Maybe if it was raining outside,
all of this would make sense.
The heavy drops would hit my window,
in this house that I’m not home in

It would create context, and rationalize
to my mother, to my friends,
who know of it but don’t see it,
who think it’s inside my head.
The funny thing is, it is inside my head
but not in the way they think

I can drink it away –
every sip feeling less,
until I feel it all at once.
drinking’s no good, I know this already.

So what is there to do?
A question left unrequited
like the meaning of life, or
where to go for dinner, or
how long I can keep you around.

I guess, if it was raining this would all make sense.
But there’s not a cloud in the sky.

I like
old-fashioned coke bottles
and the way the glass fogs up,
so I know it’s ice cold.
I like
the smell in the air after it rains
on a mild summer afternoon.
I like
my stomach in knots,
peanut butter ice cream,
driving with no destination,
freshly fallen snow,
the sound of waves crashing in the distance.
I like
back scratches
and goose bumps
and laughing at nothing in particular;
just for the hell of it.
And I think
I like
you.

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.