In my great tale
my predestined coming-of-age
Innocuous, bittersweet
glad
To have made it this far alive,

I hope my heroine is mostly the same.
I think I am in one of those years
less about changing
More about remembering.

Returning to the belly that didn’t question
Whether it was full or hungry.
a return to self-regulation and boundaries that
quaked ferociously—screams.
That baby—knows how to say no.

I don’t think I’m changing.
I think I’m remembering
things we are untaught
we learn again
and I sadly believe this is a cyclical thing
But today I’m remembering.

My coming-of-age
20 returns to two.
I write my script in a font that fits
and fight the urge to ask my mother’s opinion.

I surely will come of age again.
Around 32
Again at 45
Heaven forbid I should reach 59.
And every year before or after that.
20 returns to two.
Remembering histories in vibrant pink
Futures, navy blue.

I believe in the hand of God
the way, for many years
I believed in myself
which sounds promising to those who think they know me.

but I concede,
I don't believe in god at all.
And those who know me best
often wish that were not the truth.

And I wish I could believe
oh, the poetry I could reap.

Spinning divine lies
falling through time
empty promises and walking fine lines.

I've been asked to apologize so many times.
for my sake they say
but I wouldn't have it that way.

God's way.

my kindness is not a trade
for the life I could have after my dying days

The truth is, I'm twenty
and whether it's today or 80 years from now
I'm ready for my darkest eternal sleep
and even at the pearly gates
if such a place exists
before someone else's god
I will not repent
believing in goodness for my own sake

and if oblivion is the price I pay for turning my cheek
I will laugh and revel
in being right all along.

Those who know me well,
have to concede that goodness isn't
merely a facet of indoctrinated celestial belief
and pray for me
to be accepted anyway
even when I turn m cheek.

I keep waiting to write the poem
that changes everything.
That twists my whole perception of the world
and its perception of me too.

Is it obtuse
to think that I have words worth reading
thoughts worth seeing
printed in ink
and published on page after page?

Is it stupid of me to think
I could quit everything else
love nothing else
and be one of those sad artists
who dies alone in a room
so inspired by my own complexities,
that I don't need a view?

What is that like?
To be so sure
and passionate
that everything else is static
to know
or at least feel
like nothing is more beautiful
or delicate than that art...

To never be abandoned again
or fail
or is it always failure?

And wouldn't I like to fail?
Just for a minute
and take it all back
if the taste is too bitter.

I keep waiting to write the poem that changes everything.
The poem that changes me.
That makes me brave
or better
softer or stronger
I don't care which.

I want to be that fluid, translucent being
whose tears are written into her skin  
whose desires stream out like songs.

But I can't write that poem.
And if I change anything,
the one thing
would change everything
and I am scared to leave this girl
whose skin is so thin
and whose heart is open to bleed out
with nothing
more than a never-used,
sharp pen
if I never write that poem.

Let’s go out and walk along the river
—just you and me
We’ll trade a bloodied rag like we once traded days.
And I will remind you of every I love you
and you will remind me why they amounted to nothing.

Let’s walk after dark
with no one there to see us.
Two bodies and heels clicking like crickets
with secrets that scream like sirens
I HATE YOU FOREVER
—and the next second not...
and no one around to see us.

Dust will settle over our toes
and time won’t shake it free,
Shattered glass, a ****** nose
and my once alabaster sheets.

Walk with me to my funeral.
I swear no one can see,
you can carve your name into my hand
and I won’t even bat an eye.

I will ask you to do the same to my head, my breast,
the nap of my neck.

We’ll walk by the river after dark
and when you walk away
killing me
no one will see.
And you’ll leave the ****** rag at my feet.

And I will whisper,
Again, again, again.

you will not miss me
because I do not intend to go

you will not miss me
because I will stay strong

Somehow.

you will not miss me
because if I have any say
I will never leave

Not until everyone I love is dead
and everyone who loves me
and I don't want to live forever.

but please do not miss me.

Don't cry yourself to sleep
don't wonder what you might have said
don't wish you could have gotten to say goodbye
you won't miss me because I refuse to die

and rip apart hearts
in the ways some ripped apart mine.

And I don't blame you for dying.
What could I have asked of you?
but if I think of the grief
and the pain it's caused me
who didn't love you best
or know you best
if I think of that
I can't die.

You will not miss me.
I couldn't live with myself if you did.

Often I fear the ocean here
between us has dried up to sand
and left us aching, our thoughts unclear—
lonely drifters in an endless land.

Knowing too much to ever leave
...somehow, not enough to stay,
I try and try but never unweave
this tapestry faded to gray.

I have big red scars
that I burned into me,                                        
completely by accident,
but they're the first things that you see.

and people ask me all the time
how I ever got so hurt
and I tell them with shrug
that there was plenty that was worse.

Things that never left a mark.
left me mostly unscathed
and those things that you don't see
are the scars that I forgave.

So they disappeared,
and left my skin so pale and smooth
vulnerable to the things
that would cut into me soon.

I wish that I could show you
all the things that hurt me most
but they dug caves within my head
and they whisper around like ghosts.

So when you meet me
and I let you shake my hand
and you see the purple, splotches
the pain I did withstand

Don't ask about the scars
on the surface that you see
don't ask at all
Smile and leave me be.

I have daydreamed
love-drunk off foreign tongues
and felt that heat off hands which held fast
and unfamiliar.

I have waded in that.
A dizzying, dissimilar daze,
and I have been ashamed
to love a world and want to leave it
all in one kiss. One kiss
that is and wasn't and can't be

but someone roams the wisteria laden halls
and daydreams drunk in periwinkle
and she—is me.

And while I wile away my sleeping days
under golden archways, I think of you
...and you too.

When I think of the drive home
I hardly remember a thing.
Just the time
and the wide open space,
the way my heart ached.

The sky was light that day,
which to me seemed appropriate.
My outsides never matched insides.

See, I remember my insides
a tangle of intestines
a wild thrumming heart that beat
and bruised my insides
my insides
inside
You. Could never let me inside.

Outside we were a fissure.
But me—my insides
soaked in sun, drenched in love,
dry to the bone
and your outsides, I—inside
a steel safe just beneath
the skin

When I think of the drive home,
I hardly remember a thing.

If I ever learn to whisper with the wind
I should hope to never unlearn that.
So, when I tell my secrets
they will fly far away
and belong to the fickle tempest
that calls on clouds.

If I ever learn the language of falling snow
I will sing to the snowflakes
and tell them stories of spring
so perhaps, melting
will not seem so damning.

If I ever learn to capture the freedom
of the dark.
I should hope I let it go.
that I swallow my fear and taste the same
freedom without trapping it.

One day, I dearly hope:
I will experience heat
bitter cold, encasing breeze
impossible, billowing darkness
and light.
and not hold onto them and miss
the songs of the things I have yet to feel.

If I ever learn all the
miraculous, painful– delicate intricacies
of what it means, not to be human
but to be alive. I should hope
I feel everything.

It is 1973, the U.S. Supreme court ruled in favor
of a woman's right to choose.

It is 2000 and my mother chooses me.
I am born with ten fingers and ten toes
and though I remember nothing,
she remembers it all.

It is 2001 and terrorism reeks havoc and death
on the United States
and Americans are reinvigorated
with a new kind of hatred for foreigners and immigrants.

It is 2009 and my parents divorce
and I meet a man
that makes me afraid to live in my own home.
Because he lives there as well.
And though, he never touches me
he talks to me
like I am nothing
and he is the sun
and there a hiccups of time
when I believe him.

Things I was not supposed to worry about.

It is 2014 and I read about Roe v. Wade for the first time
in my 9th grade history textbook,
I thought that my generation
would not have to worry about these things.
That some other brave women had paved the way
toward my right to choose what happened to my body.
Funny
how some of my other peers never had to come to that revelation.
Funny
how we learn in silence.

It is 2015.
I work in a bar, behind the scenes
flipping burgers and cleaning toilets
but everyone still knows my name
and some people still throw their arms around me
and hold on too tight
and touch me in sly inappropriate glimpses

It is 2015,
and I have learned to grin and bear it
and never say a word.
Because there are things a woman puts up with
for the sake of a job.

It is 2015 and in my personal finance class
a teacher projects a chart of a wage gap,
chalks up the hundreds of thousands of dollars
in differential pay
to maternal leave.
And I wonder if he ever smiled through a man
more than three times his age,
with a hand on his ***
without saying a thing.

these are things we were not supposed to worry about

It is 2018 and my mother asks me how I sleep at night
knowing I litter my facebook timeline with
pro-choice propaganda.
How I could think that I might know anything about my own body
and life and needs
because I haven't had children.
Because my thoughts, desires, obligations, and dreams,
my validity as a **** human being
and as a woman
means nothing without bearing a child.

It is 2018 and I have been using a birth control pill
for three months
I put on ten pounds
I am emotional
I hate myself
and I cry constantly
Sometimes my stomach cramps until I throw-up,
but I know that I need to get used to birth control
that one day, and probably soon
I'll need it.

It's 2018, and I've been active for months,
I never miss a pill
I do everything right
my routine is a well-oiled machine
I use other methods as back-up even though it isn't cheap
I've been using a period tracking app for months
and it is never wrong.
But soon I'm five days late for my period
and awake till 3 am believing that my life is over
I'm supposed to go to college in a month,
I'm supposed to be responsible
How could I be so stupid?
How could I be so irresponsible?
My period is seven days late, but it comes while I'm working
and I bleed through my clothes.
I'm a bartender now, so I tie a sweatshirt around my waist
until my mother brings me what I need.
I want to cry out in relief
and I wonder why I suffered in silence,
and might have been punished alone
even though my crimes were aided and abetted.

It is 2019 and 19 states are pushing new
intrusive abortion restrictions and "heartbeat bills"
and women protest in blood red robes and white bonnets
that hide their faces and their person-hoods
that are being degraded
in favor of the person-hood of a pea.

It is 2019, and though it is not the first time,
I feel scared to be a woman.

These are the things we were not supposed to worry about.

Sometimes people ask whether I miss
the way we were
and I'd be lying if I said that at least for a moment
I don't always feel my stomach lurch
at the mention of the life I lost.

that sometimes I imagine the million
things that might have made my life different
better, sweeter,
more full.

But how can I miss the wayward way
proximity only ever made me feel small

how nearness never meant intimacy

So no. I always say
No.

I don't miss us.
I don't miss feeling alone in a room full of people.

I don't miss wondering
why the glimmering image
of the life I should have
the family I should have
the smile I should have
didn't match the broken memories I was making
And I repeat, I do not miss it.
I do not miss the way we were.

I am grateful for the tear
for the pain I felt when you ripped
my heart to pieces.
For the time I spent wishing
I could turn back time
wishing we could stay
the way we were.

And everyday I find solace in that catalyst
that broke my life apart
that broke my family apart
that made me feel like a person in pieces.

That established the life I have today.
My own glimmering image, life, family,
smile.
I do not miss the way we were.

I have only loved you
under a dark sky and a waning moon
and more in the light of day.
Love, I have only loved you.

When the book opened
and your fingers traced whispered words
and you winced.
Believe me, I have only loved you.

Even in the dawn,
in the bitter bite of a broken day
and slamming doors
even when the windows shattered
and the cold numbed my fingers and toes
and froze me in feeling
It was obvious, I have only loved you.

When the distance spread
thick and far
and all of our promises felt like lies
and the truth was difficult to distinguish
Remember, I only loved you.
I have only loved you.
I can only love you.

I am reminded of a blank space
when I painted my heart
white.
Pure and empty.

I am reminded of the way it felt
when the chemicals and my blood
intermixed until the fluid that bled
from paper-cuts and scraped knees
was a rosy pink.
When my insides burned
and I wished
more than anything
that one day I might bleed red again.

But each day when I woke up
I'd lather the slippery blackened *****
in white.
And bleed pink
and anyone who talked to me
would say that my world was so *pretty.

"She bleeds pink," what a rosy life to lead.

And I begged myself to believe them
nod, smile
and buy more paint.

After many years
and blood so soft, it drunk like white wine
I looked to the house I'd built around me.
Walls built of paint cans
labels worn to light scuffs of black.

And looked to the floors where
the paint had splattered
white tears that marked the floor so clearly.

So, I walked the trails I always walked
but this time watched the ground.

roads
painted white
scattered, meekly, with dirt and green and life.

And I realized I had no where to hide.
I packed away my paint brushes
and let in all of the words
that sometimes settled like knives
Embedded deep in flesh
until the white and rosy blood
that left me
pale

began to change
And though my blood
was darker
and thinner
and smelled more strongly of iron
than solvent paint fumes.

I finally stopped painting,
I recycled the cans,
and gave myself new purpose.

I go to bed and try to sleep,
remembering the millions of things
I am trying not to be.
and I know that in some ways
I will certainly fail.

And I will want to go places
that seem out of sorts for me.
There are things I will say
and people I will choose
mistakes I will make
while searching for a muse.

And maybe I will learn
to not revere the lives born in light
but find reality in darkness that found light.

No one knew me
like you did.
Sometimes I'm convinced no one does.
because no one could hurt me
like you did,
you knew exactly how your words
would cut the deepest
(I did too)

No one else had walked around
in my skin
worn my emotions
searched a shattered limbic system
cracked a chest and stared
at my vulnerable, pulsing heart.

But I have seen you too.

And I know how you like to breathe iron
weave severed veins
wade in my blood
and wait for me to betray
the life I strive to live.

No one knows me like that
No one knows just *******
that magical part of me
the part that just trusted
the part that just believed
in goodness

No one knows me,

You wanted to see me
a fire you extinguished
a damp collection of pieces

but no one knows me

No one has seen the pieces reassembled,
systems in sync
emotions filed

I've stopped mopping the floors
stopped hoping I can erase the stain of red
emblazoned in once white grout.

there are still shards of glass
that sometimes ***** an unsuspecting toe

but I have stopped  
God knows I've dedicated enough poetry to you.

so today i don't cry over you
I don't love you
and I don't hate you.

I have learned to live without you

turns out

it wasn't so hard.

So if you're waiting to hear it
I forgive you.


–and stay the **** away.

when I remember you,
despite whatever has happened
despite all that I know,
when I remember you

I don't imagine the hell
you put me through.

I don't imagine the
your breath hit he back of my neck
or the piercing way
I felt your stare cut through me.

I remember us singing, laughing

I remember loving you
needing you
not being able to find fault in you.

When I remember you
I remember leaning on you
I remember feeling like I would never
be able to replace you.

I remember all of the things
and people
All of the love
I would have sacrificed
for you.

When I remember you
my heart bleeds
because I trusted you,
And I was not ready
to make the decision
to let you go.

I was not ready to grieve the love
I spent on you.
And somehow
I'm still not.
Somehow,
I still can't let you go
and my heart still bleeds.

I still grieve.
I hate you, but I love you.
And I am still trying to learn to
live without you.

I allowed my heart to open,
and it swallowed me whole.

I thought that we were two cars
driving too fast in opposite directions.
Destined to drive
in hopeless, helpless circles

I thought that you were going to leave me waiting for you
on the side of the road
But when it all seemed so bleak
And your taillights disappeared from view
And tears like ice dripped down my cheeks
I saw the fading light stall.

A heart changing directions
And you came back.
Two hands holding onto different ways to say "I miss you."

I recognized both.
Welcome back.
and
I love you.

You came back, and I know
I know that we are two cars
And sometimes we will head in different directions
But we will always head back for home

Arms full of
Welcome back
and hearts full of

I love you.

you used to be an ocean,
with deep entrapping billows of sweet syrupy air
Yes, you used to be an ocean.

I can recall days I spent
drunk on the wave of your hand
intoxicated by the ebb and flow of your tide.
Days when my tongue tasted the bite of brine
and begged for more.

To be pulled back to your current.
You used to be an ocean
and I used to be afraid.

So afraid of losing you that I would have gone out
into the distant offing
and Drowned.

Drowned on the constant flux of you.

You used to be an ocean.

I have digested the thought
of what it would mean
To lose you,
Or even just one memory of you.

I have chewed the bone
And ****** the marrow
on the mention of your absence.

And I have thought of how pitiful I would be.

Study the anatomy of me.
Find a tree.
branches reaching high and strong
To show the world how green the earth can be.
Trunk, sturdy and steady, to stand and keep standing.
Find feeling in the roots.

In the memory of us
In those I've held
And those who have held me.

Digest it.
Breathe it in.
Nurture the nuance
and open your eyes.

Do not pity the pained who have loved,
Pity the loveless that live unscathed.

Study the anatomy of me,
Find my heart,
A garden in my chest, each flower from those hearts I've held.

It is a wonder to hold the heart
of someone you have never held.

Where their hands have kneaded
your words.
Dough to soften
wait
And rise.

A poet holds a thousand hearts
or maybe only one

Pen poised, and writing
Whatever words will wield.
Their grip can be so vicious
or perhaps so sweet and soft.

And whatever that grip may be,
they hold hearts,
To tear or twist,
Or tenderly touch.

A poet holds a thousand hearts.
Of those they've never held.

We are waiting to settle the rains.
As we have waited for many
many
years.

we are standing hand in hand.
Holding on
the way people do
when high-waters reach waists

The hand I hold is familiar to my heart.

soft
and sincere
And so like mine.
But quick and without callouses.
not a scar or scratch to see.

we are standing hand in hand
always.
There is no other way.
waiting to settle the rains.

And I know that I would run him away from
any harm.
Protect him
from every curse,
knife,
and word.

But I know that I am not shelter.
I am not the house to cover his head,
or the food to replenish his belly.
I cannot give him all of the things
they are taking away.

I am not shelter.

I am a heart.

I am a trip to the beach on a blistering day,
a drop of water in this desert.
I am a moment's peace in a hurricane,
a floating branch to cling to in this flood.

I am not shelter.

I am a heart.
and he is mine.

I would give myself away
as I so often do.

crack a smile
shed a tear
laugh abrubtly
or sit silent

Always with my heart on my sleeve,
where I have made a spot for it.

I would give myself away.
everytime.
if the person I am yeilding to is you.

And I will not hide anymore.
So that maybe
Maybe
Maybe we will teach each other
the serenity
In loving someone who let's you keep your heart on your sleeve
So they might see it.

So loving,
just loving
might come with less questions

I cannot give you serenity,
but if it meant you might find it
for yourself
I would give myself away.

For you,
I would give myself away.

I begged you to come in
to read me like a book
to feel the touch of my skin
to taste the promises on my lips
and whisper them back to me.

You did.
and more.

You cut me open.
Did everything I asked of you.
Read the pumping blood in heart
like the code of my DNA.
Looked to the blue and red twisting of my veins
traveled those lines to find me
like following a road map to the place
Where you could burrow deep down into my mind. My heart.

And keep that space.

I branded your name there.
The image of you.
Your back.
The outline of your shoulder blades through your t-shirt.
The way you look with your eyes closed.
Like you're trying to shut out the world.

and me.

Wishing I could be a part of it.

Wishing I could take up the space in you that you took in me.

Wishing you counted on me
like I counted your heartbeats as you slept.

That our hearts molded together like I so dearly believe they should.
That those words I wrote on that empty
Lined page

That they were wrong.

He doesn't love me.

I don't know what I did.

I asked you to cut me open.

Now I'm trying not to bleed out.

the world relentlessly confuses
Tragedy with Art.

We commercialize anxiety
and weigh the profit margin after the cost of therapy.

So that we can play again
and repeat.

So that we can feel whole.
Understood.
Real.
On the backbone of another's suffering.

On the bloodied palms of a fist held too tight.

On the dry cheeks of a face ravaged by tears.

We hold onto this pain.
We publicize it.

Push it like crack in the streets.

people mistake our breaks in reality
For redemption.
Corrosive acid.
that you can hold in your hand.

A broken heart still loves
Not in the way a whole or healed heart loves

A broken one spills love
like a bleeding, broken, bird.
A pail that's sprung a leak.

And it loves.
Yes.
it cannot seem to stop...
but like that pail, it loses
Wilts until it drops.

A broken one is
a heart unraveling.
A story unwriting
A life
unwoven and waiting.

To be refilled.
Restitched.
Healed.

Yes, a broken heart does love.

So often,
I find myself whispering
that there is no such thing as time wasted.

That there is a lesson to each loss
justification to the pain.

And I believe that.
I do.

I keep whispering to myself
that the time I spent on you
was not wasted.

Even though,
today it hurts
to remember the way we were
the way I could close my eyes and be blind to you.
I keep whispering to myself that you were not a waste of time.

That no matter how worthless and careless and conniving and disappointing
you turned out to be–
the things I learned from your failures
gave grounds to the time I lost loving you.

yes loving.

I loved you.

I cannot stop hating myself for the things that I told you.
that you are decent.
that you are worth more than you know.
Why do I feel like I owe you some sort of apology for that?
For nothing more than some misplaced belief
that you were better than you turned out to be.

Every time
every ******* time
I remind myself that you taught me something
that despite the pain and the reeling
and the way you punished me for becoming disillusioned to you,
you were not a waste of time
I want to scream.

Because you are a waste of air and space
and any other material thing you might have stolen from someone.

But here I am.
Tagging the seconds you cost me with merit.
because I will not give you my life like the others.
I will not give you anything else.

rewrite my name

In whatever script suits you.
Twist the letters
Distort the consonance
until the whispered sound that turns my head
begins and ends with you.

Scratch your fingernails over my mind–
make it skip like a broken record

drown me in your words.
let them overcome me
I want all that I hear and breathe to be

The sound and smell of you.

rewire my heart
to beat along with the rhythm of yours.

I want the parts of me,
definitively mine,
To melt and mold with yours.

So that I might know you deeply and entirely.

cut me down to the bone
look at the spoiled, sick
pieces of me.

and ask me
what went wrong.

I’ll show you the invisible scars
the footsteps on my heart
the fingerprints on my wrist
the scalding burns that scathed the neurons in my hippocampus.

Slice me open.
navel to nose
and walk away with bloodied hands.

I’ll keep the scars and scratches
and turn my head to the tune of your name.

We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists

and begs that,

if only for a moment,

our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.

A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.

The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.

The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.

We cannot write silence,
but we can try.

to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.

I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.

I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
Or
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
Silence.
The space I have upheld for myself.

I love to hate you
Heart.

I hate to love you too.

I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.

I called the cleaners today.
They come with a guarantee.
Fresh scents
and a clean you can feel.

Three men traipsing through
Screaming rooms full of boxes of
denim and dirt and boots.

Machines that pull away
The salt of sweat and the
dust of wood shavings from the
carpet. And I still don’t forget.

When the first man takes away the box of denim,
I still remember

days that were lined by a blue
that refused to leave.

When the next takes away a box filled with dirt-riddled
boots,
I still remember
the places those boots walked.

Then the last,
who wraps up
that machine
and leaves.
He got fired. I can still remember
everything.

When you kissed me
Everything changed.

I know how that sounds.

But before I existed somewhere else
Swathed in my chrysalis
terrified of what I might be if I ever dared to leave.
To tear down that last protection.

Because no one had ever asked for anything more than my words.

I’m sorry I couldn’t seem to fathom it had been real.
I suppose that’s what happens
when you spend so much time believing
that no one sees you.
Transparency in my chrysalis
that you were breaking through.

Your lips on mine,
Promising
that you could like every part of me.
That you did like every part of me.
And not in spite of who I was, who I am.
But because of who I am.

When you kissed me, everything changed.

I couldn’t hide anymore.
I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t feeling all of the things you were feeling.
I became a kind of vulnerable I had never been before
and somehow
I was not afraid.

I was safe with you.
Your lips,
that whispered all of my favorite words and sang all of my favorite songs
and taught me to tell a new kind of story
one where I could say “we” instead of “me”
without ever worrying that you would leave me standing alone.

Your lips,
A kiss.
and fearlessness.

For once.
Fearlessness.

When you kissed me, everything changed.

I have walked through cities like a cat slinking through streets
quaking bones of ice and blood: bitter wine spilling over the pavement.
Streets that reimagine paradise with the twist of a singing blade.
Paws to upturned earth, searching prices to be paid.

I have walked through cities towing along a golden thread
linking city to city and idea to truth. Love to love.
Thread, like a promise. Thread, bright and unbound.
But bound to bound and bear what may
A fracture in my heart to say
I have walked through cities by this line
Through memorials thick and music undefined
And by and by I have learned to speak so soft
A child’s collar where our words all fly aloft
I have walked through cities along a golden thread.

I have walked through cities where there was refuge
In bums that lined the streets
Trash that gleamed and glimmered like a crown on a king’s head
whose promises, worth more than a those men’s, who left the dead
I have walked through cities.
Two that warned and waned.
A war of times and a burden’s whisper
A tale of mountainous discrepancies
those morals, thrown and lost and gained.

I have walked through cities that once seemed far away.
But closer than I ever knew and nearer than my eyes could see.
A tale of time and triumph, yet of pain and prudence all the same.
The fish still swim the alleyways
The wolves still feast in light
There is a wonder to the kindnesses
And a question of what is right.

Those cities’ stars are still unclear
Their shining beams– less bright.
Sometimes, my treading feet slow, my eyes lock on the stars
Those dusty, white, and distant things that keep me up at night,
I have walked through warring cities
Those that kept me at a stall
Forever trenched in agony, still devoted to what cause.

My cities have been people whose pasts all intertwined
my soul has held the notion that their wrongs must be my rights.
Sometimes that golden thread has pulled me back to home,
a faction in the center of the worlds I cease to roam.
I have walked through cities that held tight to my hands,
But today, I will let go of passion in those lands.

I have walked through cities, but I have made it home again.
I have walked through cities and taught my lips to say amen.

Chilly is the quake of snow in my bones
the fresh, white blanket of memories
rooted in ice.

Chilly is the ******.
the ache
the addiction
to your arms
to warmth.

Chilly is my heart when you are out of reach.
When my pining arms span out
to find only
the coldness
of chilly sheets.

Chilly is the wait–
to be warm.

to be real

I am drawn to the dripping of tears
down cheeks.
The solemnity of salty dew staining skin
red

like ink on parchment.

I am addicted to tragedy
chilly

like the ***** of a needle
the ache of ******.

I cannot tell you how it began
only that it was and is.

This enticing wonder to walk towards
the slip of loss and more.
Mossy gardens erased in rain and floods
that wipe it all away.

I cannot tell you how it was
only that it still drones on.

I am destroyed by the notion of pleasantry
the conception of goodness.
I am drunk on the thought of heartache
and wasted on love.

The mere idea of love.

I am ruined by it.

the intention
the thought
the wondering
Wasted on what if?

I cannot tell you when I knew,
only that time ceased to stall
and barreled on
like I knew nothing at all.

For a moment, I am done asking questions.
I am done thinking of tomorrows
when today’s not nearly spent.

I am useless
Floating driftwood and empty eyes
on the memory of love.
A victim to the possibility of more.

So much more.

I cannot say where I will go,
only that I cannot stay.

I am blind to breezes far away
that push me from the sun
into the winding river now
where I am drowning on my wasted words
on my tragic heart.

Upon the lust to lose and lose and lose
until I’m lost again.

The glamor of pain
the pretense of trial

I am languished by the desire for something–
something grueling.

I cannot tell you how it was
how it began– where it ends
I cannot tell you when I knew
where I will go, why I cannot stay

I cannot tell you how it was
only that it was and is.
that it still drones on.
that I cannot stay.
that time ceased to stall,

and barreled on,
like I knew
nothing at all.

A while ago, I wrote a poem.
I called it
“The Things that Hold Up Dreams”
I talked about Tennis Shoes and a toy box.
Like I could look back and remember them
with anything other than despair
and spite.

That poem was about a teddy bear
and satin pajamas
and a favorite, old blanket.
It was a poem about all of the wonderful things
my life used to be.

It was a poem about a happy girl in a bunk bed.

It used to be about me.

But I knew it was a dead story
before I ever wrote a word.

I was a doll,
living in a pink house
with nowhere to be.

I was a painted,
Porcelain
Princess
and though my pristine, cold skin shined and glistened
I was so dull.

I dreamt lifeless dreams
my world until him was shallow
and plastic
and pretty
served on a plate without a second thought.

Everything was nice.
It was so nice.
And it was real.
But it hardly meant anything at all.

When I remember my life
defined by the sickly sweet words
of that confused poetry,
I miss it.
Sometimes I would prefer the nausea of ignorance.

Those things that I was before.
Those things that I had before.

They were not
The things that hold up dreams.

They were just dreams.

I asked myself, then…
When I realized that I had written lies,
What are those things?

things that hold up dreams.

I realize now that it is you.
You hold up my dreams.

You, who brings me to my knees with laughter
You, who I have allowed to see me cry
You, who has kindness and heart and will
to be
just to be.  

You are the bones of my hope

The Things that Hold Dreams.

What is the point in
Poignancy?

Fragment,
you tell me.
Another one in paragraph three.

What do words matter?

I have spelled love with Lilacs instead of an “L”
I have drawn the curve of my “O” with the chill of a
Sweeping breeze.
A “V” can only appear as the violet of a
sparkling sky, or I will be unable to read it,
and every “E” will amount to nothing more than
emptiness if the voice it has been given
does not epitomize song.

Comma-splice,
Replace it with a semicolon.

I am trying live freely.
I want to breathe in color,
to inhale an orange Savannah sky
And exhale green which
shows through the translucent dew
of grass.

Unnecessary use of description.
Limit it, Lidiah. Limit it.

My fingers itch with the ferocity of
A vengeful army.
They are waiting to trample pages with
The lead of my pencil, the bayonet
of a Revolutionary-War-era rifle.

The word limit sounds like tragedy.
A single word that can somehow act as
a precursor,
To the death of passion.

Your words have put you in a box.

People always say
“Actions speak louder than words.”
In a way that is true.
But I also know it to be
a tremendous piece of fiction.

Lidiah,
Please watch your run-ons.

Why can our words and our actions
not be the same thing?
Isn’t the act of speaking,
the act of raising your voice,
the act of being heard,
isn’t that an action?

Lidiah,
how many times do I have to remind you?
Clarification throughout.

Why have we decided that our words
Mean nothing more than
stepping stones on the road to action?

When did we decide that our voices
which rise like clarion calls,
forever instilling our promises,
are to be left on silent?

Precious jewels set into rings.

Poison in a water tank.

Lidiah,
what you say is irrelevant
if your MLA bibliography isn’t in
alphabetical order.

Our words are our actions.
They mean the same.
Words are the distinctions of our beliefs
Illustrations of our personas
They are not mosquitos to be slapped away
and forgotten.

Lidiah,
paragraph five is too long.
Stop rambling.
Be concise.

Please tell me,
what is the point of being concise?

Lidiah,
stop rambling.

Why do we let justification
equate to useless rambling?

Lidiah,
you have to detach yourself from the narrative.

Feelings mean more
than a couple of sentences.

More than a good or a bad.

A mad or a sad.

Comma-splice

What about ferocity?

Never end with a preposition.

What about passion?

Replace this with a conjunctive adverb.

What about the discernable strife
that follows even indifference?

What about that?

Lidiah,
what is the point of
Poignancy?

What are we without it?
What does the human soul matter
if we have forsaken the parts of ourselves that
remind us of what a soul is for?

Lidiah,
you will never be heard
if you do not learn to follow the rules.

It feels like I have been walking down this road
with you
Forever.

We are standing within grasp of one another.
But neither of us will reach out our hand.                                                          

Because we are terrified
of being hurt
of being happy
and perhaps even just
of being heard.

So, we walk on.
Our arms brushing every few steps,
but we will never reach out.

This line we tow…
is more delicate than we could ever know.

I have hands like a wild animal
Scratching and tearing
They make a scavenger
out of me.

They have been fit with claws like blades
and bleeding knuckles.
I have hands like a wild animal.

Born and ready to take whatever they must
And conquer whatever they can
And so capable
Capable of ruinous
Terrifying things
I have hands like a wild animal.
But I have a whispering, quiet heart.
So full of inhibitions that it swells
Not on love,
But the fear of losing it.

A quiet heart. With passion like a sheep
Buried in the docile comfort
Of never going too far.

Of never wanting too much.
Of leaving.
Heading back for home
Before you ever even got off the train.

I have animal hands paired with
a cursed, mild heart.

Sometimes I wonder, with my
Shepard’s brain.
How the world could tame my heart
and forget my hands.

I can still remember the shape of it,
It exists somewhere beyond me,
Laced and reminiscent with the sugary
bitterness of a memory.

A whisper in my ear.
A chime ringing, tingling, sweetly.
My heart fills and depletes as
if living and dying in perfect synchronous unison.

A man scratches his head as he looms
over a book. Words too large for me
to comprehend, he says.
And I believe him.

He has taught me to always believe him.
So, I sit quietly and he reads.

Today my mother is here.
And she smiles through angst-ridden eyes,
But I won’t cry with her…

I was taught not to cry.
So. I don’t.

The man who is no longer.
Scratching his head and reading
wouldn’t want me to.

Love is not beautiful.
It is a great tragedy to say that,
love is an incomparable gift.
Today, all I can say of love is that
“If love is what makes the world go round, I don’t understand how it is still spinning.”
Those who play a game of ignorance and strife will say,
love is a flower to be tended to
but I am here to tell you,
It is a **** to be stomped out and burned.
Sometimes, when my heart has corrupted itself, my thoughts of love are that
Love is the only thing I would give up anything for.
I will never stop believing that
Loving someone is the most terrible kind of treachery.
I won’t lie and tell you that
Love is beautiful.