The Body rejects it
And The Brain reflects it

There's butter in my coffee
I heard that it fills you up in the morning
It's the fat, they say, that sustains you.

The problem is, I haven't eaten in, oh,
19 hours or so,
And this buttery coffee is making me feel funny.
Like, nostalgic,
Plegic at the kitchen table
Staring at the new paisley tablecloth without being able to think about anything.

This house has a voice and it's making me tired listening to it scream all day.
Only a month and already I'm pushing away
You can tell, you keep trying to kiss me awake but I can't hear you over the house.
They say this is what happens, so I never tried until now.
You really see a person, they say.
And I can tell you are really seeing me for the first time in these three years,
And it's making you nervous that maybe I'm actually not okay.

Maybe I'm not.
This behavior isn't normal, I guess, I mean most people eat and sleep at regular intervals
And share themselves
And do their chores
And go to work in the morning
And live a life that resembles something.

And now you're really noticing.
Normal behavior hasn't ever really been my "thing."
But writing songs to the tune of your own heartbeat isn't the way to make other people sing.

There are veins
Arteries
That connect my heart to the rest of me
Something so vain to plainly see
Your heart exists floating free



Ooohs and aahs

I've never been the kind to shy
Away from another's mistake
And the clouds that live in my house were just another obstacle to shake
But there's only so much a tree can take
And my bows bent so low that I'm ready I'm ready to break
I'm ready I'm ready to break
I'm ready I'm ready to break

My blood is thin today
It steams in the chilly humid air as it
Streams like water from a small cut on my toe.
Its red is shocking,
like paint on the black tar back patio.

"Sleep is for the weak"
They say.

And while sleeping is, I admit, my weakness
Today is still yesterday and my blood is streaming like water from this little painful cut.

And in my gut I know that it's not sleep nor pain that makes a person weak

But the ability to admit to both

again

and again

and again

Without the ability to know when it's time to admit defeat.

I kicked an ant today.

It was coming right for my bare foot, so I kicked it. The thought of its tiny feet tickling my giant feet made me feel ill.

Generally insects don't bother me, but ants. Ants, with their underground tunnels and their abilities to carry a zillion times their body weight, with their appearance in my kitchen every spring from seemingly nowhere even though my kitchen is clean and inhospitable to them - I hate ants.

I was outside, the ant's domain, on my back patio enjoying the beautiful weather and the newness of spring. It wasn't fair of me to kick him like that in his own domain, and yet.

I wonder what I would do if I was kicked by a giant. I would probably die, land in a heap and break all my bones and die. That ant almost certainly didn't die, but I wonder if it hurt. Do ants have very many nerve endings? A question for the ages.

Before I kicked that ant, I was reading some old poetry and letting the sun warm me and the light breeze riffle through my hair, avoiding work and thinking about my life and the big question marks that punctuate my waking moments with their soft severity. ******* this brain and it's forever worrying.

The worrying is the problem. I should spend more time doing.

But I don't. Instead I write poems and kick ants and daydream about finding a home where I can begin my Real Life.

Because this isn't it, is it?
Is it?

Kicking things out of my way that make me uncomfortable? Finding the sunshine and basking like a lizard? Reading poetry?

Actually, I think I can live with that.
That, and fewer ants.

You must have been so lovely, Sylvie.
Your song sounds purple, like the underside of rose petals.
It shimmers and flickers in the water of the Seine, held together by a whispering, weaving thread, a voice in the softness.

I know you,
I've seen you.
You're me when I play, the piano keys conductors for all of your loveliness,
Pouring your essence into my heart as I begin to learn your curves and your lines.
I am you, Sylvie, a woman in love,
and I caress the keys and sing with your voice a song in which you are forever imprisoned, captured in a jar and preserved for eternity.

It's been getting worse.

6am was open for sinners but 10 was closed for repairs. Imagine the disappointed frowns drinking coffee reading regretful emails.

The afternoon sun hurt my head, I miss your cave.
In my bed, pillows over your ears and eyes.

12 pm was better but 2 was embarrassing.

I hate to leave like that. I never want us to be mad at each other.
Crying at the kitchen table, no it's not you.

Calling myself an idiot in the car for routinely missing turns.

The mall wasn't crowded but it felt like it was. No dresses fit for the wedding tomorrow. Staring at a red scarf listening to Burning Down the House over the loudspeaker at Dillards and feeling my eyes in my head and wondering if David Byrne ever dreamed he would have songs playing over the loudspeaker at Dillards.

You shouldn't have done that to yourself.  I'm sorry I suggested it.
It's ok, it's not you.

It must have been 50 or more dresses. Four hours.

This has been the worst day.
We've been talking about this for a long time. Sitting at the kitchen table, ugh, boys.

Smoking through the window.

My great grandmother made my *** my pants when I was eleven because she was cursing the door she couldn't unlock.
I once saw someone lose a prosthetic leg while riding a roller coaster.
TJ had a cat named Rodney.

We found burn holes in her mattress when we moved in. All her stuff was still there.

Reconfirming value, standing in front of the mirror in wedding clothes. Red heels. A white scarf to a wedding that doesn't belong to me.
It's ok, it's not you.

Nick started talking about what he's going to say for our wedding.
I told him not to worry about it, I don't have any idea what I'm going to say at his.

Cigarettes in the cold. Adderall and ZzzQuil and Dr. Who prints on Etsy printed on old dictionary pages. The world is falling away.

Write a poem.

3:17am is open for sinners.

It's been getting worse.