She was 12 years old
She was really bold
and she never did what she was told
one day she was walking down the street when someone came up to her
now she wasn't alarmed
of course because she was strong
but she wasn't strong enough to stop the man when he grabbed her arm
She screamed and kicked and cried for her mom
but that screaming didn't last very long
because she was thrown in to the trunk
she hit the bottom with a thunk
and that little girl
with curly hair
was never seen again
then right down the road
right at the end
a 3 year old girl walked up to the man
and asked where are you taking my friend?

Living  life wondering, do I matter? Did he actually care? The time the effort the love the patience the stress the heartache the pain. All for you and still nothing. Nothing, nothing at all. Not once but twice and I've been nothing but nice. Lying there broken, like a broken vase waiting patiently to be put back together. But afraid to be broken once again.

If I wrote a poem for
      you
              every time you crossed
                 my mind
I would never be without a
           pen in my hand.

But as it stands
        my mind has stopped

   finding words to  put on
      paper

but my heart knows

how
       I feel

and how
                I think
about
     you

every time I
     take an order
             for a Left-hand
                     Milk-Stout
    at the restaurant
         where I now work

At night, you sit and you make plans
- Houses, cars, babies, insurance
Just so many plans, in case something
Does not work out
You share some with him

He knows about your little problems
The ones you don't talk about
In polite company as you sneak away
Take your little white pills so you
Can keep it a secret for another day

You make so many lists of things
Things needed to build up your dreams
Different lists for every dream
It's exhausting, exacting work
But you sit up through the nights

Do it anyway, asking for his input
You were a little scared the first time
You showed him a list, told him about
Your little habit. He didn't even blink
As he started debating the finer points

His ease, total acceptance, took you aback
No one had done that for you- no one
You always had trouble verbalising how
Much it meant to you but he understood
Not a word from you, but he looked you in the eye

And he understood. It was tough going
There were nights when he could not handle
Some other things- small things- like toilet seats,
Other males in your life, but never your lists
It terrified you some times and you had to leave

You took a long time- maybe, too long- getting
Used to his presence, his little habits as well
But the both of you stuck it out together
Despite your differences. He tolerated things
- Loved the things- others could never stand about you

The plans now included him. Despite your
Competitive behaviour and the slight bits
Of insane and inane that you were, he became
Part of your world. People generally had no
Place there but he became a common fixture

You slowly started to believe

"He was in an accident. We're sorry but nothing could be done.
Could you please come to the hospital
For identification immediately, Miss?"

Your plans broke down and you could only watch
As they tumbled down, down into the sea of endless despair
Your lists were all useless now. All that work that
Included him, useless. You couldn't believe it
- the plans, the lists! Barely a thing could be heard,
Seen over all that wasted paper, all that time

(he said he'd be back in an hour or so
you were supposed to go out for lunch)

Your breath stopped. It nearly stopped and
You could only clutch your head, grip your hair
As you struggled to get a grip on yourself
On your perception of reality. He was gone
You were here. And there was nothing else

You looked up, horrified at all the desks and drawers
You frantically ripped them all out, hunted them all down
Tossed them together in a pile on the floor of your
Living room. All those lists, now just worthless bits of paper
With bits of optimistic, fictional words on them

You hated yourself. You dreaded, loathed, badly wanted to
Hurt yourself. Not the other driver, never anyone else
You hate yourself and you knocked back more than
The prescription said and you lit the entire pile on fire
As you went back to sleep. Tomorrow was another day.
There were things to be done. But before you let yourself
Get lost in sirens, neon lights, the could-bes and the accusations
Present in your nightmares, you took another piece of paper
And noted down, 'Funeral'.

I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.

I just watched a short film
of flowers
in fast motion
and I decided
that flowers try, too,
and that they struggle
and toil
like we all do,
and I like to reconsider
what the holy men
have said,
because maybe
they were wrong
and just saying things
like we all do,
and I like to doubt
the holy books
because they might be wrong
and just saying
old, handed-down garbage
or maybe not,
so I reconsidered the lilies
and found that they do indeed
toil and spin,
and they do dress nicely.

I ask myself if there is a better place
where I can laugh
in the sweetest whisper
and find myself playing tug of war
with distant memories
until they become
a single story.

Under a quiet night I look up
to count my courage
on each flower
of an apple tree
until morning
looks in on me.  
Somehow, I am always left
with my heart
down upon its knees.

I sense that everything dances
within my feelings
warming my thoughts
and just one word
can fill my spirit with you.  
Holding on to your hands
knowing a fire still roars
as a friend of truth.

Laughing inside, I forget about
how rain streamed
like a million rivers
upon all the grasses that used to be.
Pleasure floods through me
like moonlight admires
its own face over the sea.

I ask myself if there is a better place
where I can laugh
in the sweetest whisper,
perhaps change
what I understand to be.
Once again, I find myself  
staring at my heart,
down upon its knees.