i put traffic
cones around
my body, pull
my own rug
out from
                                         under
me,
ten pounds
like an anvil
on a string,
153.43

is there are a way out of the blue?


when we are buried so deep in our
own bodies that the surface is just
a dream, try to live for today but
you are living for next summer
count the worries off my back
like notches in wood or welts
from belts don't need no
father figure with his
strap because I am
my own abuser,
I laid myself
o u t   o n   t h e   t a b l e   t o
condemn my
parts against
the stained
oak, white.
palms. white.
knuckles. Each
draw back is a
word

love.your.self.
love.your.self.

34b
8.5
20
36
29
140
5' 7"
18
16
8:30
6:00

can you see
the candles
f  l  i c k e r
through my
sidelights, I
am trying to
let that light
shine before
them.

the sparrows
followed me
down the hill
wrote scripture
in their trails
and the wind
blew against
my skin.

chuck said a lot of
things that should
scare me but it was
only when he said
I must find my place
in the ministry and
i wanted to cry out
and tell him I don't
think that I have one.

found my old
heart in a candle
from bath and body
works, could you
see me by the closet
hunched over with
my nose inside the
glass, because this
scent takes me
back beneath
the cold seattle
rain, a mist that
never settles and
clammy toes that
never warmed up
a cranberry room
                                         and a life so                            unreserved
without obsession,
I can hardly remember it.

my dad
leans down
to hug me and
says you've been
gone for a few days,
I missed you and
maybe he means
I have been gone
but maybe he
means that
I have been



g    o n  e

I'm sure you all know that
having patience with your-
self far outweighs the need
to love yourself, b e c a u s e
loving yourself is hard but
knowing that everything
takes time to accomplish
is harder, and so I wake
up and ask myself when,
and if I do, will it be all
inclusive, as in, will I
love myself at my
worst, too?

when Helen tried to
commit suicide I didn't
know until she told me
at the Oklahoma! premier
when I said I hadn't seen
her in so long and she
casually stuffed her
hands in her pockets
and said Well, yeah,
I tried to **** myself
and was in a place
so I took her face
between my palms
and kissed her forehead
which was out of character
for me, back then, but I wanted
to pull the black out of her brain
with my lips.

sometimes I imagine myself
deep in the ventricles of your
heart, a small figure planted
in flesh, and I gingerly touch
the walls, where everything
seems so raw, I whisper that
I am so sorry, and you absorb
my apologies.  B        u          t
I am just another echo, a heart
murmur, that is exactly what i
am, a heart murmur.

she said: love the boy who paints.

And I think of your hands.
Your hands with fingers
like Grecian pillars stretching
across the divot between my
hip bone and my bellybutton
your palms that were shockingly
dry but extraordinarily smooth
cupped around my *******
while you slept, a single
foot peeking through my
calves, your sweat seeping
through my cotton shirt
a drawn out


b

r

e

a

t

h




So, love a boy who paints
and think of his hands
the only things that you
can remember vividly
all the things he did
with those fingers
during The Kids
are Alright

but

it's not your
oil on his skin
anymore
and someone else
loves that boy who
paints.

The way i ask people
to hang out is kind of
predatory, if this were an
act in two parts, you
would see all of my
acquaintances board
a carousel, and then
watch me grasp at
their clothes as
they flew past
on their steeds
the camera
film would
shutter across
my face, and
a pair of arms
stuck out like
prongs or jaws
or claws or pincers


trying to catch on.

catch on?

I'm at work on my day
off, drinking Toddy and
watching the spokes on
the city commuter bikes
glint in the windows
it's so weird to want
to be everywhere and
then nowhere, because
everywhere and nowhere
require the right kind of people
so when my mom asks if I want
to see a movie, if I want to go to
the gorge, if I want to go thrift shopping
I tell her that I am restless, that in 1909
subatomic particles were fired at a
solid object and passed through
that humans could possibly
vibrate fast enough to
travel through time
but might end
up liquifying
themselves
but that the
atoms in my
bones are
firing so
fast they
appear to
be not
moving?



but that doesn't make a ton of sense
so I tell her I am a little restless.
a little restless.
rest.
less.

rolling through the
waves, beaten by
the undercurrent
blend in with the
black and blue, make
myself a bruise, let the
echo fill me up, a wavering
sonata in between the grains
of sand that chafe against my
cheeks, thrown like a strand
of algae, swept between
the coral castles, the
fish whisper that
it will be alright
but I have heard
that somewhere
before.

sometimes
i can see
myself
folding
in, they
say wear
your heart
on your sleeve
but I wear it in
my voice and
she so often
hides away
and gets
lost
sometimes
I even send
her away in
letters and
she takes all
the words with
her.

sometimes I
still taste you
on my breath.

They say a human
can spot the flicker
of a candle from 30
miles away, Hey,
out there, in the
dark, I can feel
your warmth
you're on a
train, I can
feel the
sing of
your
wheels
on the
tracks, lighting
rails towards me.

Paul told me to
******* as if
Brooke was just
an abbreviation
and I'm starting
to think that it is

i so often find myself
looking for a home
in men, in work, in
menial activities, in
angry runs where
I lose so much
breath my
lungs feel
like they
are

bleeding.

but I find solace in books,
page 3, page 10, 56, 145,
230, I don't ever want
to lose myself, i imagine
it's a sign of weakness,
or the inability to deal
with reality but the peace
is so alarming, it makes me
want to cry.

I will take the caps off all the markers in the house just to see you mad.


but I also want to brush the
oils out of your hair and take
take pictures of your forearms
in the early morning light when
your veins look like streaks of
minerals in granite, I cannot
promise I won't watch your
shadow behind the shower
curtain, or roll the windows
up and down in your car
is this what he sees
is this what he sees?
I'll ask myself,
I can't promise
I won't put your
shoes on to walk
around the house
all over your clean
carpets and change
your spice cabinet
so that you can't
ever find the oregano
but what's worse is
i'll never let you
cook in peace,
is this what
you do?
I'll ask.
is this
what
you
do?

All men are disgusting
(all men aren't disgusting)

I'm buying bananas at the store
trying to find green ones because
I hate ripe fruit (ironic) and an old
man with his wife stops to stare at
my legs. I want to break every banana on the
stand but that would probably turn him on.
Remember Derek? Who told me to *******
when I wouldn't go to the movies with him
you're like every other girl in this town
Well, yeah, maybe, but not every other
girl wants to slam your face into the
cash register at City Market (or maybe they do)
Remember Ty, who called me a ***** for not
wanting to bake thc butter into my brownies
I sincerely hope you overdose on orange juice, love brooke.
I wouldn't call it homicidal, but I want to slash your tires
and ram into your bumper four (or seven) times but my
insurance probably would not cover that.

I'm beginning to annoy myself:


texting the ex-boyfriend with daily
problems knowing full well his girlfriend
probably wouldn't appreciate that and
wishing Paul would fall off his high horse
as opposed to getting off it, I still shave with
hopes of someone feeling my legs but let's
be completely honest with each other; I
don't even let my own father kiss my
forehead, let alone say a word to me
I hide behind the pantry door whispering
go away

let's be completely honest with each other:

I'm not sure what's happening to me.

somebody left the gate open
and I am gone, past the fence
into the fields, in a blue filter,
naked and clothed in hair, snitched
by the call of a whippoorwill, ambushed
by tall grass and the merciless branches of
pines. Somebody left the gate open and I
am gone, yellow dogs peel from the bark
like old Cherokee tales and race my heels
with their tongues and big almond eyes



Somebody left the gate open.

I left my
windows
wide open
and every-
thing dried
up, the organs
in the cabinets
the lilies on the
ribs, the weekend
was the worst and
monday is just an
empty cup.

we're down to that
point of the year where
I spend a month filled with
anxiety, wondering if I should
wish you happy birthday or leave
well enough (this really is well enough, right?)
alone. Are you well enough? is this well enough?
Are we well enough? Well enough? Well? Enough?

unruly, swarthy, dark and
full of Spaniard descent, I
never looked good on your
side, not that I was a mexican
trinket, but all your new girlfriends
are made of cotton with bluets in their
hair, slender fingers that slip through
your ribs where mine always got jam
                                                                        med
I
am

falling
into the uncategorized, the
ethnic             gap
unraveled at the end of the
stairs

i wrote in my diary:
where are you? where
are you? I click on pictures
half-expecting them to be
yours, with the full intention
of looking. Hey, how are you
doing? How many people have
you kissed? I try not to dream
about you anymore but we all
know how that goes.  I'm making
new friends, just thought you should
know. We used to tell each other everything,
why should I stop now? Both parties do not
need to be present for a vote, not for this vote.
not for this vote.

not for this vote.

your dad went grey
while I was away, you
grew the brown beard
he lost, your dad went
grey while I was away,
you grew the brown
beard he lost.

put this in your wallet
you said, and you ripped
a dollar in half, I told you
it was illegal and you shrugged
just keep it in your wallet*
how many times have I
been over you, written
a silly poem about leaving
you, talked about letting go?
well, talk about letting go,
Chris, I can't take it out.

do you
drive past
walmart three
times trying to
decide if you want
m&ms;, if only people
heard the fights that go
on inside your head, the
way you feel the weight
of your skin on your legs
you have scabs from thigh
rub from running up hills
apparently men like meat
compared to bones but will
strip you for all your worth
like a beef rib, have you seen
those rubberbands that have
sat too long in the sun? or
grapes at the bottom of the
bowl? strawberries in the
corner of the basket?
won't cut your hair
because you think it's
the only beautiful thing
about you, do you eat
bread in splendor and
pretend you're john,
peter, mark and luke
you're just trying to
be passage in the
**** bible, effortless
poetic, in red, his
words, spoken
by a prophet.

last night i heard you
speaking, as i was
waking up, you
were speaking
to me, I heard
you God, I
heard you.

I want to, so I won't
I'm not good enough,
I'm sorry,
eh, it's alright.

you always drew
your duality and
it makes me cry
even now.

i found a drawing you did
of me dated 12-22-11, three
days before Christmas, and
wouldn't you know, i wanted
to rip it out and let the rain
smudge the pencil and not
touch it at all, all at the same
time because chances are, bits
of you were still on that page
and apparently i'm not ready
to get rid of you entirely.

I still don't
like calling you my
ex, because you're
still a q-r-s-t-u anything
but v-w-x-y-z.

i thought i saw you at the
coffee shop today, it even
looked like you from behind
calves placed flatly on the
stool bars, hunched shoulders
in a faded blue t-shirt and tan
khakis, this person wouldn't
look at me, turned his head
so far left, and let his hat do
the talking, I can't be sure it
wasn't you, i'm playing it
off as a joke, but my lungs
are in my stomach, my heart
clear down in my knees, if
that was you, why wouldn't
you say anything to me?

am i still your
rose or just another,
one of the many who
blushed in lieu of the
little prince's words.

let me find a lover
in the winter, let that
lover find me, let those
cogs twist beneath the
earth and set events in
motion, light a fire beneath
his chair that sends him cross-
ways here, on a train with my
name, burning charcoal for my sake
god, i know you know me better
i'm waiting at the station,
i'm waiting at the station.

but
i'd
be
o   k  a  y
with
being
the last
girl you
had ever
loved.

well did he
love boys
when he
was with
me?

i'm glad you passed that
stage, where changing your
name could have given you
a different outlook but ultimately
let you split your personality, maybe
you've returned to your body and picked
up your bones, decided that you can only
have that skin, maybe you'll fall in love
maybe you'll fall in love,
maybe you'll fall in love

I wrote about the pinstriped girls whose elbows make you feel alive.


but I have tree sap in my veins
filled to the brim with leaves,
eaves that drip holy water
charcoal in my hair and
bluets follow where I
step, I am komorebi
the sun will always
always, always
find

me.

how long did I love you?
yesterday Chuck just said
stop,  because I told him
about that green trellis dream
and the one where I chased you
through Nepal, and he leaned in
close and smiled at me the way
he does when he's about to cry
and told me to let go, just


let



go



















so i did.

unceremoniously
breaking up with
you because I only
half meant it last
time but for my
sake I have to
use my whole
heart on this one
have to use my
whole, my whole
my whole, my whole
heart.

do you look
at her in awe
is she speckled
with the stars
the way the
blinds make
light, pinstriped,
her lips are candied
her clothes are chiffon
wrappers and her elbows
make you sing to the high, high

heavens.

i miss
your
feet
your
bad
breath
your
sweat
and
your
voice
that
shook
me
from
my
tree

i sometimes wish
we had made love
so that at least you'd
have one redeeming
thing to say about me
but maybe I'm just
that crazy one who
told you she hated
you.  

is that what you tell people?

you left
at sunrise
while I had
my head turned
and disappeared up
the mountains, I went
looking for you in Nepal
even down dark hallways
where I wouldn't normally
spend my dreamstate, I'm
spending my alone time
looking for you, but
you're always leaving
already gone, sharing
yourself in New Mexico.

that acrylic portrait you painted of
me is in the garage because it kept
falling off the wall as your ghost
moved silently through the halls
and unhinged the nails, you stood
in this room and opened the windows
blew the frames down and told me
to forget about you.