I’m losing my grip, slipping-
one tear drop
at a time, looming
over the abyss. I’ve tried so hard to wrap myself
in sunshine, to smother the bad
with material stitched from love and life.
But my blanket is just a fire and fires grow
stronger in the dark. Maybe

that’s why I keep getting burned.

When you experience a negative
emotion, you’re supposed to feel it
completely and accept it so you can let it
go. But when the darkness
comes back, it comes back
all at once, and I’m afraid
it will devour me
whole.

I am not the body tangled in your
sheets when you thread your fingers through
my hair. I am the tickle that sends shivers
down your spine as I whisper your name. I am in
the gasp of air that catches in the back of your throat.
I am not the chest you lay your head on
after a night of fitful passion. I am the
spaces in which our fingers intertwine, our touch
echoing like the soft pop of a roaring
fire. I am the hint
of a smile that plays on
your reminiscing lips.
When you kiss me, I dissolve.

A picture’s worth a thousand painful memories.
Out of sight, gnawing at your mind.
A face no one will ever love.
What doesn’t **** you ***** you up mentally.
Treat others the way you want to be treated,
and still get treated like you’re worthless.
Actions speak too.
Silence is detrimental.

Live for the day that all your dreams come true,
the one that marks the beginning
of the rest of your life.
Live for the nights that capture
the celebrations that will never be forgotten.

Live week-to-week on the paycheck that refuses
to pay the bills while you eat ramen
for the fifth meal in a row and
listen to the neighbors fight.

Live because of the love those decades with her
brought your beautiful family,
and despite her absence,
live the rest of your years knowing
one day you’ll see her sunlit face again.

Live in the months,
live by the hours,
live despite the minutes,
live for the seconds that hold the most precious things,
and above all,
live for the moments.

I fell in love at the age of eight with
the dramatic circus arts and the unusual
appeal of something so weirdly pure.
Some say it was destiny, but whatever captured
my heart that day fastened its unyielding
grip, and lured me back
to my forever home. With glitter
on my eye and the feathers cascading
down my pinned and curled hair, I learned
to soar in sequin-covered spandex. I found
my wings under the big top
in the popcorn-tainted air. Over the years
I have lent my heart to many,
but it will live forever under the circus tent.

26 combinations of arcs and dashes:
the foundation on which
we build meaning,
names created from nothing.
Generous swoops like cradles and pointed lines
that tango in a dangerous duet.

We think:
to not employ such a terribly powerful tool
is to diminish it, but this absence only hurts us more,
leaving the waiting soul as barren as the womb
of the mother-to-never-be.

An intangible monster whose strength
stems from paradox, lighter than
a butterfly’s kiss that crashes
down in volcanic eruption. A bomb
that can never be disarmed.

Standing on a corner in Montpellier, a woman
shows the truth
the world begs to hear. With her
pale face and red lips, she tells
the stories people refuse.
She is not cruel, but she is
too understanding of the world to elicit the
happiness people so desperately want
to believe in. Those
passing by speak freely, unaware
of her observations, newly cast
stars of the next epic tale. Tirelessly
her hands knot, twist, stretch,
trying to cause the world to see reason,
but she acts on
an invisible stage to an uninterested audience.
She is not crazy, but she knows
the lies they would rather bury.
Bound by the silence
of her words, she paints
pictures in the sky of what we all try not to see.