floating smoke in the summer air
drifting along then dissipates.
the pounding in a head,
vessels pulsing and constant movement.
fingers dancing across a keyboard, to
incorporate a checklist of knowings and
to-be-knowns -
the insecurities of new scenery
mile marker after mile marker
and you’re happy, but irresolute.

someone tripped over the cord again,
yanked it out and dragged it away

a moment, and a guarantee
let’s look and see, to be sure there’s something more
than a simple crank of a machine, grown
rusted and unmanageable over years
I’m tracing back,
looking for something
I think I missed it.
these fingers that hold my wrist
and suggest
“please, let me assist”
you know what’s best.

I crawled under the door, with none in hand
sitting in the backseat waiting
I’d wish it all away, if I could
high noon; the world sighs
over the railroad tracks ruined my day.
the little thing whose bones got rearranged
We make up stories to feel safe at night
and the Parisian streets under unbearable heat.

But they won’t let me,
handing out promises I can’t keep
broken heart strings
plucked and snapped
here I am,
still stuck in between.

My catchphrase that can’t be unlearned.
It’s often much worse to be in fear of a mistake,
than be a mistake itself.

I’m filling holes, and no one knows, because
I’ve become quite the actress.
Putting on a show, and no one knows,
It’s my secret to keep.
I’m filling my holes, and
I think I’ve got them all plugged up, but then
I spring another leak.
I should be happy, grateful, better; but I’m weak.
Every one is so proud, except me.
But no one knows, and it’s easier this way.

My new home is quiet.
I can hear a train passing nearby,
reminding me that I’m not alone, with every burst of it’s horn.
I can hear him breathing heavily in the bedroom,
invested in a profound, deep sleep.
I’m envious of his casual flirtation with death, which I cannot achieve.
Sleep, to me, is a child’s mobile – just out of reach.
But when I finally grasp it, it all comes crashing down at once.
I watch as the room fills with light, hour after hour.

I’m damaged goods, baby
Or did you forget?
Loose-leaf paper crumpled and discarded,
Like every poem I couldn’t bring myself to finish.

This girl comes with a lifetime guarantee
of cynicism and constant apologies
and selfish laziness.
For a low price of only commitment and patience,
you can become proudly entangled in my dysfunction and  constant need for reassurance.

You didn’t receive me shiny and brand new
I have mileage, and I’m not afraid to admit
That most of it is self-inflicted.
I have scars that tell stories
and a schema that has been shaped
by 22 years of poor judgment
and never feeling good enough.

And I can’t help but wonder,
what it would be like if I was stable and motivated.
Would you still get frustrated
when I lay in bed until 3 in the afternoon?
Would I be able to accomplish
all of the seemingly simple tasks
that always feel larger-than-life to this pint-sized girl?
Would you love me more?

I’m jaded, baby
and I think sometimes you forget
that when I’m putting on a face
and trying to be less of a disappointment,
I’m still made of fragmented parts
that have been glued back together
one too many times.

There are so many things about myself
that I don’t think I will ever understand -
like the way I let the most trivial things bother me
and give them indefinite permission to send me
spiraling downward
until I become oblivious as to why I felt so
******* petulant in the first place.
And I unknowingly settle into my misery,
because it feels like home.

Or how I’m constantly offering wisdom beyond my years
(or so I’ve been told)
but I can never seem to take my own advice.

And I’ve always found it ironic
that I could sleep an entire day away,
but am met with restlessness and anxiety
when I’m attempting to sleep at night.

I’ve heard it said that no one knows you
the way you know yourself,
but I just can’t agree.
I don’t understand myself at all,
but maybe someone else does.

My soul moves with fidgets and twitches and dreams of back porches.
feels like it’s constantly wasting its time, and smells like the air after summer rain.
My soul has not been patient lately, and went home at noon.
it sounds like a car crash on i-87.
I keep extra socks for my soul.
It can’t get over you, tolerate immaturity, or wait around.
My soul looks for a loophole or justification in everything it sees.
It gets older, impatient, and tired.
My soul remembers simpler times, when learning had a purpose.