the flint
and the
fire, all
together

i'm still thinking about how mama
said hold fast to your happiness
white knuckle the chain and strap
it to your shadow--
how i'm still so reserved, as if joy
were a bird or a butterfly, a flightless
insect trapped between my fingers,
who i've peered at many times through parted thumbs
and blown wolf whistles just to force the gale winds out
of my soul, to gust the incorporeal detritus out of the corners
plunk giant oars into soft green waters, to dive, dive, dive
where the waters rush in, in tremendous gulps
slamming into the walls, curling into the middle--

he'll never find any of my body there, the hips he loves
have never bathed beneath these floral pastures, i am truly
none of this and all of it, nothing but the amalgamate of
sounds, of heartbeats, clicks and murmurs, of sudden silence
of comfort if such a thing were to be seen

if he could see, or hear or dive
he'd know i've never worn happiness
not as an extra limb or a shawl, rarely
as a smile, even he has called those short
slips banker dimples to emphasize my
lack of authenticity

no, it's smaller, wider,
smooth warm stones, the heaviness of rice
the grain of oak, the gentle selah in Psalms
it has never been attached to a body
trapped between fingers or ribs,
has never made an appearance--
i sometimes think I expend it
in movements as if it'd
be found around me in
backscatter, or slowly
shrugged off my shoulders
but
t h a t  i s  n o t  t h e  p o i n t
he worries about my happiness
as if it were precious but if it
were I wouldn't comb it through
his hair or whisper it in secrets
while he slept, brush it over
his skin or tuck it into his
pockets, he does not
u n d e r s t a n d
how much he
means.

gotta stop trying
to win your heart
even though you're

gone.

born runner

born runner

born runner

so strange
to be jealous
so strange

to be honest I am
sorry I ever shared
my soul with those
who never wanted
it in the first place.

let me
be kind
to myself
because
this has
been a
year of
hating
myself.

Because despite
everything love
is resolute.

you burn bridges but
how do you build the
ones out on your own?
I am not going to be
here forever am I?

I will write you
down until there
is nothing left to
write.

Feeling beautiful
without the words
of another is perhaps
the hardest.

but it doesn't last long.

I've pried every finger
from the tail-end of your
shirt, but my eyes are the
only thing left. To be sure,
hands aren't the only thing
that can grip, that can hold on.

How come my dreams
won't let me realize
i'm dreaming?

Your name is scribbled
on the back of everything
every paper, every painting
every picture, inside the tins
and under caps, in books
and posters, why could
you not love me the
way I wanted you
to? why did you
have to become
the very thing
I cannot
stand? why
can't I just
let go of
someone
that did
not care
for me
at
all?

How many times
do you think God
will grant me mercy
on the mistakes that
I have made (and
continue to make)
before he
before he
before
he

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.

maybe I was the
biggest *****, but
you were the biggest


liar.

I will wait for you
will wait for you
wait for you
for you
you

it's been a year
since I saw you
last.

I have lost
you to the
world.

who am i to tell
people where they
should find happiness
because it's never where
I do.

i gave him a key to
more than just
more than just the -
the key, with a little
green stopper, with
his soap in the shower,
the drawer at the bottom
of my dresser, and the bed
because he took it all up and
I didn't mind, so the house
and the key, and his boots
in the corner, morning light
all over his back in iambic
pentameter i'm tracing
I love you down his
spine, where everything
started-- because back
in September when I
asked him to kiss me
I didn't think i'd fall
in, in, i  n, lo--              
  the
key, the one that he
has, with the green
stopper to more than
more than, more than
just the house.

before I was a
thought he did
not want me,so
i do not want

him

Why do you
need so much

proof?

this is the call of the quiet.




a resounding chorus of shhh


he says I'm too quiet
and I want to tell him he is too loud
that the voices in his head don't have to
always come out, he grins and says he
can change that, but i don't want to be
changed,

I want to crack open my chest so he can see
i'm filled with cotton, brambles and dry grass,
that opening up sounds like a hundred trees felling
creaking and wrenching,

that in my bed in the middle of the night, the switched lights
are humming so viciously that I need earplugs, the lower
the music, the more I hear it, he breathes a misstep and
my whole body feels it, that silence speaks louder
than any word I've ever heard, has volumes,
can deafen, can maim

and the bass of an old country song bumps
behind my calves, gushing air in hot bellows
into a floor writhing in white hot strobe
how come, I think, does quiet disturb
the lack of peace, how then, does it
call so much attention but nobody
notices when you leave the room?

hold your fingers to their lips
and plead, the way you do best
gathering their insides and putting
them to the test, have they found
the way to breathe without saying
a thing? can they change that?

here's a theory:
burn a l l of the
bridges, because
you h a v e before
you've always stayed
to take a beating
but light a match
and walk away