Softball game recap:**
We went down swinging...
                
unfortunately,

                        only figuratively...

This city makes me miss you.
And I would pretend to be surprised,
but the ceilings in cities are always too high
and my thoughts tend to wander.
(For the record, I am less than impressed
that they found their way back to you.)
Last night, I swear you were waiting for me to fall asleep
to climb into the rafters, and sneak into my dreams.
I woke up feeling haunted and exhausted.

Now you've been following me all day,
and I'm tired of looking over my shoulder.
Kissing him makes me remember the taste of your bitter coffee breath.
His kind eyes contrast the complex hurt yours used to reflect.
His simple, level-headed ways make me recall all
of the circles our troubled words used to spin,
the endless loops we were always trapped within.

My ears keep echoing with the way
you used to chatter nervously in your sleep.
And I can almost still smell your apartment
with the candles struggling to mask damp laundry,
unwashed dishes, the smell of sweat and stale ****.
The heaviness collecting inside of my chest resembles
the weight of your body wrapped around my lap
the last time we spoke and the way my fingers
still found their way to your back.
I wonder if you understood the things my fingertips traced
while our words started cornering us into our familiar place.

                                                      We were circling the drain anyway,
I was just another silly girl who thought she could save someone.

                                 I'm really sorry
                                You should be
I miss you
Good.
                                                         ­                  
                                              ­                                    You always saw through my *******,
                                                       ­                             it scared the hell out of me.
                    
I would have loved you exactly the way you are-unconditionally  
                                           ­                      You were always enough.

                                                       ­                                                                 ­   I love being miserable.
                                                    ­                                            Well, you should probably get used to it.

                                                        
                                                      We were circling the drain anyway...

Our conversations are the world's worst song on repeat
but I felt such smug closure after that night
things finally felt finished or at least mostly complete.
So why now did you feel the need to start the haunting again?
Call off your ******* ghost, B.
I am tired. Its over this time.
This needs to finally end.

I want to rest.

I want to be Earth-
my skin, loose soil,
yellow button dandelions
pushing through
the dirt in my chest,
as puddles fill my outstretched hands
while my hair twists into the roots of trees;
and the wind picks up
to scatters pieces of me
side by side
the dandelion seeds.

Each time my heart cracks
it just opens new spaces
for love to grow back.

To the student who called me a "stupid *****" in period 7 today:
It's okay.
I know you didn't do it because you wanted to hurt me,
but rather you have been hurt earlier
and you were just feeling frustrated.
It's okay.
I understand.
I hope tomorrow is better.

To the student who refused to work at all today:
It's okay.
I know you don't really think this class is "stupid"
but rather you were worried you looked stupid
and you were just feeling insecure.
It's okay.
I understand.
I can help you do it.

To the student who was out of control, obnoxious today:
It's okay.
I know you weren't trying to be disrespectful as the center of attention,
but rather you were really craving attention from an adult
and you were just feeling neglected and ignored.
It's okay.
I understand.
I see, hear, and appreciate you.

To the student who slept through my entire lecture today:
It's okay.
I know you aren't just lazy or refusing to care,
but rather there was no one at home last night to take care of you
and you were just feeling exhausted.
It's okay.
I understand.
I want you to rest.

To all the students who were with me in E18 today:
It's okay.
I know I will never really know exactly what you have been through
but rather I want to help you get through this day
and I am just feeling overwhelmed.
But I promise it's okay.
(With me)
You are understood.
You are safe.
You are important.
You are loved.

I'm in Love
with a man
whose love
for me
it seems
is wired
to a switch.
And
without warning
something
last night
caused it
once again
to flip.

It used to
lead me
to question,
if he gives
a **** at all-
But now
I just
passively wonder
how I go
about getting
one installed.

For solitude
is  less
intimidating,
than insecurity
and fear.
And laying
awake alone
is better
than company
that's
adjacent
but ultimately
insincere.

Even though
I should leave
I will place
my troubled
questions
in boxes
to forget
about tonight.
Endure the
deep breaths
and eye rolls
and stay
if only out
of sheer
stubbornness,
exhaustion,
or maybe
out of
spite.

Potential,
as opposed to the actual,
is just that:
an almost tangible force
of what could be.
Simply capable
of becoming or being-
the expression of possibility.
It goes hand-in-hand
with sometimes soaring
(and often heartbreaking) hope;
shares company
with expectation.
Waiting and wondering
to determine the likelihood
of something to develop.
Potential is promising
but never a promise
and in some cases
it is even a lie.
For there is no disappointment
deeper than having
a front row seat
to stand-by
and watch
potential be
ignored,
defeated,
and
quietly
dissolve
and
die.

I am in love with a boy
I can only really love when he sleeps.
Once he wakes and starts to speak
We run into trouble.

The way he uses spite is appalling and
(quite frankly) impressive.
At the end of the day we are equals of the worst kind-
Weaknesses targeted
and terrorized.
Bent on destruction
of both each other and (most certainly) ourselves.
We pick and choose the rules.
Common decency means nothing.
What is common?
What is decent?

Why can't we just find a way to love each other that makes sense? (I frown)
Why does it have to make sense? (he pries)

But when he sleeps
It always seems rational and reasonable and
even sometimes doable.
Every movement, every whispered word, every muffled thought
dulled by dreams and expressed by snore.

Your breath is never regular.
You are never regular.

You read between
the horizontal lines
And ended up trapped
inside my sweater.

I declare this a lazy Saturday.
We'll drink scotch in our underwear,
share cigarettes and stories on the stoop.
And just once pretend we have
absolutely nothing better to do.
Measuring the hours passed
with the pots of coffee
And the empty cups.
Affectionate insults, used as currency,
Cure  us of our quarter-life ruts.
We'll mix  nonsense
and narcissism,
A cocktail for the unrefined.
We'll talk pop culture and trade white lies
And leave adulthood sulking on the steps outside.

If I could stop
This life's relentless clock
And split my very being;
Then exactly one-half
Would stay right on this path
All the while freeing-

The other part,
With a more curious heart,
And considerably bolder.
It would be content to sit,
Study the curve of your lips,
And rest its head on your shoulder.

Dark hallway,
cold wooden floors.
From opposite sides
of the glass
we both watch
my hips
as they swing
back
        and forth,
back
         and forth,
back
         and forth.

They rock silently
and I can tell you're
counting the exact
number of steps
it will take to move
you closer to me.

And for the fifth
time today
you wonder what
you'd say
if only I invited you
to speak.

And for the third
time today
I'm staring at your lips
and wondering how
they taste.

And for,
what seems like,
the millionth time
today
neither of us move.
What a waste...

Walking hand in hand,
we made the streetlights go out.

Enough
ungraded papers
to make
a coffee table.
Hello, Sunday!

You once told me, over drinks, that
" 'first sight' isn't a thing."
I think at the time we actually agreed but
I guess we didn't think about
what that would ultimately mean because
now we still have to find an answer.

Then, how long does it take to fall in love?

The length of three movies we will never watch all the way through?
The time it takes to make a clever joke,
drink a few glasses of ****** wine,
or finally wash those **** dishes you are never motivated to do?
Long enough to roll my eyes a thousand times,
listen to a Radiohead album,
or battle three rounds of death rattles and the flu?
How about the amount it takes to share 100 cups of the best coffee,
finish a gallon of milk,
or to deliver the evening news?
Or maybe just the mere moments it took
to memorize your eyes and their exact shade of blue?

To determine the specific time length it takes to fall in love,
would be impossible,
and a definitive answer found, I would probably doubt,
but at the very least,
I can tell you that it is a hell of a lot less than
the painstaking time it is taking to fall back out.

Even my
      coloring books
            imply
  where my
             fierce loyalties
                     lie...

You are so tentative and terrified
and we both know beyond a reasonable doubt
exactly how much of it is all my fault.

There is no way to deny
my responsibility this time.

But I am confident and competent
and, at this point, not really giving a ****-
(rock bottom has advantages sometimes.)

I have nothing left to lose
because I have already misplaced you
but I am a master of Hide and Seek
and you are not terribly hard to find.

**I gave you fair warning that I wasn't backing down this time.

This city feels like spinning wheels
carving deeper into the earth
with each revolution.
I'm up to my knees,
now.
I inhale the dust
until my lungs are gravel
and my teeth and tongue
have no memories
except dirt
and the ache
of chewing your name.
I used to like
to hear the wind
and the rain
delivering my morse code messages,
spelling everything out.
I used to trust
the things the storms would say.
When did I develop a fear of gray?

Why do poets insist on dwelling on Love?
What a futile, tragic endeavor, indeed.
The only thing, however,
more futile and truly tragic
is to believe that we ever really had a choice
in the matter.
Poets cannot help but to root around the subtle
and revel in the profound.
And Love seems to be the most natural
and confounding sickness around.
Its the most fundamentally complex
ailment we've found to date.
So continue to unravel
my dear friends
and pinpoint and storm about.
Carry on with the exploration
of the rawness, the disappointment,
the unmatched excitement and roaring self-doubt.
Keep prodding and analyzing
and let me know if you discover a way
to cure oneself of unwanted, unrequited love
and live without.

We find
intoxicating
power in pursuit;
                             While we ignore
                             the approaching
                             weakness of need.

Elbows propped on tabletops,
we roll out our worlds, like a red carpet,
across the surface between us.
Mapping out our weeks
we speak in riddles
only able to be understood by
present company and others with
an acute appreciation for the absurd.

Round 1
We begin by bouncing pleasantries
mingled with snark and
littered with nonsense stories
across the space where our scotch glasses
drain lazily between us.

Round 2
Brings with it a new tone-
we begin to slip into hypotheticals
and start the dangerous
and all too familiar process of
looking over our own shoulders.
The past seems to sneak
into the pauses and reminiscing starts
to seem too surreal to be appealing.

Round 3
And we are forced to keep reluctant company
with the regret that now speckles the tabletop in front of me.
Our eyes retreat from each other
as our  mouths start forming
around our greatest inadequacies.
Fear of the future,
we're petrified by the present.
We are forgetting how to be hesitant
as coping mechanics drift and split.

Round 4
**** starts to get real.
You try to be ambivalent.
And I just get angry.

Round 5
I am entertaining the possibility
of weeping publically.
(It's an unfortunate emotional default setting)

Round 6
We find our way back
to the familiar.
Accessing the damage
we joke to save face
while working to wind the loose ends
back together again
to stash them from where they came.
(But nothing ever fits back into its box as easily after its been unpacked)

Each week we try to be
each other's comfort zone
to crawl inside
to rest awhile.
But tonight we're too exhausted
and too self-absorbed
and too similar to get it right.
We'll try again next week,
on the next high-top next Wednesday night.

Stalemate, double-date;
Go ahead-
Keep tempting fate.
Cross your fingers
That I'll take the bait.
Sideways glance,
check and mate.
Your move, Darling.

I'll sit
And wait.

Some love is patient.
Some love is kind.
But just not always necessarily mine.
My love is urgent.
My love is fierce.
Like a memo not to be ignored;
like weaponry-
When readied can strike and pierce.
Some love does not envy, boast,
and it is never proud.
My love is capable of all of those things
and can be really ******* loud.
Some love is not easily angered
and keeps no record of wrong.
But my love flips **** sometimes and
has a list of grudges a mile long.
Some love does not delight in evil
and instead rejoices with the truth.
Well mine can play some twisted games
and deceives with the ease of impetuous youth.
My love can be difficult, irrational,
and devastatingly insecure,
but if you are fortunate enough to earn it,
it is guaranteed to
always protect,
always trust,
always hope,
And always persevere.

I am a little bit more
than a little bit out of my league.
But whenever I start to panic
you try to reassure me.

What happens when we eventually run out,
of things for us to talk about?

Well then we'll both finally get some sleep.

And when we wake up?

**Then we'll  just talk about our dreams.

Unimpressed by excess,
(gluttony doesn't strike a chord with me)
Contrarily, I forever seek more,
but rather than in quantity, I prefer in degree.  

I demand extremes.

If its hot,
I want it to blaze;
If its difficult,
I want it to incapacitate.
If its confusing,
I want it to dizzy me to the point of vomiting.
I want to shake and storm about,
and overwhelm and be overwhelmed.

I demand extremes.

Words need intent and meaning.
If they are meant to inspire,
they better make me ******* soar.
Biting words should drain the victim,
make them bleed,
instead of simply causing discomfort
or stunning momentarily.

I demand extremes.

Why say it,
when I can scream it?

Why just feel it,
when I can be consumed by it?

I  can't just idly sit by and watch my life
but rather I must fight and struggle and
lash out at it violently.
Days are long and meant to be conquered
and nights are meant to be devoured.

Why be content to just live life
when you can beat the **** out of it instead?

*Just don't be surprised when it returns the favor

You once told me sarsaparilla
was your favorite word.
I always thought it was a novel choice,
but I suppose I see the appeal of a word
with such delicious lightness.
And a crisp, definite end.
The word does not wander or linger,
but it simply concludes.
A final 'a'.
So many syllables for
a moderate number of letters, really.
They do not stumble over each other
but rather bubble softly,
bumping each other softly,
nonthreatening and soft.
As if just to make sure
the others are still there.
Comforted by what they find
they sink back into their place in line.
Sar-sa-pa-ril-a
The lazy sprawl of a word
that understands the importance
of understatement
and subtle complexity.
The silent letters
promising to keep our secrets safe
locked in with a whisper
only a word like this can offer.

You have the only phone
I have ever known
That only works at 3am.

How convenient.

getting day-drunk and
wallowing in self-loathing,
not only
welcomed
but
encouraged
(and more importantly-
                                         expected).

Conversation minefields,
to navigate
with only
the utmost care.
Talk about the weather
and whether
                       or not
"the game" will go the way you want,
the sitcom situation will reach resolution,
the recipe could use some almonds,
or cumin-
                     (or *****).

But avoid the specifics
at all costs.
Just remember:
School is
                "good."
                              Work is
                                             "busy."
                                                         Your husband/wife/bf/gf/partner/cat/landlord is
                                                              ­                                                                 ­                      "great."
                                                        ­
                                                                ­             You are
                                                                ­                "fine."
Just remember:
Today you are not
                                overwhelmed.
Your personal life is definitely not
                                                             in shambles.
Your financial situation is completely in order and not
                                                             ­                                   inadequate or
                                                              ­                                            hopeless or
                                                              ­                                                   causing insurmountable stress.
  Today,
                                                ­                             You are
                                                                ­                "fine."
So
laugh politely,
accept the guilt-trips,
roll your eyes only when they look away.
Know
they mean well.
                            (or at least pretend they do)
Reminisce and
overeat and
don't apologize.
Fight and bicker and debate.
Cheat at cards
(but don't get caught!)
and accept each other's flaws.

No matter what,
just remember what
is ultimately important-
Despite the criticism,
                                    the misunderstanding,
                                               ­                            the generation gaps,
                                                           ­                                                    the dysfunction,
                                                    ­                                                                 ­                      the disappointment,
                                                 ­                                          the unrealistic expectations,
                                                   ­              the heartbreak,
                                    the competition,
             the confusion,    
the pain.    
To have a family (no matter what form)
guarantees
you have a place you belong.
The place can be uncomfortable,
and small,
and unbelievably hard to find
and a nightmare to maintain
but it is yours,
so be grateful.

And revel in the strange and difficult and wonderful love only a family can offer.

I stare steadily
with great interest and
the unrivaled concentration
usually reserved for tasks
such as bravely attempting the
(ever-humbling)
Sunday crossword,
clinging to the fragments
of the dream
desperately trying to escape
with each new moment
you are awake,
and other endeavors that hint at grave importance.

The solutions to my life's predicaments
haven't yet turned up,
but, just in case I could find them here,
I will continue to refill and
search to bottom of this coffee cup.

Ancient History
doesn't seem so far
when you are drunkenly
swaying with it at the bar.
So grab on to that glass,
and hold on to the straw
because this time, darling,
we are not ending in a draw.

You are my most violent Red
and I am your moodiest Gray.
We could paint the kitchen with my gloom,
smear your rage around each and every room
but who really has the time to remodel anyway?

Contentment is admirable,
complacency is dangerous.
Lines be                                                   b
                 t                                               l
                w                  often                     u
                   ee                                              r.
              ­        n                                               .
       ­                                                                 ­   .
                                                               ­         ..
                                                     ­                  .
                                                                     .
                                                               .
                                                 .

Kissing
and clawing.
Is it possible to devour a person with only your fingertips?

we're loving we're fighting we're feasting we're struggling.

We're pushing.
We're scratching the paint from all of the walls.

we're forgetting we're losing we're crumbling.

Confronted by reason,
we fall to pieces.

It's funny.

We were so convinced
instead
we were supposed to pull each other back together
again.

Do you have any idea
how many cars in this city are blue?
More specifically,
that are Hondas?
Even more specifically,
that drive past me
and remind me of you?

We woke up entangled-
just bare limbs
wearing suggestive grins.

Life pushed hard.
You shoved
that **** right back.

Your fire
has always burned brighter.
Be proud of that.