I’m never ***** anymore 
I used to drip onto the floor
Libido was higher, more, my core.

But I suppose, no, it was not.
Because it waned 
Yet 
I remained.
Yet
I miss being effortlessly wet.

I know, I know
It’s in my head. 

But maybe mostly it’s the bed?

Say, what’s different about my bedding?
Is it that I had a wedding?
And now,
Linens my sister gifted my ring and I
Sacrificed
Sprawled beneath some other guy
Another lover

Oh! dear, I’ve blown my cover.
Oh poor dear, my mother.
I'm a disgrace,
A divorce, at my age?

So, is that what stole my soak?

You know, you shouldn't marry a man,
You don't really know.

Is that what dried my dripping *****,

A quick ****,
From a new husband,
Who wouldn't hear no.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Far too simple for my psyche

On the tip of my tongue you burned like hot coffee,
With a hit of my blunt you’ve undone my lofty,
made me a softy,
I wont forget.

Denim jacket leaning down, you’ve got room in your throat,
You’ve got words in your coat,
Pockets full of notes.

Ink on your arms that wrap, wrap around me,
Words pushing on your teeth like braces,
Laces,
Up your shoes that walk all around me,
I won't forget.

Maybe whisper it now or tell me tomorrow.

Denim jacket leaning down, tippy toes to kiss your nose.
You’ve made me a softy,
I won’t forget.

Sweet and simply say it from behind those curtains,
Smoke in your nose from my fire lungs,
Stain my breath with your words,
Blessed syllables,
I won’t forget.

It smells vaguely of pizza
And there’s a little white fuzz floating around in the air,
I’m rewriting memories and helping a friend through a break up.
I’m sitting on my back staircase alone at night with no substance to keep me company,
Remembering a time sitting here with my ex having wine while he smoked a cigarette feeling relative peace and romanticism.
Now I’m contemplating the roughness of the stucco walls and the wrot iron and staircase and window cages,
The exceptionally uncomfortable and bumpy stair steps, all of the tangible visual interest around me,
Maybe falling in love with it,
It doesn’t notice me or maybe

Maybe it does, maybe it feels my weight,
Knows my smell,
Oh my god maybe these walls remember that moment that I’m thinking of!
Maybe they know all of it and they support me,
Maybe the me that was then and the he that was then is sitting here too just below me,
Letting the me that is now observe the sweet, pervasive sickness that we were lying in.

The pizza smell has wafted away and so has the little fuzz,
The wrot iron staircase feels okay against my head,
The angles that I’m looking down on feel unique to me, my frame of vision, is just for me.
He lived here, he bothered me, he smoked on this staircase nearly every night.
But maybe these steps and this material around me knew it was not his,
Maybe he never saw the stairs at this angle, maybe they never showed him their magic or their comfort or their mood or their simple, simple majesty.

Falling in love with a staircase and with the shadows that it kept secret for me.
Divine, it’s all divine.

I have w e i r d anxiety
And I don’t quite k n o w where to put it
I feel off
Like watching a black and white movie when you’re a kid with a theme that’s b e y o n d you and knowing that you don’t quite know what it’s about
A lack of an aboutness with yourself
Much about what I do and where I go and who I see
And triumphantly living this l i f e
As I w a n t
But feeling a l i t t l e far from m y s e l f

I’m writing a bookmaybe I should get back to it

You lied about my sweet weight,
And you lied about my arches,
You lied about your love for the depressions in my skin,
You faked that sincerity
Of course you lied, because how else
Could you make love to my demise?

You lied about your moon and my tides,

But you tread upon on my land,
Cheer as my salt beats my rocks into sand, I never flinched at your hand,
I never quaked at your voice,
But I should’ve,
I would’ve if I had known that you would run my rivers dry,
That you would lick your lips and sigh

You’re sick in that the only thing I hold dear,
You craved to hunt.

You rip into the throat of my wild and reckless stag,
Watch it bleed as it cranes to see by whose hand it falls,  
As it breathes its last breath it catches sight of your thumb,
It knows, but consciously it forgets, because
It is with this abandon that I die for you daily,
And you **** me anyway.

I should’ve quaked at your voice,
Hearkened to the screaming that ripped away my choice,
You never loved my mountains, fountains of lies I threw back and back,
You lied about my ocean that you don’t care to explore,

It was critical and fatal,
You lied about my sweet weight and that I cannot forgive.

Curiousity killed the cat,
What of it?
I am not a cat and neither am I curious,
I think.

I want to know and see, but few things hold my interest.

Lately I crave being craved,
Lately I hate that I love the concave of my stomach when fasting for a smaller waist to contemplate in my mirror before going to work,
Lately I’m waking up moody,
Lately I’m grateful.
Lately I need more sleep,
Lately I’m not quite in the place I used to be,
Lately I think I must be growing or changing because this new sense of knowing is gnawing so softly on my skin it feels like luxury.

I think I must be on the edge of an expansive biosphere of me, complete and untouched, because the vision of her is fading as my ten little prints and their oblong archless counterparts bring me closer to the edge.

Staring boldly, daring no one proving nothing peering down into my canyons.

Just on the edge of this cliff, feeling my wind my edges my rivers holding me up,
And up,
And up,
And down so far below.
Though it’s not down that I will go.
It it through.

And richly on the other side I will emerge.
But for now that is not my concern.

Standing on the edge, arms spread wide, I’m alive.

Quite Grand Indeed.

It's March in California and,
It feels like an early September evening in Virginia,
An owl is cooing,
A nostalgic singsong that reminds me of the woods behind my parents house,
Comfort seekers in my senses inflate,
Disappearing into a heady haze,
Anything to distract myself from the mini self-betrayal I just executed.

I can watch myself as I do it,
Basking in this nostalgia,
The detachment from my pain easing my shoulders,
Making me feel high,
Or maybe it's the serotonin and dopamine,
Coursing around in my body,
Freely,
As it pleases,
Results of.

The owl is howling and my roommate is home,
My phone is silent and I'm blissfully alone,
Detachment, detachment, detachment,
My favorite drug, how I've missed you.

So sickly happy,
So near to trauma,
(my familiar place)
But my perspective saving me from feeling it..

I could be in Virginia in 2008,
My legs a little hairy,
A breeze blowing through my long, long hair,
Innocence teasing me.

Or I could be here, now,
Listening for an owl that has stopped calling.

How delicious. Sweet detachment.

My favorite drug.

Moody blue waves go black with mischief in her moves,
Always flowing,
Spraying secrets untouched into the salt-heavy air above,
A slow smile spreads that far and wide away towards the sun,
Also turning on her tides.
Moonlight illuminating her curves and gestures.

Deceptive and lovely, a woman.
Never to be owned or won. Never to consider not being.
Magnificent. In her alcoves and her storms.
Gestures of night and paradise.

Sometimes I miss the holy grace of ignorance,
Sometimes I miss the comfort that I felt when I read about David and his caves,
About his moody eyes and his harp,
About his *** addiction and his jealous, musical heart that only a god could love,
About the way he loved with abandon, reckless, selfish, taken aback in naivety, balking at those who dared disagreed with his unwavering need to be as he was

David made me ***
David made me feel closer to God and my mother
David told me a story of lust and ****** and protection and angst and a sweet tortured easily patronized self

Maybe in all of this, one day this flawed, beautiful man who murdered a giant and sang to lambs

Would be me

A woman, self possessed, soothing sheep and culling sleep in her victims.
Passion dripping from her honey harp.

David, thank you for the awakening and for the saturated hedonism that you spoke to in me.

Rose petals thick and heavy
Just ready to wrinkle
Strong, firm, delicate
Simple
Feigning delicacy.
Tighter and tighter to their middle
Lips curling back
Pouting open
All eventually revealing the
Veins!
Veins
Veins
Veins on the roses
From the underside spread upward,
Uncurled,
Veins.
Some so proud and broad
Some coy and curtseying
Some wide open, greeting you.
——
Some angling to the light
——
Some fading their color at the tip
——
Some!
Some doubling inward. Two twists inside!
Why? Overcrowding.
Petals wide,
petals too ready, petals broad
And she made herself a lover
——
Some older, wiser
By quicker death wisdom grows
The peaked face within
Afraid
Afraid of what is coming faster for her.
Something her beauty could not slow
An aging ballerina, refusing to retire her slippers
——
Some wider
More careless
Hippies
——
Some like a dance
Such a vulnerable entrance  
Opening up her lips, her arms, her legs,
Spouting out her tiny tongue
Aroused
——
Some so full
Hiding herself in her layers
More of her.

Ancient.
Just a blip.

Trimmed from their bush. Here to die in a vase by my bed.

What was it
About
The soles of my feet
That made your mouth quiver

Maybe
The vulnerability

“He said achingly as he was convinced to stay for an hour longer”

No mirror to keep me company
No reflection to satisfy my lonliness
A dying narcissism
A quiet relief
A tearful goodbye
A quickly deteriorating something of something of myself

Self image vacancy
Mirrorless existence
Me only inside of myself
No me projected into my own brain

Just me, with me, however I am, having no idea how I am.
Age old vanity plane that could reveal all the illness in my head, covered in king sized, pure white, Egyptian cotton sheets

Oh how the body pinchers have fallen

Anxious she finds herself
Though lately less so
Childhood bed
In her childhood home
Thinking childish thoughts in her childhood head
Russian nesting doll

Nesting
Nesting soon to be though not so
Rings and nausea
And please let me sleep
Head in her mother’s lap

Mental illness and lack of routine
Tapping on her glass

The blurry light from the hallway outside the bedroom reflecting on the shiny wooden headboard.
How many many many times has this dappled wood revealed its imperfections in that blurry reflected light?
Put me to sleep with your consistency and resolve

Thank you little light
And mother’s hands that flipped the switch
And eyes that remember
And mini terrors of her adolescents that gave this reflection the right to sweep across her consciousness in swooning waves that feel soothing as they scrape.

In this moment its comfort is quite enough

Sleepless in Seattle on my mind and in my feelings,
Making me feel moody and 90's,
Chunky belts and colorful, dark sweater,
Old airports in family comedies,
Big clunky landline phones,
When Harry Met Sally and I watched it on a plane for the first time last summer.
Baroque in my headphones and 1950's swing playing from the ceiling

Girls talking loud, so important,
Deciding options for their next photo shoot,
sweet and divine making their plans.

And me
Silently observing, enjoying

If I were an overweight man
probably
I would be creepy

But I am a nice package

They're in L.A. for the weekend.
Oh, they've been to London and "her boyfriend is an *******"
She wore the baby blue, "it was my mother's", and it brings out her eyes
Why is he friend's with Madeline?
She's a *****
But we like her. She's very bold.

Plans laid and heading out. Good for them.

And I'm still here.
Ache in my neck,
Baroque in my ears (because I heard it improves learning and slows heart rate),
This anti-poem coming from my fingertips

Alone in this cafe and now the mood has shifted.

Everything feels wrong when you're gone,
Like dusk in a movie about monsters,
Like rust, like too much dust,
Like sad elephants lacking tusks,
Too many eerie feelings for me to foster.
Things are off.

Dressed up with no where to go meets the first time you watch a dystopian film as a child.
That sinking pit in your stomach,
That hopeless apathy,
That dread of a future made of nothingness...

Well anyway, those two feelings fall in love, get married, and give birth to a hideous child that comes to visit me
every time you're away.
Darling. Come back to me.
Keep the terrible child at bay.

I can't listen to music.
I can't eat.

I know you're just sleeping or your phone died.
I know you're out eating or going for a ride.
But. ****.

This monster movie goes on and on
This dusty, rusty dusk won't end
And the elephants lacking tusks?
They moan and bellow and I join them.

Strange to think
How many men have known your body
And I know in my heart of hearts
That none saw you the way I see you
I'm probably a fool
To say this

I felt that you had revealed yourself to me
And me to you
When we woke up in the morning
Sprung out of bed fresh
Clean, new, sweet
And took in each other's forms
With such splendor and delicacy
Wrapping you in my arms
While you wrapped me in yours
And a completeness I'd never known
Blew through me
As your lower belly expanded
Deep, full breaths into mine
Inviting me to release
Womb to womb
Cheeks breathing puffs of air
Beside each other
I've never known a fuller love

A shy 'wow' from your mouth
At the sight of my curves
Holds my heart in suspense

No man has ever seen me the way you did
And many men have seen me well
With eyes that see me only the way they can
But you saw me with a tenderness
Only woman can express
And I believe I saw you the same way

The secret language of women
Who love women
Know that I saw you as only my eyes can
In the caves and forests
In the soft moss of my mind
Near the bubbling creek
In the rivers and sweet leaves of fall
The bending stems of wild flowers
In summer wind
I saw you

He slept and I loved it,
He dreamt and I coveted not,
Having dreamt many dreams,
Spared of sleepless nights,
His sleep was my happiness,
His dreams my requite,

His hands in my hair,
Fingers long and strong,
The air in his lungs,
His chest so wide and proud,
Twice I said to him:
           Look up love it's the stars
Twice he said to me:
           No you are my star

Though I've dreamt and slept to my hearts content,
It's his dreaming, his sleeping,
That murders my weeping,
The gentle close of his eyes and his gracefully wandering mind,
That sends a torrent of peace through my chest.

...They had gone for drinks. Then dancing. Then kissing. Then that night as he lay on her brothers spare couch, too drunk to drive, she kissed him goodnight. He wanted more and she wanted nothing more than to have it.
...
Two days later they were in a sweet little tent of sheets. Two days after that they were there again. And again for a week. She swore the air was foggy, the way his big hands and even bigger arms made her feel was like something out of her deepest longings. They took off each others glasses and looked into each others blurry eyes, her hair was curling in that wet air, her cheeks were red and he was falling quickly down her caverns. He kissed her face until the sun came up and then willed it to go back down. But she had other things to do.

Eugene had schemes and dreams for Davina, he wanted to take her far away and make her happy. He could too and she knew it. Terrified, she ran away swift and quick. She was in such danger of being content with the heart of someone else. He barely saw her go.

The air wasn't wet anymore, her waist was lonely without his fingerprints. But her eyes were dry and strong her thighs.

She burned the cabin down, left him with her lavender lace and took back her blurry eyes.

November:
Stop screaming forever, like I'm some storm you're going to weather, you're the one who's tethered and I'm just trying to get my life together.

February:
Now I'm screaming forever and wearing your words like a ******* sweater, I can read you like a letter and you want me too.

April:
We're screaming like we're deaf, but we're not. I've got the hots. We're flashing the lights like we're blind but somehow we don't mind. I'm a wet mess all the time.

July:
Just touch me and you'll see,
That your fingertips were made for me,
And then you'll drink me up like gin on that famous Eve.
Because I think we're done screaming,
I think you'll start dreaming,
I think we'll forget how to lie,
I think you're my Christmas in July.

I want to smoke something
And I want to be touched
I am tired of moving and doing
I want to lay down and explore
And sway on someone
Who’s body can support mine
I want to share a laugh with a peer
I want to exist in space
With someone
Has my anxiety been high lately? I wonder
I wonder if something is wrong with me
The little scared child comes from behind the screen
Tears brim in her eyes
And she wonders if she did something wrong
“No” I tell her
As I wrap her in my arms
Put on sweet music
And dance around
“You have never done anything wrong in your life”
And everything becomes okay
And I can lay here
Touch my sternum
And breathe

Muérdame
Hazlo, fuertísimo pero
No
Tan
Fuerte

¿Recuerdas que soy que?
Ah, si. Delicada. Una delicia.

Muérdame
Ahora. Hazlo, peor que antes
Por favor... amor?

¡Ooi! Muy doloroso viejo.
¿Sangre?
Sin sangre. Entonces otra vez.
Por favor tesoro. Otra vez.

Y al mismo tiempo
Mi cariño
Toca mis costillas
Suave, suave, suave, sutil.

Otra vez.
Muérdame. Pero con cuidado.

Soy que?

Memorizarme.

Delicada. Una delicia.

Hay amor, muérdame otra vez?

You don't get dark when you fall apart
It's when you're putting it back together, that you see the damage from the bad weather,
Mom I can't come inside my clothes are soaked

I guess it's not so serious in the end,
I'm not made of glass I don't break I bend,
So I'm bent out of shape,
I'll take some yoga,
Get a massage,
Focus on my breathing,

I'll do a bunch of stuff and sort out my kinks.
Give me a high five, promise I won't flinch,

I didn't do this to myself,
But I'm here by myself,
I won't be bitter,
I'll be better,
See:
I burned all the sweaters,
I've moved somewhere with better weather,

So I should be getting lighter and I think I am.
But on Tuesday I cried because of a printer jam.
I wasn't worried about the printer but I was worried about my boss. Would they yell at me? Did I **** up? Am I worthless? Do I deserve this?

My boss is nice don't get me wrong, but I was told for four years that I am what's wrong. I am what's wrong. I am wrong.

So anyway I had to reload the paper,
I missed a therapy session and misplaced the stapler.  

So I didn't do this to myself,
But I am what I am and I'm dark,
Im here by myself not afraid of the dark,
Maybe in the end I win,
Maybe in the dark I'm better,
Maybe my night vision will save me next time,
Maybe my clothes won't be soaked.

Do you ever feel like you're made of paper?
I don't.
I'm made of flesh and bone and rocks and stones.
The flesh and bone I was born with.
The rocks and stones came later,
You know, they came with the haters.

Do you ever feel like you're made of lead?
Heavy and falling and poison and dead?
I don't.
I'm made of blood and water and thread,
The blood and water my birth-right,
The thread to keep me warm, back full of stiches,
You know, from the *******.

I can still feel the pavement beating my feet,
Little bits of earth and water and worms between my toes.
I can feel the warm summer rain on my upper lip,
I can feel my hands splashing in the creek with this little man to be beside me.
I can feel wet hair on my forehead.
I can feel how tall those trees were above us.
Us.
How ******* lovely.
To go through childhood with a partner.
Someone to follow and imitate.
It’s that warm summer rain, our motivated, pounding feet, the slosh of mud and water, the scratch of twigs and sticks, clothes soaked and smiling.
Brotherhood.
Though I am your sister. I like to think that in those times, I was your brother too.
Maybe I showed you a sliver of what it is to have you.
Never in a million years would I give up the sweet sensation of these memories.

I used to write poems
Who knew how to rhyme
Easy words hung out together
Matching pace, keeping time

But now I like my proses
That don’t have to try so hard
I can write each phrase
Quick as it catches ablaze
No rhythm in it’s ways
Just minding its own business
As it swirls across my page

But I guess it’s not the words themselves
That put in the effort
That craft phrases so pristine
You’d think they’d been conceived by Robert Redford
(Oof)

It’s my latent mind
That no longer lives in the land of
Rhyme
Where AABB and ABA
Just aren’t my preoccupation
They don’t rise me to another station
Of talent and prowess
Of being the very best

I just want to write out how I feel
And not worry how it sounds
That is until I go back
And see how emotions lack
In words that don’t capture me
Don’t rapture me
With their romanceless apathy

I forgot that poetry is poetry because it is an art
That a lion is more a lion for his mane than for his heart.
Would a balding lion still best the other beasts?
Perhaps
But if so,
Wouldn’t you know
That a bald lion is a she
The one who hunts and bears new beasts
The one who bleeds and shares her meat
The one who mangles cub thieves
And I’m sure the one who untangles
Knots in the mane of the he

I digress from this feminist lioness
But I like this point of view
That sometimes beauty is better
And sometimes better is use
But I also already knew that
And if you’re still reading, so did you

My point is that though I am
Smarter now
Older
More mature
With thoughts that vibrate higher
And far less victim overtures
My poetry has suffered
And I enjoy it less
And now to create
Swooning phrases capped in rhythm
I must confess
That I labor

In my old way of feeling I found it easier to create
But in my new way of thinking

Ah
There it is.
In my new way of being I think
I choose when to be swayed by an emotion
Rarely being overtaken
But also rarely feeling forsaken
Accepting calmly an occasion where my intentions are mistaken
No matter,
I remain unshaken

There we go
I’ve got it back
A little rhyme
Picking up the slack
And in the evening I’ll have a snack
Some carbs
Some sugar
And the extra poundage won’t give me anxiety attacks
Cellulite on my thigh
Doesn’t make me want to cry
I’m not so lonely
I am content
I am ambitious
I pay my rent
I don’t overeat
Or undereat
I just want to feel sated
I’m not frustrated
I don’t feel hated
And my gratefulness is never belated
I’m happy
I am not manic
An unanswered text won’t send me into a panic
I moisturize
I don’t have bags under my eyes
I don’t compromise
I won’t lie
And when I care I really try
I love my home
And love my skin
I love my bumpy shins
I don’t feel stressed about my age
Or the passing of time
So I suppose I won’t fret
That my words won’t always rhyme

Slowly thinking thoughts
while cooking a late dinner in a
dimly lit kitchen,
A quiet I haven't said hello to
in a long time,
But I suppose she's always been here
Waiting for me to slowly think my thoughts

The table we bought is too big,
My eyes adjust to the dark too quick,
My brassiere is too tight,
My heart is too big.
The week is too long,
The homeless are too lonely and so am I

Empty empty empty I feel bad.

But I kissed her.
No, I kissed her too much.

Empty empty empty I feel bad.

Forgive me, me? Not for kissing her or anything like that. But for...this. Because the table we bought is too big, I burned my bra long ago and the homeless ask for things you can't give.

I hurt the me
That was good to me
By being his,

I betrayed my own sweet heart,
And now she’s run away from me.

Now she hides in the shadows.

And I miss her smile.

I want to steal her light.

Of course she hides from me.

sometime
s

I wish

I

was a fashion designer or someonelikethat maybe living in newyork being botheredbymynicotineaddiction but happy to not have to go stand intherain

wearing bellsleevesonatuesday and feeling n i c e and callingmymotherbefore dinner and having lunch withmybest friend and her dog

and living a life asleep

sometimes

it feels good towishicouldbe someone else and to know that instead i will alway
s

b e  m e

Secret thoughts,
Secret thoughts,
I have about,
Those who I adore,

Secret thoughts,
Secret thoughts,
I have wishing,
They loved me more,

Secret poems I've writ
Secret words scribbled on page slips
Wishing they would love me different than they do
And wanting to tell them the secret words
But then they wouldn't be my secret thoughts
Secret thoughts,

I guess I want everyone to puddle
In a pool of loving goo
Around me
To lay on me with the couch
Wanting nothing more
And nothing less than
The couch of rest
Together

Is this just a place where I go to feel lonely
To write my secret thoughts
Isn't it so much better
To love how they love me
To appreciate how they are able to show their love for me

So what if he doesn't love me how I wish he would
Doesn't want me how I wish he would

I feel sexually attracted to anyone I find attractive
So
I don't understand how
Him not loving me
Not wanting me sexually
Means anything other than that I am unattractive to him
I think this is something I will learn
On my own
And I don't think it's something I will ask

I am sinking deeper into the couch
Knowing I need to go put chicken in the oven
And chop up the zucchini
I thought of texting my ex this morning
To see if he would want to go get a coffee
Check in

I can picture him saying, "stop being weird! Just text me"
But it was early and he was probably sleeping
And if I'd texted him maybe he would have followed up
Later in the day
And tried to rain check
But no
I don't want a standing rain check on coffee
With someone I only want to see on random mornings
When Gotye is stuck in my head

I am dancing much more lately

I am glad the other guy left town
It was too much
He was here for too long

I am being more open
To life
To friends
To opportunity
And also to
Energies around me
They are getting in me and on me
And being big and large
And feeling larger than me
And it's hard to feel so stuck up with other people
To feel so affected
To wake up with thoughts
secret thoughts
of someone else's life

Secret thoughts, secret thoughts
The secret thoughts I have about myself
I don't want them to be secret at all.

Space is deep and dark and blue black. It expands behind us, never ending, never beginning. Stars are sprinkled there in that space, some we engulf as we move our massive star outlined bodies, some become part of us as we move. We are magnificent and huge 3-d outlined beings, we are billions of years old, or maybe we have always been. We are not made of matter for there is no matter, only the blue black ‘space’ dotted with the lights of millions and trillions of stars; some of which make up our massive forms; and our consciousness, our knowing, our silent communication, our utterly immortal existence. We exist there with each other, there is no breath but we breathe each other, there is stillness except for ripples of love and knowing passed between our conscious mind.

We have been here for so long existing, taking millennia upon millennia to gracefully move about in this space, so massive and grandiose, then we wanted to create, or we needed to create. So we began in some way to create life and substance in our ‘souls’. Or maybe we willed souls to exist by our consciousness and from there we made light, maybe it was a black hole or rip in the continuum, but whatever it was, it was necessary and magnificent. From our diaphragm areas flowed blue, sparkling streams of light, shooting, streaming out of me and out of him.

Nearly facing each other square on, our individual streams of light and blue love and diamond brilliant swirls of matter caught each other and began to spin. Just like a wind storm on earth, two winds from opposite directions will create a tornado, a spinning, so did we. We created a soft and new little system, I wouldn’t quite call it a solar system yet, with the planets hardly developed, more like soft, foamy spirals trying to form sphere-like mounds, with suns in the middle still shy of their own little light. Everything so perfectly baby blue and new. Shooting stars soft and content, a milky blue and sparkling atmosphere enveloping airy spheres of new, new matter - we made something our own.

Something different from us existed, there between our bellies we kept it safe; there existed no to threat to it, but we longed to keep it close, watching it spin so comfortably between us. As we watched our little system develop, we too developed, our consciousness grew, we became even more gentle, with tenderness, a graceful antiquity and adoration dripping from our starry forms.

I hated your stiff ankles
Really really really hated them
I loved you
But I hated
Those ankles

Stiff, unmoving.
Like bricks, you said.

I labored for two years
Every time I saw you
And
Them

Cursed ankles.
Stiff and plasticy skin.
Freckles that weren’t freckles.
Burns that weren’t burns

Failure to coax
those muscles into relaxing
Failure to ******
the tendons into lengthening
Failure to ease
that joint into movement

But
I did like how my thumb fit behind
Your ankle bone.

Half the time,
Half the heart it took,
Double the time and hiding beneath the cloth of the breakfast nook,
Lay fast asleep the death of dreams,
That would awaken when,
Her satisfaction,
Was just a fraction,
Her inaction,
Was his redaction and their attraction,
Wasn't gaining traction but rather losing the bet.

Is it selfish to chase your dreams once you've pushed humans out of your seams?

Feed me your visions,
Pour your thoughts into my throat,
Your eyes like mine.
I need. I need. I need, you.
You. You. You. You are my blood.
But with you, I never bleed.

Entrance me, easily,
Hands on my neck, fingers tracing the lines in my spine,
Turning my soul with your palm,
Shifting my dark heart into the light of your gaze.

Dreams my dear,
Demon gone,
Heavy angel wings sending pounding waves through my chest,
Feathers soft,
Tip my chin aloft, with one long finger placed where only it knows where to go.

In this way I am fed.

I appreciate your mouth that is like a plush bow
Thoughtful words shooting from between like an arrow
I love your dove-like qualities
But you’re not like a regular dove
You’re dove who was perhaps a spy
In another time
In another life
You’re a dove who makes you think she’s shy
Until you look her in the eye
And she fluffs up her down
Pounding the air with coy wings
Sending shock waves through your things
Cooing
All the while looking so inviting
A bit naive
With soft, shiny eyes
And just below those fluffy thighs
Are talons that might clutch
You if you’re lucky enough
And the harp song and lightening storm of your mind
I think it’s really really divine
You’re as much vintage Chanel as you are a steaming bowl of organic porridge with honey and fresh berries and a bright green mint leaf on top
You’re the long red hairs on an orangutan’s elbow
And you’re the sweet way
A primate
Holds her babe
To her ******
You’re a late dinner with friends in 10 years
Wooden bowl in hand
Comfort in your hips
Power in your feet
And an expression on your mouth
I feel lucky to imagine
You’re a face I wanna watch age
You’re a place where I can misbehave
You’re a space I sometimes crave
You’re ripples in a pond
And you’re a rave
You’re a song
I’d love to keep humming
For a long
Time
You’re a natural
And you like to pretend you’re not
And I believe that sometimes you really believe that you’re not
But nevertheless you are a natural
And you make me feel like one too
I love few things the way I love being natural with you

The other morning
I hugged my favorite tree
After climbing high up in her branches
And she said to me
After a judgment slipped through my thoughts
That so many of her under branches were dead
I wondered if something was wrong with her
I wondered if something was wrong with me
For loving her so
And she said to me
"Don't love me for the way I make you feel,
Love me because I am a living thing among living things"

I like my hairy legs,
They make me feel like a sunbleached cowboy.
They make me feel like a long, lean man with elegant lines and a strong forehead.
I like it when they’re blonde
And they just glisten on my skin.
Like a faux-protection or a cloak,
A delicate barrier between myself
And the world.

Or really I guess I just like the way it looks:
Textured
But smooth.

It looks wild but soft.

A landscape.

I think the hair compliments
The shape of me very well.

I’m always amazed how the hair grows everywhere,
Even on the back of my knees
There is hair

And I like my boyish pretty toes.

I guess I like the sort of genderless aspect to my legs.

From far away they shout
I AM A WOMAN!

But from near they could be anyone’s: hairy with little scars here and there, hairy toes with some dead skin in the toe nail creases. A sort of chunky pink toe there on the end.

A bit of dry callous on my heels. A strong, curved calf muscle. The hollows at my ankles, the delicate depression behind my ankle bones just before the rigid wrinkles of my Achilles tendon.

I like the bulging veins in the arch of my foot when I point my toes
How they press their purple faces against my see-thru skin
Squeezed by the muscles that bump against one another beneath the hard arched bones above
I like the little bubbles of fat that pad my heels, turning bright yellow when I stand on them
Never-smooth legs that even when freshly shaved still prickle
Like a cactus
“Don’t get too comfortable here” they say
These beautiful legs aren’t for rubbing and lounging though my calves love to be pressured

These legs are made for exploration

What to do with the hum-drum, mundane, been done?

That no longer comforts, rests easy or pauses.

Now only exciting excites
Nothing bites quite as it might
Have when I was up all night
Dancing,
Now it’s poetry and mirrors that
Charm
Me

But thinking of that sweet drunk girl dancing on her toes at midnight with a stranger...
AH!
There it is.

A new mundane for my new old brain to charm when clouds won’t let go their rain.

Haven’t you heard
The howling’s on tap
Even the birds bump
uglies and love a night cap
Uglies? Why uglies
I think I disagree
With that phrase entirely
Some transparent ploy by the religious patriarchy
I guess we don’t bump uglies
But it rolls off the tongue
Either way
Thump and bump
Smush and ****
Hillbillies and heretics and hummingbirds and Haye’s
All have to howl
Then heckle the other
For doing the same  
So please for the love of
Patricia who can’t say ‘*******’ and the Preacher’s daughter down the lane
Lets just agree to oust ****** shame

The blue dust of death
Lingers by your elbows
A skeleton in a t-shirt
Who insists he isn’t hungry
Who insists he doesn’t deserve
The dust used to sit around you in big puffs
Blown in fresh from the latest round of chemo
Now it swirls by your ears
Seeps at your nail beds
Swishes in the wispy little hair you have left
Now we’re doing the natural method
Many methods exist
And we’ve chosen one with good results
From a friend of a friend
She had three lumps in her breast and now they’re all gone
So now we talk to the good dr Valentina
Who answers questions and tells us what to do
And you are awake for all of it
You are not lost in a stupor of narcotics
Lost in the brain slickening wash of chemo
Lost in a stupor of alcohol
Lost in a rise of vivid emotions like rage and shame
Lost in the waves of the Holy Ghost
No, no you are here
In the stillness, in the quiet morning
In the house with your worried wife
Your worried daughters
With yourself
You are awake, conscious
Making these healthy, guided, slow, steady, daily choices
You’re surrendering consciously
And it’s hard
You’re present with your demons
And it’s hard
Maybe you see the blue dust of death
And maybe since your eyes are now clear
Maybe you think it’s new
Maybe you think it’s worsened and not lessened
You know so little, dad
You know about submarines, trains, fear, National Geographic, how to give a cutting death stare, how to starve your body, how to dehydrate, how to laugh off the pain of a friends wife, how to to convert someone to our lord and savior Jesus Christ in a broom closet, how to make a savage dog submit, how to provide for a family for 20 years, how to leave your young children, how to not care, how to brush it off, how to hide your drinking, how to lie, how to inquire, how to shame, how to apologize
Some of these skills are new and I’m grateful for them
And now you are learning how to live, blue dust of death and all

Where do I martyr myself?
I ask
And I come up blank
I listen to my mother talk to a potential marketing team
For her political campaign
Republican
And I find me there
The little martyr
Writing poetry in her Mother’s kitchen
An artistic soul
Poor artistic soul
Being so good
So humble and just
Looking so inward
Daring to challenge herself
Against the backdrop of oppression
Religion
Shame
Republicans
You see my mom doesn’t believe anyone is gay
And I am bisexual
She thinks parents should be involved in children’s education and schooling
And as a child she abused me with her conservative ideals and punishments
And yet
I love her anyway
Here is the martyr
The brave little progressive
Here I am
In this beautiful kitchen
Cooking breakfast from groceries
I didn’t pay for
In a house I don’t pay for
And yet I find myself feeling
Utterly self righteous
In my sensitivity
In my progressive ideals
Even in my forgiveness of her slights against me
Even as the so called forgiven slights stand up and wave their flags readily and say “remember me! remember me!”
Even as my records shout that it’s not safe to forgive
Because you see her personal views make me feel
Uncomfy
The martyr runs wild in the spaces
Where I forget my privilege
I’ve never known my privilege to be so great
As I know it to be now
And my level of privilege has not evolved or dipped or lifted a hair
But I’ve been given the opportunity to be aware
And I do believe I’m brave
But my martyr live on the extremes
My martyr lives in the narrative
Around my choices
In the narratives I fabricate around other peoples beliefs and behaviors and choices
The little martyr lays down and disappears
For now
I’m sure she will reappear and pick up her flag later today or tomorrow
When I try on a pair of pants
And marvel at the way I used to suffer so
Oh, how much I have overcome
To now enjoy my body and not hate every dimple and curve
I see that my martyr thrives not only
In the blindness to my privilege
But also in the agreement to recall suffering
It gets caught somewhere between
A decision to not suffer today
And a decision to always compare todays lack of suffering to the ways I have suffered in the past
Because agreeing to forget the suffering
Takes trust
Much much trust
That in forgetting I will not
Fall back into the familiar arms of suffering and abuse
But I think those days are past
I am brave and smart
And I know a good thing when I see it
No need to hit me over the head
Maybe the martyr dies a little more today
As I sign a new agreement to
Not suffer today and to also detach from past sufferings
With blowing breeze that tickles my back
On this late spring day
When all I need to do is enjoy

I get a feeling in my fingers and my mouth
That tell me to type "hel" into my browser
Chrome remembers the rest and I find myself here
"Title" I leave until the end
"Poem" usually knows what to say

This time I just want to say thank you hello poetry
For being a place where I can put my thoughts
Organized and attractive where I read them over and over
Where I can write new words and not get carpal tunnel
A place to gracefully dump out my feelings

A place to cry with words
Dance with syllables
To romance with the tapping of my fingers on my keyboard
To maybe catch someone's attention
And also maybe to not

Thank you for years of thoughts spelled out
Thank you for a place to read my ex's poems about me
Thank you for a page to write poems about my ex's
Thank you for a community of a few

Thank you to everyone who's ever liked my poems
The "<3" always make me giddy
Just to think that someone read my words
And liked them
Such a delight

I love this place to collect my words

Where to even start, I don’t know
Maybe with your wholeness.
With your completeness.

Sometimes maybe it feels that there is too much,
Such a great muchness in you,
It’s not too much.
It’s exactly as much as you are.
And it’s a blessing and a beauty and a bounty
That you will always overflow and you will never run dry.

Just the shine in your eyes could make the whole sea glimmer.
Just the zeal in your laugh could contest with all the lemons in the world in zest
Just the shimmer of your hair!
It could send rockets to the moon.

The point is
That you,
You,
You,
You,
You are the point.

Loving [you] me now, as [you are] I am,
In each moment that [you] I experience [yourself] myself
is
is like


what a body of water must feel like.

Affecting itself continuously,
Supported unconditionally regardless of matter or variants.

It is strongest, most full, most complete


when together.
In one container.

But even separated,
In different states,
With different influences

It can never cease to be.
Never

Always: it is
always you
are always I am
always.

But I am best when I am purely me,
Being me
Regardless of my conscious awareness that I am.

I am.