
museum that nobody really
cares about and go look at
something antiquated

(or i suppose i could just stay
in the secondhand shop attic)

go into a music store and
play all my worst melodies
on their guitars and ukuleles
until they kicked me out

(the discomfort on the other patron's
faces would be worth the humiliation)

oh yes
i would love
to leave the house
and i would love
to do it
alone.

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

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

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

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

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

If I knew a florist
I would call her Fauna
If vegetables had more emotion
We would call them raw.

If trains of thought ever stopped
They would wait in static stations
If writers fought wars
They would squabble for imagine-nations.

If natural disasters happened
In response to heartbreaks
The cities would be reduced to
Rubble in the earthquakes.

If all the world were glazed
In frosted poetry
All the prose and politics
Would cease to disagree.

If in all the valleys of shuddering woe
I could count one battle fought
I would consider it my greatest boon
To defeat a juggernaut.

But thrown throughout the acrid pines
Are drops of leaking light
And sunburns on the soul are painful
Even in the cooling night.

it was uncomfortably
hot out today

i put my cardboard box
down on the pavement
and squinted into
the midspring sun

grateful for the
knowledge
of the truth
the ukulele truth
and nothing but
the truth

like i could
scream every
johnny cash song
i've never learned
at every pathetic smoker
disobeying the signs

and i understood
oh but did i
understand
why they're always
pushing friday
on midweek radio shows

it's thursday
at 3pm
and guess what?
now we're free

(to roll in the grass
and soak up the sunshine
or maybe just
take a nap)

tell your winter
clothes where they
can stuff it
and your hick
christmas lights
to get lost

there's a pitcher
of unsweetened
ice tea with just a
dash of lemon juice
waiting for me when
i get home

and a cracked
front step to
nod off on once
it gets cooler

and even these
june bugs
out in may can't
bring me down.

I've a cache of four youth leaders
In the back of my mind
But it's best to keep
Them in the dark.

My fascination with
Binder clips
Just won't leave
My desk.

I swear, I do not
Remember last summer.

I also don't remember
The last four sermons in my psyche.

I will wear this
Nose ring like a princess
But I'm afraid
Of panic attacks and frosted doughnuts.

The water vaporizer and
The narwhals
Frequently run off together
And go to Somalia for Christmas.

I'm begging you not
To remind me of the Chevy t-shirt
Because I cannot get the
Ketchup and pasta off my reasons.

family is
a knife
cutting birthday cake
cutting roast dinner

cutting paper
and ribbon to wrap
and slicing through
to open the gift

a knife
for what we
do together

but knives
are used
to sever

and when it
pierces
skin it’s that
much more
painful
when the ties
which bind
so easily
strangle

a blade
hanging out
of my side
and everyone pretends
they don’t notice
until they twist
the knife deeper
just to hurt us

i want to
chop onions
slice open
green peppers
add them to dinner
make something
that brings
somebody together

but you
want to
make people
hurt

family is
a knife

i try not to
get my hopes up
too often
it’s never as good
as i convince myself
it will be

but i let myself
believe in this one
in the back of my mind
the beach

a week off work
ocean waves
hot sand
fresh fish
his birthday
where reality can’t find me

in 2019 it seemed like
a great plan
enter 2020
with it’s 99
problems but
a beach ain’t one

and so now another
year will go by
and i won’t get a chance
to leave this
humid lakelocked town
that will soon cool down
with drizzling rains and
thick white snow

people have lost
their jobs
their lives
and their sanity

and i’m doing
all right
untouched by
disaster and
richer from
overtime

so i should be
grateful
but i’m mostly just
over it

the long hours and
late nights and
going going going
busy bee

but i guess no
beaches for
*******
like me

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

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

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

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

I didn't ever write a
Journal entry about last Wednesday night.

It was strange, the dampness
In the air and the cough in
My throat, and the whole world felt
Empty and deadened.

She didn't really want to
Go, and I guess I didn't either, now
That I think about it, after
All I could have been writing a paper.

But I had my alterior
Motives, which fell through and
I wanted to get out of the
House, to clear my stuffy head.

So we walked, like two girls who
Can survive on their own mistakes
And then after awhile
We walked back.

But we walked to the little
Playground instead of home because I guess
For nine-thirty at night we were
Both a little unsettled.

And we talked about God and I
Looked at the leaves on the
Pavement and thought about how different the
Uniform Methodist windows were from ours.

if this bus
is any later
i will drift
into a pile of snow

i’m not seventeen
anymore
wrapped in three
and a half blankets
to keep myself warm
from the inevitable cold

i’m an amorphous blob
a lump of
coat and scarf
and mask and hair
and cords and lunchbox
and sweater and bag
and cold fingers clutching
a coffee cup

i’m not twenty one
anymore
can’t keep
ignoring things
pushing them
under more layers

claiming it will
keep me warm but
just stifling
me from breathing

i’m almost
twenty three
but when i start
ripping off layers
i’m still
thirteen

under the
trappings of
age there
are those same
fresh wounds
****** on my skin

do we even get
older or do we just
grow wiser in the ways of
silencing the child underneath?

but there’s no time
to think about that
now when the
bus is rounding the
corner and i’m scrambling
through forty
different pockets
to find my pass

and it’s time to go
because if i stand
here any longer
so the snow blows
over me
when the sun comes
out my feet will
melt onto the sidewalk

but that’s another
thought for another
day and it’s time to
leave so i’ll just put on
another layer and
keep moving so
the snow can’t
cover me

nostalgia
hit me this morning
washed over me in
a wave of memories
so strong i could only
stand there until it passed

as i stood alone
counting money
that wasn’t mine
on a morning i didn’t
want to be awake
much less here

the words to an old
song trickled through
my mind and i could
hear my mother’s voice

see the glowing
stained glass turtle
in the corner of my
childhood bedroom
feel her hand
on my back

and i remembered
how it felt to be loved
and i missed it
missed her
missed who i was
before i learned
to take care
of myself

and i’ve been feeling
something lately
something like a wistful
kind of missing
what might have been
had i been different

something like the feeling
you get when you’re sitting
on a cold concrete floor
of the thrift store
running your fingers down
the spines of old cd cases
his hand on the top of
your head as you talk about
things you might need for
your first home together

and you find an album that
you had right in the middle
of your extensive list of cds
to buy when you were twelve

and you flip it over
look at the songs
think for a long
minute about how
happy this once
would have made you

before realizing
it doesn’t make you
happy now because
you’re somebody else

and you put it back
stand up and go to
look at furniture and
dishes and things
to take into your
future and you leave
your past hopes and
unresolved dreams back
there in the stacks
of other people’s discarded
songs and half finished stories
where you found it

and that’s what
life comes down to

the melodies that sometimes
flicker through our minds

and the possessions we
let pass through our hands

what we keep
what we let go

i’m ready
to let it go
childhood
the life given to me
before i was capable
of building my own

i’ve made a
new one
found a new
family and
there’s just
one last step

let the past all go
and find the only
thing i miss
from those days

peace of mind
no concept of time
falling asleep to
the hum of a
box fan and waking
up to a fresh sunrise

no more
constant buzzing
in my brain
of what ifs and
might have beens
just blank and
pale silence like
fresh fallen snow
that muffles it all

spring to summer
fall to winter
just constant
quiet in my mind

i’m pleading with
my own thoughts
please just let
myself go

the past
how frightening

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a childhood to
exist and a
lifetime to
forget.

every raindrop on the
car windshield turns into
an ocean

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

perhaps the electrical impulses
could cosmically and
inexplicably change me

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

so i'll stay
in this parking lot

and i'll
wait

for the blue
flash of fallout

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

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

the damp spring
suddenly coming up
on traffic islands

i should be
absolutely
thunderstruck

flying through the air
head buried deep
in the wispy clouds

but i'm finding myself
lightningstruck
in place

feet on the ground
drowning in
pavement.

lately i’ve been missing
being nineteen
who i was before
i was anybody

(there’s a lot about it
i don’t miss
the anxiety
the conflict)

but i miss the
pink shimmer
around my eyes
the flowers
on my jacket
and in my hair
and the uncertain
hope i was hanging onto

that in five years
i would know
who i was and
what i was doing

but that’s not
how it works
it works more like
the tattoo on my ankle

(it's a bike
because my mother
always used to say
god will steer the
bicycle but not
until you peddle first

and that’s what i did
i kept peddling
but i’m not 100%
convinced any
divine guidance
led me to here)

if this is the
future for
the girl i was
at nineteen
then i'm not sure
about the future
of current me
at thirty

("sometimes i want
to quit it all
and become an
accountant now"
was a song
i played a lot then

because when i was
an artistic teenager
i thought numbers
might hold more
permanence than words
and it was funny
because me?
an accountant?

and then
guess what happened
i went and became
a ******* accountant)

i miss
who i was
before i realized
i'm never going
to have this
figured out

because i’m never
going to have this
figured out
and i get the feeling
that trying to figure
things out is about
to get a whole lot
more complicated

i miss being twenty one
and having no
******* clue
that i was about to be
tethered to a
liquor store

i walked in there
the other day
and the new guy
carded me
it hit me in a flood
what it felt like
to be a stranger
in my own town

what it meant that
the footprint i accidentally
left in the corner of the
municipal lot
on that hot sunny
summer day they were
laying blacktop
just got paved over

but i spent enough time
in his position not to be
the person that says
“you don’t know who
i am do you?”
he’ll find out soon enough

you know what
we always say
“i’d burn this
whole town down
if it weren’t
for my liquor store”

i’m not unhappy
as it stands
i’m worried
about what comes next

i’ve been doing less
soul searching and
more heart clenching
gut wrenching

and i’ll make a
pros and cons list
but it will just look
like this

win win
lose lose
win lose
lose win

the universe is playing
a giant prank on me
and i’m in limbo
trying to plan ahead

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

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

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

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

(i don't want to die)

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

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

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

and you know
what that means?

this **** ain't
ending easy.

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

stay alive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i’m disconnected from reality
and hemorrhaging anxiety

i don’t
belong here

i don’t
belong there

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

but i don’t
belong here

and i don’t
belong there

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

all i know is that
i don’t belong here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are things I love
And things I loathe.

Maybe I woke up
On the wrong side of the bed
Or the same side of the bed
I wake up on every morning.

Or maybe I don't do well
On mornings after I've cried.

Maybe I'm just
Naturally a little
Bit meaner than
I look.

Not that I don't have a heart
Of gold and good intentions
But you know what they say
About good intentions.

There are things I love
And things I loathe.

And today fell more on
The second side.

i will not
not
go down
without a fight

I WILL NOT

NOT

GO DOWN

WITHOUT A FIGHT

will not

will not

will not

will not

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

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

red hands
raw meat
up to my elbows
in hamburger

chunks of bread
spices, eggs
just doing
my job

sculpting each
meatball
carefully
in my hands

rubber gloves
metal tools

surgery
why
them and
not me

(blood, gore
shrapnel and death
suffering, pain
alcohol and tears)

they were just
doing their job
i'm just
doing mine

(the voice in my head
says i'm not enough
my glove breaks at
the seam around my ring)

another day
in paradise
cold fingers
meat on hands

The shadows flick
Faster and faster of
The fan until it
Turns into a UFO and
Detaches from the
Ceiling to fly away.

I'm drunk on
Exhaustion
High on
Poetry.

The invisible pattern
On the wall begins
To dance, the curlicues
Tangoing with fleur-d'les
To the silent drumbeat
Of my heart in my ears.

I'm intoxicated from
My thoughts
Completely smashed on
Shards of mirrors and the
Dregs of any
Innocence I had left.

I'll watch the numbers
Flash backwards, just
Let time turn around
Clocks will melt
Even in air-conditioning
I've got a
Pounding headache and
Tomorrow I'll be
Hungover
On my soul.

it's getting bad again
but not bad enough
that i think i should
start to worry

or maybe i don't
know what's bad
and what's normal
anymore

the dark thoughts that
scamper around
are just mice
in the kitchen of my conscious

but to people with
clean houses they are
ginormous
terrifying
monstrosities
with great *******
wings and horns
and fangs and
unprovoked
bloodlust

(i guess
the unprovoked
bloodlust part
is true)

it's just mice in my pantry
keeping me awake
leaving traces
getting into my things
just mice
harmless
but very
annoying

and i'm
getting
tired
of it

it's just mice
but the urge is to
burn the entire
house down
to deal with
the problem

Tempted
I was tempted to
Walk away, to
Sit in this empty
Car, with rain on the windows
Forever.

But then the shocking
Confession was made for me
That I still sleep with a
Naked teddy bear and these
Archaic sheets of
Translucent obsessions.

I am not myself
Or a number on a scale
Or the lonely midnights
Drinking milkshakes in empty
Diners, alone but for
Those neon lights.

Those lonely midnights
That do not yet exist
And the vacant burns
Of vanity
Inscribed upon my
Favorite caveman.

mind games
with myself

a quivering equilibrium
of keeping myself too
busy to sink into depression
but not so overwhelmed
that the anxiety
swallows me whole

and the scales
are swinging

i am not
in control
of my own
life right now

cuticles stained green
hair grown scraggly
wrists that go
numb and tingle

i am only
twenty

too old to be carefree
and yet too young
to be callused and weathered
made miserable by time

the mind games get
violent
no referee
to call time out

my bath is still
hot but i suppose that as
with dishes it should be
emptied when no longer clear

and i am clouding
my own judgement

so the rusty red water
drains away
leaving bubbles
on my shoulders

mind games must halt
impulse control

because still the
blood remains
i can’t wash
it off me

it’s too
late

what’s wrong
with me

i am scared of
many things
the most frightening being
spiders
and admitting what i’m
really feeling

make that a fear
of myself

of the
mind games

and now what’s
done is done and
i will sleep or
lie awake in tears

when people ask what
happened to me
i tell them i was sad
and anxious and
got over it two
years ago

because not even i know
what’s wrong with me

how i’m supposed
to win the mind games

somebody help me
i need a referee

two concepts
dance around
in my mind
from time to time

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

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

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

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

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

complacency or
out of place?

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

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

and i can’t help
but wonder

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

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

what if i don’t
belong here?

which outcome would
leave me least misplaced?