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.

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.

It always happens this way.
same time, every year,
when the leaves burn red and descend from their perches.
same feeling, like I could be anyone else
but myself.
I could be you,
you’re getting older in a city you now call home,
and thinking of you happy
makes my stomach turn.
Maybe I’m jealous.
Maybe I’m guilty.
Either way, I can still hear your voice
saying something casually poetic
while our unspoken words made me sick.
I’d like to think that every part of you has left me,
and that it’s been long enough to say we never even touched.
And I still can’t decide who the victim really was,
when you’re out there living,
and I’m only pretending.

My flaws are not pretty.

My imperfections are not endearing,
my vices are not quirky,
and my regrets are not intriguing and elusive.
They’re ugly and unsettling;
better off buried in the catacomb that is my memory.
better off dormant, hibernating through all four seasons.
They destroy and ravage anything
that they can get their hands on.
They spread like wildfire through any self-respect
that might be living inside me.
Burning up every last trace of my dignity
until all that’s left
is a shower of ash and things I wish I could forget.
They don’t add character or substance
and leave me blinded by contempt.
They whisper to me that I don’t deserve to be happy.
And I listen to them.
They’re angry and want revenge.

I’m almost never in the position to
let the curiosity and memories control me
But when I am,
it takes everything I have not to drive by
for my own contentment
just to see.
My tired body has moved on
but my mind is still upstairs and straight-down-the-hall
cutting pictures out of magazines
splicing them together in pages of notebooks
and aching for what I have today.

Things sound different now.
Fire trucks and shouting neighbors
kids playing on front lawns.
I don’t walk out of my back door
to my own personal jungle,
I don’t hold my breath to feel the stillness
and let the hushed air envelop me.
I’m not careless and flying on the seat of my swing set
that my parents tore down while I was away at college.
But I can still step outside and feel the same heat
and I can still feel the same weight on my chest
and the birds go on chirping like before.

When I get home,
no one will ask me, sweetly and genuinely,
“How was work today?”
I won’t tell anyone that it was rough,
I won’t cry into anyone’s chest.
No one will wrap their arms around me
and sing to scare my demons away.
No one will lay beside me,
As I drift off to sleep on the couch.
No one will tell me they love me,
no one will steal kisses on my forehead, long after I’ve started dreaming.
No one will make my house feel like home - and I don’t know if I can build a home without you.

When I get home,
no one will ask me, with alcohol soaked breath,
“Who else are you *******?”
I won’t have to argue,
I won’t shake and cower with fear.
No one will make me feel selfish
and say that I’m a ****** person.
No one will refuse to lay down beside me,
because it’s “all I ever do”.
No one will tell me I’m useless, lazy, and dumb,
no one will steal my free will, and drain every bit of energy from my body.
No one will make my house feel like a jail cell -
and I’ll have to build a new home within myself.