Beneath the sallow,
At break of the night
He waits,
The moonlight dusted upon his pale
Fickle
Skin
Periodically, of course
For no longer than a second
Does the mark of silvery light
Linger in one place,
Most of it pushed aside
By the gambolling tears of green
Wept by the weathered
Old
Sallow’s skeleton grown up into the sky.

if you even followed me
with a name I wouldn't know
I would still cherish you so
and somehow you mean the world
Latin Verbs for me and you
Te Amo Angelius Bambi
I figured out the puzzle
and it was love
I still cherish the memories
you and I shared
forever and forever
true love stands
so come and find me
I'm still waiting
arms open and blood bared
I will give everything
for our love to stand

Today I caught myself watching the clock, tirelessly counting
seconds, minutes, and moments; for in that short time it was clear,
I am here.
But how much of me?
The blood coursing through my veins, feeding my flesh,
feels thick and real; but is it just a projection, my perception
of BEING?
Could it be that my outward senses are nothing more than
a coping mechanism, a tether if you will,
meant to keep my mind still and my body grounded?
When released from my dermal prison, will my consciousness escape me,
or will it rise up free with no boundary?

Perhaps we are sturdy and real, something I can feel,
something to grasp.
Or, perchance, we’re merely a cloud of energized matter, buzzing madly
through time and through space.
An imaginary face, nothing more.
Although the latter leaves a bittersweet taste on my fictitious tongue,
now to me it is clear. This isn’t so much a poem about
Clarity,
as it is a poem about questions.
Question.
Because if the cold ceased to bite, and the bee never stung,
would I be someTHING, or would I be someONE?

1.  Inability to throw away possessions


ive never been able to get rid of the bracelet you gave me. my cat broke it the first week i had it, but something about throwing it away wraps my wrist with a sensation of betrayal- like im throwing away your company with it. the string still sits on my nightstand.


2. Severe anxiety when attempting to discard items


even though i’ve never worn them, your jackets and shirts outline my bedroom- curtains that block the clarity of what once was with a dressed up version of you i’ve never been able to tear down.

3. Great difficulty categorizing or organizing possessions


it was when i began to leave my thank you notes beside screws, and love letters near lighters, that i realized i’d forgotten how to feel the differences between them.

4. Indecision about what to keep or where to put things


disregarding the good because of the bad feels like an admission of defeat to a ruler i never knew was in charge. when i pick up the way you held my hand, i dont mean to put down the way you wrapped yours around my neck- but i only have one drawer and its not big enough for the two of them.

5. Distress, such as feeling overwhelmed or embarrassed by possessions


when i offer an apology, it is because the amount of landlords that have evicted me for having too much inside myself is more than i ever learned to count. im afraid that i will never stop living in someone else's home, loving in someone else's heart, before i learn to build my own.

6. Suspicion of other people touching items


each day feels a little lighter- as though someone is removing a stone from a bag i didn’t realize i had been forced to carry. ive yet to understand if this ease is unwelcome.

7. Obsessive thoughts and actions: fear of running out of an item or of needing it in the future; checking the trash for accidentally discarded objects


you’ve not read a book in ten years. your novel still lays on my nightstand.

8. Functional impairments, including loss of living space, social isolation, family or marital discord, financial difficulties, health hazards


i havent been able to bring another person to visit the garden i spent years tending to. when the water stopped coming in, i’d no choice but to begin withering- and i’d rather go peacefully than to be let down again because i trusted you to end the drought.

funny, isn't it?
no one ever really thinks
about what happens
after a school shooting

someone has to wander
down each hall
and tear out stained carpet
darkened and then thrown out

someone has to clean the walls
spray down each brick
with disinfectant
cleansing away what remains

someone has to look through
old lockers
give jackets and folders
to parents

someone has to convince
everyone else
to come back tomorrow
that it's fine now

someone has to stay in bed

someone has to sit alone at lunch

someone has to have a substitute

someone has to reconsider
saying the pledge of allegiance

3 am makes trees grow taller
i've seen it
falling into the edge of morning
it's gentle like the sway of
my buckling knees
under the weight of
four drinks
and the rush of being in love

i know there have been others
maybe there will be more
that i want to stay awake for -

a play ground at dawn
lost key and found lock,
even the same story
begins to feel
new