One moment you're on your way home, driving a car you just bought two weeks ago and the next you're gasping for air, tearing at a safety feature that now seems to have been created to keep you trapped
The dead hands of despair and terror and loss grip your heart and rip it from its home in your chest
You're out of the car and screaming and a man is asking if you're okay while you're wondering the same about the woman in the other car
He's holding your dog and looking at you rightfully wary
Swears spill from your mouth faster than the blood and you didn't even know you were bleeding and everything is panic and pain and hopelessness because **** there goes everything you've been working for for the last six months
All of your dreams were wrapped up in that car and now that car is wrapped around itself
You wrap up around yourself and the rest of the night is a blur
You let everyone take care if it for you, immediately falling back into a pit of old habits you have been clawing your way out of
The car is in your garage now and your college acceptance letter sits in a box, both collecting dust and pity and your avoidance

I'm waiting in line and
There's a dark space ahead
In the other queues, people move on
and come out different
I cannot step in

The girl behind me says
"Miss, it's your turn."
As if I'm simply distracted
and not brimming with fear
I cannot step in

People are moving to other lines
I'm an inconvenience
The cashier smiles
and motions me forward
I cannot step in

I shift my head around,
trying to see what lies within
There's nothing there
It's worse than I expected
I cannot step in

I've been here for years
People whisper about me;
About the girl who won't move
and how she likely never will
I cannot step in

i swear my lips taste like yours and they've never even met
how strange it is to miss something you've never had

i've imagined your touch so many times
i swear
i can feel the feather soft tingle of your hand in mine
and maybe it's not all fabrication and make-believe

i swear we've met before

in a parallel universe, the timing was right from the start
and i'm remembering dew drops in your hair
four months from now
and your smile
three years and a thousand "i love you's" ago

i swear some version of me knows some version of you
and
if distance kills us here
at least i'll know it was never a factor there

i swear i remember you

My heart is full of ghosts of people not yet dead,
loves I never had,
and places I'll never stop calling home.
My heart is the ghost,
walking the same path, day in and day out,
passing through the walls I have long since put up around myself.
My heart calls to me, late at night,
like an abandoned dog tied to a tree,
and begging for home.
It says to me, "I am not a peach pit!
I could still love if you'd let me!"
My heart is naive, so I force-feed it sour memories,
water it in an ocean of tears I've saved
from letting people in and watching them walk away.
I watch, with bittersweet satisfaction, 
as my hound dog heart remembers the pain we've endured;
the way it crumples in on itself in agony.
I say to it, "No, you are not a peach pit, but
neither of us are strong enough to let you be anything less."

The wind blows on a listless night
and I remember the one's left behind
They're calling out to me
from the rustling tree leaves
No louder than a whisper
No softer than a scream

I feel as though I am stuck in the purgatory of my life
It's my own fault, I know
The rain pours and I just wait for someone to show me the light

My bones ache
I'm soaked to my core
The emptiness in my soul is drowning and, still, I wait

Doing anything is becoming more and more difficult by the day
My existence is getting heavier, but lighter
I fear that I will soon spill everything and float away

The harder you try to pull away,
the tighter I squeeze,
and I swear I don't mean to come off too strong,
but a history of abandonment
and fizzling potential
has left me with constrictor instincts

Let this be it
Let this be my time of success
I have spent too many winters
wrapping myself in regret
and disappointment
Let this be the turning point

If you could,
be gentle with my heart
Lumpy scar tissue and
shot gun shells mar the surface
but I promise it has potential
Let this be a time of healing

I beg of you - 
knees buried in a sinkhole
and head bowed 
to gods I don't even believe in -
grant me rebirth
Let this be the beginning

Riding on the back of mass despair,
you have the chance for greatness
and I see you in technicolor

Some days are bad
Some days I don't believe in me
Some days I can't see a happy ending
not in this life
not in this reality
Some days I have to imagine myself
in an alternate world
just to make it through a day in this one

Some days are better
Some days I have faith in me
Some days I can hear laughter miles ahead
this is my life
this is my reality
Some days I do exactly what I should
to create my ideal world
and those days are easier than this one

Some days are easy,
but other days
I'm chasing memories 
of a different me

I am pockmarked with battle scars
invisible to everyone but me
The world has waged a war on me
that I still don't want to fight
Armed with nothing,
prepared by no one,
I have only survived through trickery,
slight of hand,
and stubbornness
Childishly, I consistently cover my eyes,
ignoring the monsters looming in the shadows
"If I can't see Them, They can't see me"
Still, these monsters come
Resisting Them has made me weak
and They only grow stronger,
feeding off me,
leeching out all the color,
and turning my world gray
Soon, we will come to a ******
where I must fight Them head-on
I know I will lose
There is no denying that
My doom crawls ever-near
Now it's just a matter of time

This eternal longing for the soft embrace of Rest grows ever-stronger while my will shrinks by every passing infinite moment
I am suspended in place, held aloft by pure stubbornness and not-entirely-honest hope for a better life come next Spring
And to think of what I might miss if I let myself sleep...
Well, that pain nearly overbears the dull ache of existing at all

So here I will remain forever, one foot caught in a trap I set for myself out of fear on my darkest hour and the other foot just barely toeing the border of a daunting place I hope to never set my eyes upon

And on the days like this 
I think about the moon 
and if she's ever felt amiss
Maybe she's been here, too
Has she ever been oblivious
to her bright nights of full
until the waning turns her listless
and destroys her uncommon mood

and so we mourn again
another queer girl killed
at the red hands of men

a bullet meant for another
and a thousand hearts bleed

an old wound reopened
a pain that never fades

and so we dig a grave
another queer girl killed
time to bury our gays

Find me praying to the trees
Find me talking with the leaves
Find me with my head in the ground
and my feet stuck in the clouds

I'll tell you its easier this way -
to walk along the air's byways
if I keep my eyes shut tight
and shy away from the light

There is a softness to this stagnation
A familiarity
It's true what they say
about finding comfort in this
It is surprisingly easy to sink in still water
The great lake of potential swallows me up
and some days I can barely keep my nose above water
The rest I spend holding my breath

I once said if I could choose how I would die,
I would choose to drown
Sometimes the threat of the great darkness
looms for so long you forget to fear it
Sometimes you grow accustomed
to the taste of your own waterlogged heart
and the shore lies too far ahead for you to see the lighthouse

And sometimes that bright unknown is what you fear most

Three cups of sadness
Another two of anxiety
Then add a dash of restlessness,
a tablespoon of apathy,
and, hey, a couple more
of self-loathing
Now a pinch of salt for
one can't be bitter enough
and bake until there's smoke

My shoes still have dried mud around the soles from that day in the woods
It was one of the happiest days I've had in such a long while
The season is new, I have aged, and life has been reborn
So much has changed in these few, short months
Yet, nothing really has
I'm still sad, they're still gone, and there's still mud on my favorite shoes

Coals burn out in the city of ruin -
all rebar skeleton and ash
and running on fumes

No fire tonight
No spark to coax a flame
The wind set it all ablaze,
but left as soon as it came

Empty gas cans 
and soggy matchsticks
litter an abandoned camp

All that's left to do
is to hit the road
Off to find a new home
and hope it explodes

They look at you like you're the sun
too bright

You give them light and life
but they look at their shadows
and blame you for the darkness
it's always the sun's fault

don't you know you burn too hot on cloudless days?
don't you care how cold it gets when you're away?

well, maybe you never wanted to be the sun
maybe you don't know how to be anything else

People seem to believe that I am a terribly angry person
That I'm never quite satisfied with anything
As if I'm a volcano constantly edging on near eruption
I admit, this isn't entirely untrue
I am filled to the brim with red-hot lava
I am burning with the intensity for a better life
But, what many haven't realized is I'm not all that angry
The world sets me off at times, but it's not the real problem
In the same way that global warming can't be blamed on the sun
There is an anger within me
A rage fueled by my own shortcomings
I can't really rant about myself though, can I?
So, everyone and everything else has become my punching bag

Man comes through my line and strikes up a conversation
Man is 20
30
40
years old 
and shows an interest
"Hey there, darling
little girl
condescending verb"
I swallow against the pit in my stomach
Smile and engage
I am not my own person here
I am an image
An extension of the corporation
Man insults my religion
or hair
or whatever else he decides isn't to his tastes
Then a smile and shrug
"You're too pretty
sweet
female
to decide who you are"
And I smile or laugh,
dig my nails into my skin
hoping to stall whatever is crawling beneath it
I am not myself
I don't have the right to be angry
and I can't afford another complaint from a wounded ego
So I thank him
What else can you do
when both fight and flight will land you homeless and burning
Man smiles
and I imagine what it'd look like ******-ed
It strengthens my waning self control for now
Man asks when I'm free
and I try not to remember the crimes
of other men who took an interest in me
I apologize and tell him I'm seeing someone
Sometimes it's even true
"Must be a lucky guy
owner
chain holder"
Sure
I don't correct him
I know what men like this think of girls who like girls
and they tend to respect what they perceive
as another male's claim
Eventually, it ends
but he still lingers
in the back of my mind,
when it's close to midnight 
and I'm walking through a dark, empty parking lot,
keys clasped in my fist
I am not wearing a name tag
Nobody owns me out here
I am me again
and I dare a ******* to take an interest

The leaves turn green to red
 to brown to dust and my end looms on the horizon
If there is beauty in the changing of the seasons
then there is beauty in death
and I see no beauty in death
Even with the knowledge
that rebirth will come there is no reprieve
The fear settles in like the first snow,
enveloping me in frost and stagnation
My life will turn to pain to numbness
to nothing
as the leaves begin to fall
and my end is in sight

I keep writing 
writing and writing
on scrap notebook paper,
in the margins of my favorite books,
on old receipts for new notebooks
my hand is not yet worthy of
writing in circles
around and around
around the issue
around myself
big wide circles
turning everything i do
into a cyclone of denial
and hand cramps

i. First comes the calm

Hold it in
Keep it close
Never let them see
the clouds and wind and rain
edging in,
past the coast
or else they'll flee
Take your time
to build up strength 
You'll need it in the coming days

ii. Then comes the storm

Racing heart
Sweaty palms
The rain clouds burst
Let it out
Let them see
what you've become
and what they've done,
though you'll likely regret it
come morning sun

iii. The calm always returns again

Look at this mess
You've done it again
See what happens
when you let emotion win?
Grab a mop, a broom
and, maybe, a friend or two
Clean up the mistakes,
hide them away,
and save them for a rainy day

I long for the day when
the forest rooted in my gut
blooms once more;
when it can make something young
and beautiful
of all these dead leaves
Tell me,
when was your last Spring?
My birthday tells me it comes once a year
but nothing has been reborn
in at least ten
It's all rot
and rot may give life,
but only to maggots and
fear and
the shadow horrors that
lurk in abandoned parking lots
No hope grows here

I don't want it like this
When I'm going sixty and you're dragging your feet
I'm in for the ride, brake line cut
and there's only shadows and dreams in the passenger seat
Next time let me know before you tuck and roll

I have found myself on the island
of misfit toys, broken dreams, and lost things.
Not so much as found myself,
but more like I jumped overboard
a sinking ship and reluctantly drifted
to the only place I seemed to fit.
Things are pretty grim here.
The wind whistles with despair and
missed opportunities.
The sun shines very rarely and, when it does,
it's too bright for our fragile eyes
because we're just too used to the darkness.
The shores are quiet lovely though.
They're the divider between our world and the real one.
We can sit and warily observe others living
without having to actually partake.
These times are tinged bittersweet however,
because as much as we would like to deny,
we are envious of how those people move about the world
as if it isn't a place to be feared.
It's not all bad here,
no matter how we might complain.
We make the island what it is.
In return, it lets us simply be.

My shoulders aren't strong enough
to carry all your emotional baggage.
They are weak.
It's been a long journey and
I haven't even crossed the half-way point.
I am not a mule.

My heart does not have enough empty space
to store your repression and sadness.
It is small.
Last year was hard and
A harder one has already begun.
I am not a locker.

My eyes don't have an endless amount
of tears to spare for your sob stories.
They are tired.
These eyelids are heavy, but
They will not close until it's time to rest.
I am not a fountain.

My ears are far too sorely over-sensitive
to suffer through your shouts.
They are in pain.
They've heard enough of mine and
They will endure many more.
I am not  the void.

My mind is simple in a way that won't let it
sift through and solve your issues.
It is strained.
The last few problems have been hard and
The most recent is seemingly unsolvable.
I am not your therapist.

My shoulders are wide
My heart is open
My eyes are gentle
My ears are accepting
My mind is alert

I know I am the easy choice.
I am the easy choice
when you just need someone.
I want to help.
I swear I do.
But I am worn down to my core
and the wind is chilling.

You're in kindergarten
and all the girls have a crush on Charlie
You pretend to like him too,
but can't help staring at Katie
You're eight years old
when your aunt takes your barbies away
after she sees you make the two girls kiss
You're in middle school
and you see your two best friends kiss
It makes uncomfortable
and you don't know why
You're sixteen,
reading seventeen magazine
There's an article about kissing girls
and you read it too many times
You're a Senior
and you're so confused
because you daydream
about kissing the girl with soft hair
You're twenty-one now
and things are much more clear
It's hard to imagine
how it took you so long to figure out

Hey there, lost girl
I know things have been tough
I know life has roughed you up
and I know Peter always taught you
to never grow up, but honey
"Never is an awfully long time."

Besides, you know what else Peter taught?
You can fly!
But you have to believe
and I really need you to believe
So, please, close your eyes,
picture your happiness,
take that leap,
and fly straight on till morning

I can't write honest poetry
Which is not to say that
the ones I've written are lies
(They might be; I wouldn't know)
But I can't seem to find the truth
My truth
I have buried my heart beneath six feet of fear
and my fingernails are caked with dirt
from trying to dig it back up again

Here we stand on the cliffs edge
The precipice of destruction, my hand in yours
and yours in his and his wrapped around his bleeding heart
If you fall, I fall
This is where we learn strength and our true will to live
Not some "we can survive this" *******
"We can make it if we just hold on"
No, I want to live
Not passively coast by until the wound is too infected to fight back
I want to fight back
We will turn our backs on the eve of our eternity,
look the monsters in their face and say *******
Swallow their hatred and let it mutate and boil in our guts,
pulling forth a cry so raw and primordial
our ancestors will wake to lend their spirit
Whisper in our ears secrets of war times
long forgotten by everything except the earth
Hope and peace and treaties do not make for a winning team
unless the cause is for everything to stay same
No one listens to a "soft please" or notices a downcast frown
**** them with kindness was a term created to keep us silent
and passive
and our arrows aimed at our own hearts
Bullies have existed since the beginning of time
and three night rebellions will never win our safety back
but neither will silence
And I've seen a lot more come of riots
than from mumbled prayers to gods who might not exist
and wouldn't care anyway
There's a time for revolution - for fighting back
You have to pick your battles in this world, so I'm picking them all
and I say the time is now
If we fall, we fall,
but we will fall with our knuckles bloodied
and band-aids on our hearts
And if we fall, I'm taking some of them with me

Wild ride girl
Windows down, hands up
fingers splayed
trying to catch the sun rays

Soft Summer girl

tells me to buckle in
that we're going for a spin

Flower petal girl
all wilderness and
thistle bush 
tugging my shirt sleeves

Morning dew girl

knows we're headed for a cliff
but **** if i'm not ready to fall

i dont live anymore
i mean, god, i don't know
i'm alive as far as science is concerned
and don't even get me started on what the gods think
what's living to an immortal anyway?
so, i'm technically alive,
but on anxious 3 ams my symptoms point to husk
and i spend a lot of time on webMD when i can't sleep
rest is for the righteous and living
and there is a sickness in me i fear to name

There is a world in which my mind
Had never fallen blue
And of that world I often find
myself retreating to

In darkest hours this I know:
My life is what I seek
In pools of hope, my shadows grow
And light is at its peak

Grandmother used to tell me tales
Of same-feathered birds seeking each other,
But the crows I know
Prefer the company of sparrows
Blackbirds and Magpies tend to bond
Into yin-yang twins of neutrality
And sharp-toothed Hawks
Run with soothing Owls,
Both aware of Sheep and Wolves.

The thunderous thrumming of sorries

words and worries
racing to and from my most
vital of organs just like we used to
run, as fledgling beasts,
  season after season
from our temporary houses
to the ghosts of rotting homes;
Back when we were alive

bright and breathing,
daring the world, so full
of thorns and hard corners,
to make us heel and obey
  "Go on and try!"
not realizing
even the most ferocious of wildlings
can grow brittle

whittled and world-weary.
Taming is a slow poisoning.
The arsenic of fear and loss
  Like acid in my throat
clogging my arteries and pores
with a feral tenacity we
once owned, making me weak

greasy and gray.

Chester the jester,
My favorite guard!
Stuck in his twenties, but
Twice over the hill,
Recalls peace-time war stories,
While taking his pills.
Tells me all his tall tales  
Up ‘till wife number one
And the other loves that failed.

This is how abuse looks:
Elderly, jovial
Shirt tucked and boots shined,
Rare catches of
Old scratches on new glasses,
Liver spots and laughing lines.

Glassy eyes blinking away  
Dust from antique memories;
Sepia-toned ponderings,
Less like days of summer
More depression-era dust bowl;
The ever-hope for May.

Chester the Jester,
Old of bone
Young of heart,
Keeps the laughter going
To smooth your broken parts.

The faucets in Lisbeth's bathroom leak.
She soaks up the saltwater;
Hard cotton on shea butter skin.

A lens, everyone, no one, Lisbeth
Shines fluorescence on her starving sorrow;
Examines the gnawing.
She wonders how long she can survive on her own flesh.
Does not ask for food, but for advice.
How do the rest of us do it?
Subsist on ****** thumbs and bitten tongues?

Lisbeth, we start within.
There is a black hole growing in my gut,
Born of the desperation and repression I have harbored
Since the day I broke into this world, ****** and ravenous.
The devouring is slow,
But, one day, it will swallow me whole.

They will bury me in the weeds of an abandonded corn field.
And my hunger will slowly eat the world too.
Because I was starved.
Because I was not loved.
Lisbeth, you are hungry.
Let me feed you.
I will love you.

The clouds are reaching for the earth
Longing for embrace
Making the air sweet and dense;
A blanket as we lay

Tomorrow, we will wake to fog
Walk in love
Till the sun brings the mourning
And burns it all away

I learned love like
half truths and white lies;
A shifting labyrinth of deadends and pitfalls.
What I mean is,
in my anxiety-ridden daydreams,
you remind me of the King, babe.
I mean,
I'm sorry for what I can't control.

I learned love like
chasing a rabbit through a nonsense forest
where only questions exist.
What I mean is,
in my best case nightmares,
You live in a timeless place of teatime madness.
I mean,
I'm sorry for what I don't understand.

I learned love like
conditional, contractual rules unveiled by a
crazed chocolateer as honest faults are revealed.
What I mean is,
in my fantasized ever-afters,
you get everything you ever wanted, and I lose.
I mean,
I'm sorry for what I can never be.

I learned love like a riddle
so, I never learned love at all.
What I mean is,
I'm sorry, but I don't know why.

I'm trying this thing
Where I soothe my constrictor instincts,
Don't cling so tight.
But I learned life in extremes.
Only consume in excess
Or not at all.
How do I temper this,
Portion out my love,
When I'm so
*******
Hungry?

I have a tendency toward impulsive sincerity,
followed by an embarrassment I can't quite shake.
Nakedness does not become me;
Shame follows this vulnerability.
An abused dog
hunching and cowering
to hide my insecurity,
odd curves, and pitted angles.

I have lived eons in twenty minutes,
felt the creaking
of my bones growing,
growing,
growing weary,
crumbling to gritty dust
only to be born again.
To live, die, serve
behind this counter.

My love is an abused dog
cowering in my chest.
I guard it like a mother wronged,
pacing with unrest.

The caring hand that feeds
blocks the fist from my sight.
I know the saying I should heed,
but I can’t help this bite.

Somehow, I never learned to compromise with gravity.
I’ve been told I move like a drunken camel
or a newborn giraffe on ice skates.
I say it’s just bad genetics.

I’m from a family of shaking hands,
bullet hole egos,
and wobbly knees,
all of us clumsy with our hearts and each other.

It’s no wonder I trip over my own apologies,
stumble at a pretty smile,
falter at opportunity...
This is apples and trees all over again,
and nobody likes bruised fruit.

I am all bruises.
I fall
-over anything,
-into everything,
-for everyone.

There’s a secret to moving gently
that my ancestors forgot to share.
So, this Irish heart runs
on Romanian magic and beats
to the irregular tune of
mis-matched feet
skipping over sidewalk cracks.

Really, I don’t mind the bruises,
The doors turned windows,
the sound of shattering glass.
I just wish I could stop before I smashed
Grandma’s dusty Chinaware and antique mirrors.

I have an image in my head

As unlikely as that may be

Of a Spike in love with Jelly

Splitting it at the seams



But the Jelly doesn’t mind

As the Spike rusts and chips

There’s always room to be made

And loves the Spike to  bits



I see that image

Even in my dreams

It looks like me and you

And it makes me want to scream

**** Nest Raided, Queen Bees Are Stinging Mad!
1969
******, dark night.
Fire and brimstone.
We will burn our own houses down
If it will stop you from taking them.
Pride will begin it’s mending next year.

RARE CANCER SEEN IN 41 HOMOSEXUALS
1981
12,000 dead by 1985.
Genocide by indifference.
Reagan and Anita will never face justice.
We will never get our brothers back.
No vaccine or cure for decades to come.

‘EQUAL DIGNITY’
2015
Look how far we’ve come…
“You can marry who you want!”
Uncle *** still can’t give blood
To save his dying husband after Pulse -
But at least they can share the hospital bills.

This uniform is grey
on grey on grey,
like the building too.
All walls but the fourth
are glass from the waist up,
so that any who pass this 9 by 6
can play as witness to a living painting:
Modern “Woman”
Monotony – Shipped by [REDACTED]
#D3D3D3, #808080, #262626

Relief comes in seeing
the other painting here
known only from this side of the frame.
Just beyond the asphalt
there is endless green and blue,
and once a day
the setting sun lights this side
in all the colors of my love’s bouquet.