there are so
many people
whose pillows
see less of them
than strangers, I
would like to tell
you that things
will be okay
in the
morning.

There are certain things
I should not feel betrayed
over because the hurt that
I feel originated here as well.
I found out yesterday that I
am the crux of my all my
problems, I am at fault
for the squashed trust
the expectations that
no one could ever
meet, the anger
the went out
inside, it's
just


me.

whenever I get to thinking
about what it is that you really
like, like if bourbon was your
vice then i'd be some simple
syrup, the kind my grandma
makes--with sugar and hot
water, and how you only
use a little, a little goes
a long way.

still got those words runnin'
through my head, you'd be better off
you'd be better off if you were
*you'd be better off if you were by yourself

the only diary entry
on the 4th of february
stating that I am a stupid
girl

up here the wind blows with fists
never felt it this heavy, so heavy
the car tips and I jostle in my seat
sounds like thick palms slamming
against the windows and I look out
towards the mountains where a line
of thin grey cloud settles across the hills.
we are in a valley and the wind hurls
itself down the crests and heaves into
the middle of town with it's fat belly,
rushing in plumes up my skirt and
lifting my hair in tendrils, all tendrils
always tendrils.

it blows me away.

wherever you are
whoever you are
alive and well
just know that
i pray every night
for you when i go
to bed and again
in the morning
when i wake up
so that maybe
you'll be okay
to meet me
sooner

On this side
I mouth words
through steel
hexagons and
hope someone
hears, because
I really am the
parts of a society
that people have
come to hate in
a backwards
country.

Coaster
Wallflower
table doily


me.

i used to think trust appeared
with the right words, it would
b l i n k  out of the universe the
way new stars are born- - -not
and then a l l  at   o    n    c    e .

but you cross into the concept
that trust is built, as with wires
beams and panels, love, faith
and identity---

I trust him to do this, to not
do that, trust that he won't go
there and will come here, but
i've realized that trust has been
misconstrued with worry, with the
innate desire to control any and
all things that pass by me in their
states.

lately, though, trust had been been
a release, a slack line, a whole box
of blackberries, celery and raisins
pink knuckles, deep breaths and
sky blue nails

i have an armful of things I cannot
let go but they slide out one by one
without my knowledge, trust is a
blind thing, not like hope, because
hope is hoping and trust is trusting
with so much more vigor, less of a
spectacle and more of a private
ceremony, a quiet wedding
appropriated in smiles and
the brush of duchess satin
to and fro, to and fro
to and fro.

out in the
pasture I
keep my
wool and
graze in
the tall
grass
discontent
with the paths
that make no
sense, please,
find

me.

I don't want to see
you the same way
chaz wanted to see
me for three years
so we could mutually
brag and brazenly
wave our accomplishments
at one another, I don't know
why I want to see you, maybe
just to hear you talk, watch
your fingers look moist like
they usually did, take notice
of how many times you blink

is this how our love was different?

you weave through the heifers with your arms out,
palms down, barely sweeping your fingers across their
hides as if you were gliding them along grains
of wheat or stalks of tall grass, with careful footsteps
as if only you know the way through the hay and straw
(the way you look at me says that there's a difference)

sometime at one or two am you are out walking among them
again, and they all rise with their burdened bodies, swishing
their tails and swaying from side to side with their engorged
bellies, softly groaning and parting. You are some sort of holy
man, they're smart, they know when to move, you say. But
I think differently, there's something in your body--a gentleness
that emanates softly, a warm light that cuts the denim coats and
steel-toed boots, you're hard but your voice comes out in this
southern sing-song that makes my chest ache, ears red and a
laugh as rare as normal midwest weather.

you don't mind, do you? and you fall into the recliner next to me
It doesn't feel the least bit wrong to sleep next to you, doesn't feel the
least bit right to let you do it because i can feel your heart swelling
through your carhartt, don't like to look at you when you're
leaning into the side door, because the sun does you some sort of
righteous justice, spilling into your irises--streaking through your
lips when you speak as if ending every sentence with I dunno is the gospel itself.


just let me know when you make up your mind
the inconsistency of it all doesn't fall on you, I realize,
once again choking on my own insufferable selfishness
not brave enough to make the right decisions (probably)
convincing myself that things can just work out as if
the most wrinkled material doesn't need an iron, needs some steam
needs more than that's just the way I am, this is just the way
you are, and here I am tortured by the thought of telling you
to shut up, how can you have pricked my heart and
still be
So far
Away

I remember a
hundred nights
in your apple room
beneath ramen kisses

in the empty hallway where
the wood falls in line with my
heels and the sunbeams are warm
across the grain, full-steam into
my toes, that sink beneath the
floorboards and root into
the foundation where
plant muck takes
residence between
my veins, it's chilly
in this house but
most of me is still on
top and the dust bends
lights off the windows
is stained on the wall
and somewhere from
the kitchen the smell
of cider wraps around
my calves.

No one ever told me I was nothing,

but they sure tried to sing it and write it in trees
and the dirt with their sticks and stones and my own bones
and when the words didn't hit home they used  my. body.
and. my. hair.  and wrapped each sinew of my muscle in
knots and buried me beneath sixteen inches of myself
until I could no longer hear my own screams just a
faint whisper of a melody, tell me--how do you
help yourself when you can't even hear
your own pleas?



Nobody ever said I wasn't enough, but their questions
suffused me out, and each action undid a button (or a blouse)
took out these flimsy plaster walls and flooded the gates with
sordid tastes and feelings I never knew I had, broke off parts
of me like grapes and popped me from the stems to put on
plates, and you might even say they ate
me.

in fact there be people saying I'm **** perfect, talkin' about how
there's something different 'bout me and the way I approach things
like they ain't ever seen caution, how I'm the best thing that could have
happened to them but that's all dry corn stalk and maybe it's just my fault for trying--in a completely non-piteous sort of way, maybe I spent
too much time hoping or putting faith in dime slots instead of dimes--

I've come around to notice none of my habits are inherently me, that music is just a page out of a how-to pamphlet on Being Liked and Staying That Way, how to buy boots and hope material possessions make it better, how to search out a crowd and ruin Wednesdays for yourself, the 10-minute sequence on Staring Out Windows on the 25th Brick and how No One Even Looks Attractive after kissing him.

No one ever told me I was nothing, and I never thought I was, because I am not no thing at all or not one bit--A conglomeration of others
certainly does exist, but who are they, who am i, and where do I
come in?

The hummingbirds are mistaken;
they sip water
from her lips.

Ah, Dakota,
did you know I see the
mountains when I say
your name? That when
you touched me I saw
no sparks but the entire
flame?

In may of 2011 after
I started talking to you
again, we watched American
Beauty with Kaitlin at your
house. You were in the
middle
and we encased you
like a trophy, but beneath
that brown throw blanket
you held my hand and
delicately traced the creases
on my palm.

california has a spirit
that makes you want
to sleep with motorcyclists
whose arms are rich browns
the air smells like warm lime
and the palms look like kisses
I could be giving. It's all very cliche,
but california has a spirit and it makes
you want to  sleep with motorcyclists
whose arms
are rich browns
with salt n' pepper hair
they would probably
know how to love you
maybe.

Despite crying I am
relieved that you seem
happy.

i resolve that
my mother is
happy in her
skin and valiantly
fights her own thoughts
to glimpse the person she
might be, were she to
defeat her demons.

everyone hates you if
you're competition, but
I'm not competing any
more, am I?

i wove a flower crown
for you; how could i
forget? i want to tell
everyone how much
i love them for all
the things i cannot
say to you, i'm
still trying to
write you
down.

I
know what to do but I
keep looking back at God with his
umbrella saying, you aren't going anywhere
are you? you won't leave me, right? Because I need you
to be there when I say these things and I don't even know
if
i
will
say
them.

I remember I didn't make
the team in 7th grade so
you gave me a hug, and
it was then that I realized
not everything everyone
says is
true

this is a q u i e t type
of living, I want to get
lost in this sweater or
sink in these shoes,
sometimes I wish
I would drown
in cups of water
or burn up against
the wick of a candle
i've been setting three
alarms to be up before
the sun and it's working
out pretty well but I no
longer find solace in
paints or peace in
lead pencils
the things I
love are made
of rice paper and
dissolve under the
weight of words
and bowls of
honey nut
cheerios
I am at a loss
filled with sighs
filled with sighs
filled with sighs

this society teaches us
that there are easy ways
to forget, all you have to do
is **** a little, blow a little
drink a little, lay there.
but you don't
you don't
you don't
don't.

oh but we are all
divine in that we
have souls, the
way that fills
my mouth
is stupendous
they say that
your fingertips
can feel nano-scale
wrinkles on a smooth
surface, a new level of
sensitivity not previously
recorded and I think that is



beautiful.

i'm trying
so hard to
be someone

All my seams are
popping, all of my
thoughts are poking
out, all the stories I
want to tell are only
pebbles in a jar.

everybody
inside your
head is real

there's a candid
shot of you at the
picnic point beach
when i told you to
turn around and you
smiled as you did with
the water framing your
shoulders.

when you still sneaked out
of your house at midnight
(when sneaking out was still
a thing) and we watched that
Jim Carrey movie until 3 am
when my room was still blue
and I always smelled like vanilla
I told you,
when you hold your hands
like this
over my heart it sort of feels
like maybe you're keeping me
together.

I have anchored my ship
on broken docks and rowdy
children have set fire to my
sails. The water always laps
at my letters, you know
what to do, you know
what to do.

god pulls me
prematurely

in the shower i stare at my fingernails
thinking that soon I will be in the plane
on my way home and the entire day will
have passed and I will never get it back.
The water is warm and I wonder if this is
how I time travel, by merely thinking of
the future. I tell myself I must appreciate
every moment or otherwise not think of
such things, but within seconds I am
hours away from that shower, then
suddenly on a plane, and soon I will be
in my bed wondering if this week even
happened or if i am just dreaming.
traveling. Only
Remembering.

do your hair up all pretty like
for those of us that are sure the world
can see our fly-aways, just fly away
our cuticles aren't healed enough
from nights spent jamming our
hands in between the rough *****
and city junctions, telephone wires
hooked to our skin because we're
just fish to greater demons

but

when you hear your old selves
discuss their polarities and crack
the mirror with spiritual hits it's
best to talk them off the ledge
that faint precipice in the distance
where they linger and stare too
long at the other sides, the other wheres
otherwhys and othertheres
see the green grass in other hells
but you tell them that
there's no place like
the here and
now

the here
and now.

I'll be blunt;

I'm quartering myself
down to the bare minimum
because I see these pretty girls
everywhere and I tell myself
he'd fall for them, easy. I am
having trouble finding what
anyone could possibly see
in me. My countenance is
quicksand, don't struggle.