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b for short Sep 2015
I stand, all alone, in the desert. It’s night, but the sky isn’t dark—it just hangs there—a deep blue background for the millions of stars I was never acquainted with while I lived among the light pollution a thousand miles from here. They tickle my eyes as they fade in and out of vision, covering everything in a cool, silvery glow. I stand beneath them, letting their light wash over me too. They have this way, I think to myself, of making everything seem beautiful—the kind of light that catches you in all of the right places.

There is nothing to interrupt my thoughts here—nothing to deflect and offset my own harsh criticisms. I hope for an interference of some kind, but there is just silence and the churning of self-reflection that hums hot through the sides of my head.

I think about how you would revel in this kind of quiet—this sort of loneliness. I imagine you swallowed whole by it—the space, the silence, the darkness; how it would make you smile. And I smile thinking of your smile. I smile so hard at the thought of your happiness that my mouth suddenly cracks into a scream. What comes out of me is so loud, so long, so full of everything that I had tucked into the secret niches of me, that it shoots out into the night and smatters the whole of the sky.

The gorgeous dark blue fragments come down first; slowly falling from above like fine silks, decorating the curves and edges of this dusty desert.  The millions of stars hang there for a moment, still glittering over nothingness. They hesitate, handsomely, and one by one, they start to descend. Then, by the fistful, they come crashing down. What follows is a sound— a thousand cymbals in a rainstorm—deafening but peaceful and powerfully calming. I let them cover me, exploding and splintering as they make contact, drenching me in a marvelous warm light. It drips from the ends of my hair and the tips of my fingers. I taste its tinny glow on my lips, and I can feel its brightness catch in my lungs and cloud my breath. The sensation brings me to my knees.  I hush my thoughts into the happiest unprecedented tears and exhale.

It won’t be long now until they find me here.
It won’t be long before they realize that I’m the girl who misloved so deeply, she up and brought down the whole **** sky.
© Bitsy Sanders, September 2015
b for short Sep 2015
I’m just so tired
of carrying around these heavy bones,
of synthetic smiles and empty words,
of meaningless ***,
of dreams that cling to the sides of my head;
this chewed up, spat out,
sticky, deformed hope—
the kind you unknowingly step on,
carry with you for awhile
and notice suddenly
with a face twisted in disgust.
The same reeking kind you spend hours
digging out of the soles of your shoes
with a broken stick.

And just I’m tired.

I’m tired
of ******* the poison out of this wound,
of tasting its hot, tinny infection,
of the uncertainty of recovery,
of your one-man audience.
I’m tired of being tired,
and I’m tired of admitting
that I was a naive enough
to offer up the best parts of myself
to something pining for so much less.
I
will never be
less.

I’m tired, but I’m here.
I’m here, and I’m searching.
When I find myself again,
when I regenerate all of those best parts,
I won’t be tired.
I’ll be this amazing
[*******]
spectacle,
and I’ll make sure you and less
have the finest mezzanine seats
for the one thousand mic drops
I always knew I had in me.
© Bitsy Sanders, September 2015
b for short Aug 2015
We ran barefoot on the grass alongside the gravel path. I’ll never run as fast as you, but I always try to keep up. The coast line looks like a fresh oil painting this time of day, and I wonder if you notice its colors the way that I do. My focus switches between you and the sun as it sinks closer to the water’s surface, beams breaking and refracting, glittering in every possible direction. There’s no need to decorate this day, I thought.

When we reach the stone cliff, I catch my breath, but the fear sinks in, and I lose it again. Beneath us is a fifty foot drop into deep, dark saltwater. While the surf chops and smacks against the sides of the rock’s base below, I know I would much rather stay up here in the soft sand dunes—safe, quiet and light. The ground I stand here, in this moment, would never hold a candle to your persuasive nature, and I found myself following your lead, stripping down to my bra and underwear. I hated feeling this naked, and the goose bumps on my freckled arms told me the harder we tried to hold on to summer, the sooner September would come.

No part of me wants to look down, but I don’t want to disappoint you either. Let me be clear when I say, I don’t expect you to grab my hand the way you do. I never asked for it, and I didn’t invite it. Yet, the second you do, we’re connected, and I know the jump is inevitable. You’re warm to the touch, and although you never say it, I know you can feel how scared I am; how unacquainted I am with this kind of risk. You fully understand that a person can’t miss something they’ve never had, and I’ve never had this. You know exactly what kind of door it is that you’re prying open; you recognize that the consequences of your introductions and explorations will be dire and deafening.

You know all of this, but you grab my hand anyway.

Despite everything, alongside you, I’m happy to run out of cliff beneath my feet, I’m happy to be terrified, suspended in mid-air. I’m happy… until you let go of my hand. A broken connection, plummeting down, down deep into chilled, murky water—I feel things brush against my legs and arms—I’m alone, and I don’t want to be here. The saltwater stings my eyes as I scour every possible inch of space in front me for some sign of you—hand, a leg—a fleck of movement. My blood pulses against the sides of my head. I need air. As I rush for the surface, I feel something pull me back down. Panic quickly coats my chest and my throat, and I wrestle my tangled ankle free from the thick patches of vegetation below.

You’re nowhere when I finally break the surface—******* up every inch of oxygen my lungs can manage—thankful, but estranged.

You grabbed my hand to jump, only to let go, and now, you’re nowhere.

I look in the distance, and I see your footprints on the beach, leading back up to the path. You’re okay. I’m relieved, but confused—so I follow them with my questions in tow. I follow them the whole way back to where we started—clothed and barefoot, talking about what we should do with the rest of our afternoon.

When I finally find you, I’m flushed and damp, and I notice that you’re not any of these things at all…including alone. She’s beside you, pretty…put together, and dry. You’re sitting still with her. No need to seek a thrill, no need to conquer heights. Although you never say it, I know you can see me silently disintegrating in front of you. Placing your hand on my shoulder, you’re cold to the touch. I pull away. I’m anchored here, but I don’t want to be—I want to run, but I’m stiff with fear as you open your mouth to speak.  I try not to hear your words, but you over articulate them, on purpose. They drip with insincere guilt as you slowly slide each of their jagged edges into my head.

“She gets me.”

*He knew, but he grabbed my hand anyway.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2015
b for short Aug 2015
I chose to draw you,
pressing hard, etched into paper—
so hard, my hand panged with aches
from the pressure.
Thick, bold lines which accented
those curious eyes
and long, wide strokes for
such smooth dark skin.
My representation so detailed,
I could almost feel you there
on the page.
Anyone could see—
there was love in those contours,
and hope in those highlights;
a pitied soul captured between hand and eye.
You were some version of the
******* Mona Lisa,
belonging to no one and everyone
all at once.
My furiously hated favorite,
hanging high and unfinished
for the world to see.

Understand me when I say
I had to press just as hard to erase
every inch of it.
With swollen knuckles
and blistered palms,
I didn’t blink until it was gone.
I refused to exhale until
there wasn’t anything left
except a few piles of dust
and a faint outline
of a subject that craved
but couldn’t stand
to be the object
of anyone’s admiration.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2015
b for short Aug 2015
When I was a little girl, I occasionally loved to wear dresses. Not because they made me feel pretty, or because that’s what the damning norms of society taught me I should wear—I wore them because I loved how it felt when I would spin myself around. I’d scuff my Mary Janes, litter my tights with runs, and twirl around until my balance ran out and my little knees met the ground. No scrape or brush burn kept me from the thrill of that momentum, smiling wide as the material rose up to meet my fingers while I flew around in haphazard circles. I’d watch the colors of this huge, painted world blend and blur together, amused that, for a moment, I was out of my own control.

Eventually, much to my dismay, I grew up in nearly all of the ways a little girl can.

I realize, as an adult, that it’s important to harbor the mindset that we should regret nothing. After all, every experience typically gifts us with a little wisdom nugget, right? We collect them and look back fondly on the good and the bad, carrying our souvenirs with us as we move forward. Well, I have the nuggets (heh), but I can’t help but feel some regret as to how I came about retrieving them. Recently, there have been so many instances where I want to hop in the Doc’s Delorean, go back in time, grab the hands of little me, and spin ourselves into oblivion. We crash in the grass, eyes closed, world still spinning. In the midst of giggles and grins, we lay on our backs, watching the clouds come back into focus. I turn my head and look at her, fully prepared to tell her everything she needs to know to protect herself from all of the hurt and pain I know she’ll come to endure in the next couple of decades. I want so badly to save her from it all, but before I can speak, she does.

“Don’t worry, I can see it,” she looks at me, warmly.

“See what?” I ask, catching my breath.

“I can see all of the cracks in you.”

I don’t have the words for her, as she searches my face. She traces the outlines of my cheeks, somehow still as round and rosy as her own. Her eyes are my eyes; a bewildering gray green—unchanged, even after all of these years. In that moment, I realize that I’ve forgotten just how young I actually am.

“You don’t have to tell me about them. I know they’ll be mine someday.” She smiles and turns her eyes to the sky.

I’m in awe of this child—her understanding and intuitive nature. It left me perplexed.

“You already know what I’m going to tell you?” For a brief second, I relived the heartache, the fear, and the anger—and I wondered if she understood, I mean, truly understood what she was saying. “But if you know, then how can you be smiling?”

She turns back to me, lips curved sheepishly into a grin—an expression we had come to perfect. “Because where you’re cracked is the prettiest part of you. You fill them with gold and silver and all the rest of the glittery colors. They’re not empty—just spaces replaced with things that mean more to you than what was there before.”

I imagined this—a map of myself, sporadic damage branching out in all directions, repaired in technicolor brightness, more eye-catching than ever. I fell in love with the thought of my tattered soul, patchworked into something my heart could use to keep warm.

I kissed her, lightly, on her little forehead—a thank you for the words I still didn’t have, and hugged her tight.

“You should get back now,” she said, still grinning, “you don’t want to miss it.”

I don’t know what she meant by that exactly, but I had this unmistakably good feeling that she was on to something.
©Bitsy Sanders, August 2015

I realize this is not what we'd call a "poem" but rather poetic prose. Either way, it had to get out. Thanks for your understanding.
b for short Aug 2015
I caught lightning in your bottle,
and I swallowed it whole.
So torrid and treacherously lit,
I became the kind of something
you taught yourself to run from.
Skin tight and white hot,
I radiate light from all angles;
buzzing with fluorescence.
With my fingertips brightening
the curves of your lips,
I trace that familiar fine line
between your fear and fascination.

In a single crack across the sky,
I will set your darkness ablaze
and leave you with
a deafening boom of clarity.
Jolted and stunned, you take in
an infinite illumination,
devouring every inch of
the unknown color and wonder
once shadowed by your thick,
murky doubt.

Blink, and it disappears
as quickly as it came to be.
What you see, you can’t forget.
As the spots dance, staccato
in front of your eyes,
you run, just as you taught yourself,
fast and far, away from the light;
disenchanted once again,
as you recall the fact that
lightning never strikes
the same place twice.
the same place twice.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2015
b for short Aug 2015
Faded ink.
Deep, majestic black to a shy blue
hints at a thrill that no longer thrives
but serves an imprinted reminder
of a time that breathed happiness.

Around and around,
days into nights,
we grew into each other
without notice.
Weighted contours
made beautifully complex shapes,
we’d  twist and curve
harmonic and sound,
constantly moving
in these flawless, repeating circles.

When it ends—
[and it will,
because the monotony
of the same motion
will scare you]
you’ll be left wondering how
you could sit there and become
so immersed in something
that was so perfect and simple.
Perfectly simple.
You stop and step back.
You breathe and regret.
You take it in and admire.
The saddest part
is to realize that this piece is left
unfinished.
No closure, no color,
just the monotone outlines
of some gorgeous, accidental idea.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2015
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