It is the being mad
at others for others
that has gotten me
in trouble so many
times before.

i fondly recall you
as I take steps forward
and sip the new air:
an acquired taste
that I welcome.

lovers have all found their
ways to see the special hues
in your hair, so yes, while
a lot of us may be the same
in many aspects,
love rarely sees
the similarities

If I were viscous,paint in an open bucket
congealed raisin bran in a bowl, sort of like
crystallized honey, grainy, comatose with
sugar
would you still
love me

i don't
k n o w
how to
rely on
anyone
b   u   t
myself.

while
worrying i
would never
wake up without
thinking of you first,
I realized i managed to see past
the thought of you today there's
so much of me  that's new, so much of
me i've never seen, and i've only ever taken the
first step but watch me, watch me take the second
and the third and crescendo far above the heavy thrum
of acoustic guitars,

but
didn't you
love.
that.
about me



anyway?

It's possible that the only thing
he sees are the whites of my feet
flipping like silvery fish bellies
slapping the pavement, a straight
shot across the street, fluorescent
at midnight, no streetlights
are those her arms
pistons, pistons, pistons
I'm a born runner, born never
chaser, this is the way it has
always been

i don't even have to move to do it anymore

I miss the things I never
did, the ferry ride I never
took, the brittle cold that
sunk to the depths of my
toes and the sushi place
down the street from my
house. You can whisper
that I'm doing the same
thing but I miss the leaves
at EDCC and the rain,
quality frozen yogurt
and the front row at
Loews Theater, I miss
the sound of my wheels
privy to the Boeing freeway

You can whisper that I'm feeling
the same way but I miss things I
don't recognize, the drive past
the lighthouse and the neighbor
who had music too loud, the
shy cashier at Fred Meyer
and also their apple
display that was
aesthetically
pleasing.

heads up in
the suburbs
we have the
winning sense
of self control
but get lost in
cups of dark
roast or tall
americanos
with drops
of smoke
and half
n' half

i thought to myself
about how cold my
fingers were and I
tried to think of at
least one person
that I wouldn't
mind holding
hands with
and it's still
you, it's still
you ******.

and if you
have others
you should
be around
them I
guess.

is what I told
him, and my
room seemed
suddenly very
small and I
was aware
that none
of my books
could talk to
me the way
a soft voice
could.

i thought to myself;
to craft a story so beautiful
you must be truly beautiful
and I realized my life is quite beautiful.

i want to be found;
a chest vase full of
forget-me-nots, trying
to be different in all but
my skin and bones that
are no different from the
others

is my body a
god-given right
is my spirit more
beautiful? I would
rather be seen for
my contents than
my container.

I'm still waiting
to turn that proverbial
corner and see you

Sometimes I still get a little
nervous when i see pictures
of you, and i assume there
are still angry bits hidden
out there but i haven't
thought about you in
a while, haven't cried
about you in a while
haven't done much
about you in a while
and you know what?
I think there is a such
thing as getting over
your first love because
I
got
over

you.

She needs something to
be mad about as if the
whole world ain't got
enough in it, she backs
herself up with false standards
the "it's okay to be mad about
a cause." but you don't have to
be mad about things you can't
and will never control, you can
be happy about the changes you
may inflict because anger doesn't
denote passion.

sometimes describing
your face absolves me
of all the things I did
wrong, people see it
on my lips, *ask me,
ask me about Chris

we tirelessly scream
I trusted you at blank
faces, promise we can be
bandages but we'll only
ever be temporary antibiotics.
never promise someone you can
save them because you can't, don't
offer your self as a service to the wounded
because you are wounded too.

While writing about the
observable universe, I begin
to be entirely unable to
conceive how small I am
but how large i am, how
inconceivably large i am

Akimbo in the parking lot
braids swept in a maelstrom
your hands never left tattoos

I sometimes feel as if
this constant state of
unrest, of I do n-not
understand is here
to stay, because I
do n-not under-
stand, but do I
need to?

they all fill their hearts
with others and wonder
why they feel so lost

sometimes
friends don't
really care if
you leave or
not

kids by mgmt on your
summer playlist, I remind
you of two (three?) summers ago, a
season with no year because
it's lost in the chaos of me trying
to hide your hickeys from kaitlin
all the so-called oldies, back when
we first had cars, had no jobs and
listlessly sweated the lyrics to all
the pretty girls by fun.

for new years
in 2011, we
played twister
with your family
with drew, who
suffered intense
migraines and
your parents
back then--
i danced
through
your kitchen
while you were
out, while your
parents were gone
and I watched my
reflection in the
darkened windows
twist through the couches

Two years sobriety
from you

i am troubled by the vast
differences between the
distance linking the
synapses in my brain
and Cotopaxi, compared
to how fast my heart starts
beating when a dodge truck
comes grumbling down Main
and for whatever reason I keep thinking

All   I       could    ever     be
is a bud of honeysuckle tucked
into your jeans, practically suffocating,
(have you seen what happens to leaves?)
when you snap their obcordate bodies
and your oils seep into their pilose little
surfaces--

trying to be as smooth as Tennessee whiskey
but let's face it
let's face what?
let's face that I am not any kind of high
That in the past couple months the only
way I've seen myself is in the brash statements
of others tangled up in their ridiculous ideas
about where happiness comes from which
is about as silly to me as people thinking that
money really does grow on trees

there's this churning in my chest that
feels like i am thick as cream and someone
has stirred me up with honey, i could be
sweet,

i could be sweet.

i would rather be
conscious through
all the pain than
drown myself
in menial
activities

I wanted to
make this
longer but
there is no
pretty way
to ask if
you have
fallen in
love with
someone
else
yet.

Today I wore a dress. It was cold and my skin
pinched up in the wind. I hurt a strange and
angry sort of hurt today. Where my bones
shook and my stomach hurt but with my
sunglasses nobody on I-5 knew the difference
between singing and screaming and I ended up in Seattle
where the roads are confusing and the sky is stretched through
shuttle bus wires and the blinkers never stop, I may have blown a red
light but nobody noticed--especially when I ended up in Ballard. who knew
you could get back to Everett by skipping half the free way and by the time I
ended up back where I started I saw myself leaving hours earlier down the ramp,
decided I couldn't go home because I wasn't ready. I asked the boy at the ticket
counter which movie was the least less full? Sorry, least most full? Which theater
had the least amount of people (to see me cry) and he smiled strangely, but asked
for my ID. For a moment I remembered I wasn't 17, 17 was just that age where
you're allowed, I was so past allowed but here's my ID anyway, it was sticky.
I didn't watch that movie, what even happened? A man sat behind me,
grunting. I tried to cover my phone but my mind was elsewhere in
an anger that did not let me be mad. Instead I could only consider
the situation a hundred times over, consider the words
I could say, should say, would not say,
should not say, the things I should do,
the right
things (whatever they were)
the wrong things. At this point I noticed
the movie was crude, disgusting even. I hadn't even
laughed once. What kind of humor was
this? But again, my mind
was
elsewhere
and Stephanie wanted
to know where I was, where
are you? Where was I? I was at Costco
with mom earlier, how did I get here? I was laying on
my bed when I got that text but here I am now, soaked
in salt, although my bones no longer shake and my stomach
no longer hurts but these blankets know the difference between
screaming and singing, I know the difference. But I'm. Still. Here.
God, God, I don't know what to do or say or be. I don't
know what to do or say or be or say or do.

Wave dimpled, salt crested
riding a dry wind, smells a
bit like cinnamon but I will
not complain, I enjoy things
that remind me of places
I used to call

home

it's understandable
that I have none of
my own memories,
they are all shared,
but I will make new
ones, I will make
new ones.

She
didn't say she was
sorry; in fact she said
she didn't understand what
happened.  After that I impressed
upon you that since she "hurt me" you
should avoid her too--and perhaps some
of that was true. But then again, maybe love
lets others see on their own and if they don't see
then maybe it isn't the
right
time.
right
place
right person

sometimes
the smallest
things can
shoot me
out of the








sky.

I forgot to paint
my toes at your
house so another
six months of polish
would stay with me
reminding me of
home.