stare, in front of a mirror, legs crossed,
muscles stretching past the point of comfort–
a necessary distraction (to remember what
exists behind the image of this strange dark girl:
a pulsing heart, the push and pull of oxygen, synapses).

stare. stare

at each familiar feature. stare.
break
them into words like:
almond, bulbous, tight, long, large,
brown. kissed by sun. marred by adolescent
acne. stare.

breathe.

muscles. bones and veins pushing out, against
skin, stomach slightly distended. knees, scarred,
permanent reminders of days and nights spent
learning to ride a bike, because 12 was too old
for training wheels, and never mind the terror.

breathe. repeat.

see
curves, lines, angles.
see
lips, *******, eyes,
eyes, eyes.

breathe.
stare.

memorize
until the whole becomes wholly unfamiliar
(just features glued and sewn together,
which one could be narrowed down to
define this girl? which one is her alone?)

I keep waiting for some bleeding heart
To approach me, Arms flung open,
And croon, “Look alive little girl!
You’re too young to look so broken.”

I’ve got it planned out, see. I’ll smirk
And tell the cheery bulbous vats,
“I am way older than I am”
Then tell them how he taught me that.

It’s scary, how I keep waiting
For an excuse to be mad enough
To ****** their joy with my words
To be so weak that I get tough.

But they never come.

Even the bleeding hearts don’t ask,
So I never (not even in anger) speak,
And lately I’ve begun to notice how
Their eyes avert away from me.

i’m not strong enough yet
to be strong enough for you,
but i know enough
to know
that i’ll fight until it’s through.
cause the days are flying faster
with bodies getting older,
and wouldn’t you know,
as it goes,
i think i’m getting bolder?
cause we lose a little more each day,
but we gain a little too,
and i don’t think
i’ll give you up,

until there’s nothing left
of me or you.

it started with a moleskin sitting on my passenger seat.
i keep it there just in case i'm struck with inspiration. before
i would roll up windows, turn off car, open apartment door,
drop everything, find pen (pressing it down til it bleeds
all over) only to find i'd have nothing to say, it was gone, lost.

so i write, at midnight, in a car with the windows down even
though it's 90 degrees, because i love the sound of a train
whistling, ache with the wind scraping trees to create a voice
for himself, but all he can muster is a scream.

and now i'm reading my words aloud, trying to make them fit,
puzzle pieces when the picture is just ocean and sky.
but the sound of my voice clashes against the unquiet silence;
the result is harsh and unnatural.

in the end i can only think this one thing, with words that refuse to mesh:
i wish you'd get out of my head. i wish you'd leave me to... whatever.
i wish you'd let me pretend. leave me alone where i'm at my best. beautiful
alone. where there's no need to lie, truths are pointless to hide (here,
I'm the only one speaking, and God's the only one listening). let me lie.

i want to say this all perfectly. i want to scream it, my voice riding
wind through trees. but pen poised, i lose all my courage. coward:
a dreamer who grew up.

(**** dreams, the only thing that keeps
me from forgetting what i'm missing.)

Sometimes,
I wonder if the words we say,
are simply
the words we need to hear.

Like,
“The truth is…”

I want someone to say to me
“Well honestly…”.

So as a rule, I tell the truth–
hard & brutal though it may be.
(“The aftermath of truth’s brutality
makes it worth the pain of telling it”,
I say.
“It’s shameful and it’s cleansing: an
abrasiveness I’ve become addicted to.)

Except, I’m lying. It isn’t true.

Honestly? The biggest lie
I know to tell is the truth.

Because the truth is that
the truths I tell are hardly ever (completely) true–
more a cutting sword
(don’t come near me, I’ll hurt you),
more a righteous shield of protection.
(my desire for truth is more about
hiding me, than helping you)
more a lie
(now that may be true).

Sometimes,
I wonder if the words we say
are simply
the words we are afraid to hear.

Like,
“The truth is…”.

we are frozen by nature
and a past that
lives and grows
choking out, like weeds,
the future because
there’s not enough room in
us for both.