Now that I have your voice
on a loop in my memory,
I'm afraid to fall back into
that silence that plagued me
for so long.

It would be too easy to let
it all fall apart, to let the
silence seep back into my life,
to go back to the past
and let it be.

The only problem is the pain.
Upon hearing your voice,
my heart got a little lighter
and I started to smile with no
effort at all.

To be in silence with you,
knowing the magic effect
your voice can have on me
would be almost too much
for me to bear.

"There was something about that boy,"
she said, and I could feel her words
creep into my brain and pull at my heart,
they hit close to home, "he could make
anyone feel special, you know?
It was like his smile had the power
to make or break a person,
and he built me back up,
he put the pieces together
and made me whole again
with just that smile.
I swear it."

Her eyes were far away then,
and I imagined this one boy
taking her hand and making everything okay.
"All I've ever gotten from love is trouble,"
I say, thinking about my latest failed
attempts at living a fairytale with
a boy that had puppy dog eyes
and a wolf's bite, a pearl-white smile
that turned to snake fangs at night.

But this boy she talked about,
--with so much love in her voice,
so much joy behind her eyes,
so many memories in her brain
that I can almost see them,
I am almost a part of them--
everything about him must
have been beautiful


and that's exactly what I want.

Subtle* openness,
crawling out of a closed mind,
feeds new ideas.

Sponge, soak me up
                                                         from the sweetest, crystal clear,
breathing in the fresh, salty, air
inhale                                               exhale
inhale                                               exhale
stopping
               ever so softly
                                                         so pleasantly abrupt,
gazing into the horizon
and slowing down
to take in...                                      inhale
this sweet pause.                             *exhale

I'm sick
and tired
                                                                ­                of patiently waiting
                                                                ­                for you to knock on my door.
I'll leave it open
                                                                ­                just for you.
Knock  Knock

Who's Th-              
                                               ­                                 ...come in.

He was awakened from those lovely fantasies,
But it only held him half alive that night;
A dream of sailing across the seven seas,
Only drowned him in disappointments, he cried.

He tried to separate the moon from the stars,
But he failed only to tell him about this strife.
Mind was vexed by a dream that turned into scars,
Reality wounded him, so he will be asleep again tonight.

You say actions speak louder than words
so why can you not hear my body screaming?
screaming for attention that you might turn your head.
notice me!
my wounds bleed,
drops staining the floor and you still refuse to see,
your little girl is dying, she needs you.
pounding on your door, open up!
notice me!
pounding results in pulsing headaches,
pulsing headaches result in pain.
pain is happiness, but only when self inflicted.
I cant play this game with myself any longer,
I call out for you,
notice me!
time is running out,
my mind paces I feel it might never stop.
Voices growing fainter with every slice of this metal demon.
Soft breezes whisper,
nooooticccee meeeee
the breeze stops,
I can no longer hear the cries from with in the depths of my soul...
**you noticed me

The mirror always wins.
showing images you never wanted to see.
hiding doesnt exist.
the mirror holds nothing back.
violently shoving unwanted graphics into the open pores you once called eyes.
not eyes anymore.
eyes are to see with.
your eyes are brainwashed and turned against you.
burning.
eyes trained to burn through cement.
seeing every ounce of fat you try to hide.
nothing can protect you from yourself.
pound by pound.
ounce by ounce.
your eyes discriminate against you.
deathly,poison, your worst enemy.
*mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fattest of us all?

I feel my heart
pressed in my stomach,
a tiny pebble
wishing to be big.
I count my shins,
apple caught in my throat.

A great wall of
early morning
covers my ears,
ties my hands over my eyes,
                                                           makes my ribs shrug.

The place between your lips,
a wandering perch for
emaciated sounds.
A fingerprint under your nose
shapely and styled,
too purposeful.

I can draw
stories on my thighs
under rusty Wednesdays
and paperbacks.

                                                    ­        A misunderstanding of eyelids,
overly trusting,
a turquoise thunder.
None of my fingers match,
making a path from my heels
to the crease behind your knee.
I’ve forgotten how to make tea.

Tiptoeing over this week
leaving fingerprints of sleep
in every fold of your shirt.
Voices like humming birds,
echo of mint and
train tracks on a hot day.

Respite.
Sounds like its meaning,
feels like a sigh.

Learned a new word.
Cafuné.
To lovingly waltz
fingers through hair,
Portuguese stuck to the back of my hand.
The air smells of limes.

Hiding cherries
every day this month
made my tongue purple.

This is not a poem.
It shouldn’t taste like purpose,
lethargic bubbles rising in a cup.
Drawing peaches and crayons
between the millimetre increments
of your knuckles.

You cocked your head to the side
And parted your lips slightly to show a sly smile

Slowly, you raised your lightweight shirt
To show the words that would be permanently sketched on your body

Forever

Your body is a canvas
and you decorated it like so

It's beautiful.

I am no poet, only poetic
who could never kiss the moon
in the evening twilight;
nor a man with a heart of roses,
to exude the fragrance of his love.

I am no poet, who can pen
profound mysteries about the past,
nor a man of beautiful promises
to be kept safe until the world is dust.

I am no poet, only poetic
who could never touch the souls
of every woman’s dreams;
nor a man with arms of a gladiator,
to protect her forever
from the shadows of her grief.

And as the sun sets in the horizon
from another blemished morning end,
resembles tears of thine eyes;
for my love for you, my majesty,
will never be enthroned
into your kingdom,
like when I am with you,
like I am to you,
my tongue speaks,
I am no poet, only poetic.