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

                        only figuratively...

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.

Although it helps us
            write,
It doesn't make it
             right.

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

How convenient.

You told me black was your favorite color,
and I have always preferred lace, myself,
so I found something to make us both happy.

I knew I would see you today,
and if I leaned over in just the right way
you'd see the quick peek of what's hiding underneath
this light summer dress-the kind that lifts off so easily,
and you would wonder if it was for you.

Did you notice?
It was not an accident, but an invitation.
And something about the way
you placed your fingertips over your lips
to hide the smile slowly spreading across them
tells me that you accept.

Look closely
and find-
sugar and spite
and everything *trite.

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

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.

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'm not
very patient
but to be fair,
you're not very kind.
i think we can agree that
things will even out over time.

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?

Your love
was a
promise
we knew
I couldn't
keep.

Please invent a tool
to measure the volume of
what the heart can hold.

Every day my face
remains intact,
chalk up to victory.

Even in the spring
this city is so cold when
waking up alone.

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?

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

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

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.

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.

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.

These days
I spend
a lot of time
not exactly wanting
to die
but just
to be dead, maybe,
to rest.
There's a difference,
or at least
there used to be.
I am regret.
I am self-defeat.
I think about
thinking
more than I
used to.

I guess Depression will do that to you.

My body hurts.
Aches, actually.
It's constant.
In my head,
dull static
But louder.
Thumping rhymically.
Like, really ******* loud
all the
******* time.
Things are heavy.
My arms
weigh far too much.
My lungs
are concrete.
They pump
stale air.
My spine is sawdust.
My spit is mud.
Didn't my eyes
used to be
more blue?

Depression is an ******* who will do this to you.

My words
used to be sharp
and loud.
Electric and
strange, they
tumbled out
of me,
like machine
gun fire,
a swarm
of bees.
Now I have to
pry them
loose, carefully
like teeth.

Depression is mechanical and it's systematically destroying me.

On  more than one occasion,
you said that I deserved nice things.

But you never really understood
how little things mean to me.

Instead, I believe
I deserve to fill my life with nice people,
but based on your behavior
it doesn't seem like you quite agree.

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

No amount of coffee exists,
to make today
seem okay.

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

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

You,
darling,
are my longest
day
and my shortest
night.

Temperature gauge
above
20
for the first time in months.

But I've played this game before.
What's your angle, ND?

Friday nights are the biggest lies
That I found adulthood has to offer.

We spend all of our week hopeful;
Clawing to catch up just to scoff at her.

Only to find when we arrive,
We're too exhausted to do anything but blow off her.

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'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.

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?

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.

Age isn't important,
if you
(and your pen!)
are alive.

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.

I woke up to see the fog had lifted.
Just another minor inconvenience
Brought to you by March in the Midwest.

The fog last night seemed calculated,
And dangerous
For those of us
Whose moods depend so largely on surroundings.

The fog has always unsettled me;
Dulled senses make me nervous.
The unfamiliar can prompt innovation and adventure,
But in the end, being lost just ******* *****.

Maybe we both
forced out
predictions of love
And lust
and everything in between.
But
it's not that
we ever really
wanted to see each other
as much as
we simply
wanted to know
how much the other
wanted to be seen.

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...

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.