So beautiful--God himself quailed
at her approach: the long body curved
like the horizon. Why had he made
her so? How would it be, she said,
leaning towards him, if instead of
quarreling over it, we divided it
between us? You can have all the credit
for its invention, if you will leave the ordering
of it to me. He looked into her
eyes and saw far down the bones
of the generations that would navigate
by those great stars, but the pull of it
was too much. Yes, he thought, give me their minds'
tribute, and what they do with their bodies
is not my concern. He put his hand in his side
and drew out the thorn for the letting
of the ordained blood and touched her with
it. Go, he said. They shall come to you for ever
with their desire, and you shall bleed for them in return.

My lover asks me:
"What is the difference between me and the sky?"
The difference, my love,
Is that when you laugh,
I forget about the sky.

to the people who read my poetry
          you know what?
    you probably know me
                      better than some of my friends
        it might be weird
              but my poetry
  is my heart, soul, mind, secrets, life
                          so to the people who read what I write
              hello, i'm me
                                         who do you think i am?
     because i'm mostly
              a young girl, still in school, living at home
and in love with a boy
                    who happens to be
                                       on the other side
      of the world

              it's bittersweet
                           it hurts as well
but he loves me too

Honestly
I can't sleep
Haven't slept for weeks,
Not because of you,
Or maybe,
Not entirely.
Not this time.

See, the problem is,
I'm so stressed out
Over nothing much
Just school.
Which is really just dumb.
What's school anyway?
Why am I stressed over it?

Just because it's such a huge deal to you?
Just because it's how you measure my value to you?
Is that why?

Because I seriously can't sleep
I'm freaked the **** out
I have this giant twisted contorted ball of nervous energy inside me
I don't know how to get rid of it.

It's so rarely I care enough about anything to get this stressed over it.
What is different this year?
Is it just everything all at once?

Our relationship slowly dying while you seem to be oblivious
My depression getting worse instead of better because
I can't measure up!
To you.
All the pressure on me...
Grades.
Depression.
Getting better. (As if it's that easy)
Being "respectful". (As if I know what that includes)

I feel like you don't even like me anymore.
I feel like I've failed so horribly I can never make it right.
I feel like you expect me to be someone I don't know how to be.
I feel like I can never be respectful enough, smart enough, responsible enough for you to like me.
I feel like you aren't there for me.
I feel like you don't understand me and don't want to.
I feel like you expect me to try and understand you, and then everything will be fine.

(As if I don't have needs too. As if I don't matter. As if you are all that matters. As if you really don't care about me, but only yourself and your wants and needs.)

I feel like you have no emotions except for anger and that's why you can't understand me. (Not that you try)
I feel like I can't trust you.
But most of all I feel like I can't tell you any of this.

Because you won't understand.
Because you wont' care.
Because you won't try.
Because you will only see it through your lense and your eyes and not mine.
Because you will say "that's not true" and "you're living a lie" and "you get something stuck in your mind and you hold on to it and don't listen to what I'm saying..."

But you don't listen to me! You don't see me! You don't understand me!

And I know it's selfish of me to want you to understand...
I know it's self-centered of me to not try harder to understand you...
I know I should spend more time trying to fix how I relate to you than I do trying to get you to understand me...
I know the way I only take care of myself drives you crazy...
I know I should be more selfless, more caring, more understanding, more open minded, more respectful...
I know I'm too selfish.
I know I'm a trouble maker.
I know all I do is cause problems.
I know you wish I was someone else.

The thing is,
I wish I was someone else too.

Even though
Everyone else
Except you (of course)
Even my brothers

Tell me all the time
How
Beautiful
Caring
Supportive
Sweet
Thoughtful
Nice
Funny
Lovi­ng
Good friend
Good listener
Good person
Wonderful person
Great writer

I am.

Even my therapists.
Even my teachers.
Even Mom. (though she only means it sometimes)

And the thing I just don't understand.
Is how.
You could think I'm such a terrible person,
When,
Everyone else around me
Thinks the opposite.

I don't know who to believe.
Am I good?
Am I who you say I am?
Am I really a wonderful person?
Because the stuff they say is true.
I do
Care about people.
Help people.
Listen to people.
Love people.
Write well.
Speak to people.
Encourage people.
Support people.

People love me.
Why don't you?

Imagine a butterfly, gracefully letting the wind brush its wings as they reflect the sunshine caressing their gleaming purity,
stroking the empyrean
with their
innocence,
coloring the sky more wonderful than Da Vinci's brush ever could,
as the oceans are revived by the tears squeezed from his heart, tumbling down as the first rays of spring penetrate the hardened hand of winter, releasing its grip at the sight of the butterfly´s pouring eyes.

Now, imagine the butterfly falling from heaven as its throne crumbles in the crispness of dawn, his wings broken by the harsh winds of fall,
his life floating from his cracked lips
as his scorned body
ignites
in the last rays reaching through the hand more clenched than ever, no longer afraid of the butterfly burning in the darkest of nights, his eyes telling stories of the pain of being beaten by time.

Imagine a
butterfly,
dying in the ashes of summer getting swept through the streets by the northern wind.

Imagine a
butterfly on fire, his passion put on ice, never to
ignite
again.

It starts with one.
One day.
One moment.
One time.
One choice.
One mistake.

It continues with too.
Too much.
Too fast.
Too many misunderstandings.
Too undeniable.

It ends with three.
"I Love You."
"I Hate You."
"We Are Over."

It crumbles with four.
Four empty days.
Four sleepless nights.
Four drinks.
Four doses.
Four fights.

It disintegrates with five.
Five weeks.
Five breakdowns.
Five ideas that should be let go of.

It finalizes with one.
One day.
One moment.
One time.
One choice.
One mistake.

The morning exploded in a vast array of color and light
And the screams of geese ******* on the walkway to my apartment
I got a full nights sleep and
Last night I even abstained from quenching my thirst
Yet I still awoke with my senses beating me
Half to death

Summer beats
                                                   down on me
                                                                                         owning the sweat

                                                                                                                                       on my body

                                       the kind of heat

                                                                  you equate to distant memory

                 sweating and swearing as mother

                                                                               attempted to beat the blasphemy

                                                                                                                                            out of me.
How fitting that now,

                                     I should find myself baptized in a lake by the place
                                                                                                                                          where she has wrestled                          

                                                                                                                 a mortgage into a home.

                                            Her hands grabbing at digits

                                 from her master the banker.

                 My hands reach down

sifting through debris,  

brush

and

discarded

cigarette butts

all for a stone to cast into this baptismal bath drawn by mother.

                                                          While the only memory of my father is him teaching me to skip rocks.

                        Smooth

                oval

                                            in the wrist.

                   My record is 7.

                                              A much smaller digit than the ones that concern my mother.


           I see myself in the seven.

Gliding,

                                bouncing,

                                                                 resisting

then








sinking.

So I wonder,

                              from this place
where I peer out of my

tiny

human lens;

How much of my wrists

                                           can make my heart skip.