why does he drag himself back to my pyre,
disturbing the pools of blood barely settled
from our last battle
his body cleaves through red seas
that slowly merge behind him

panting as he hauls,
isn't he tired?
is he so determined to have changed
since our last bloodletting?
he may no longer hoard matches,
but even up this high I hear
the distinct clicks of an empty lighter,
flint assiduously hitting steel,
the soft flicks, a forewarned tempo,
the dreaded count down

my hands hover above his skin
ready to begin a glorious prelude,
a lithe overture
smooth ivory lay beneath my fingertips
where anticipation mounts,
palms tingling, aching to travel
across satin scenery, the supple canvas
my covetous joints crave
the staging of a sacred symphony

Always waiting for the next breath
that fills my lungs, fills
this hollowness that sits
at the end of each exhale.

Holding
and releasing.

It's all part of The Long Wait:
the train platforms, bus stops,
the red lights, traffic,
the weekdays, happy hours,
the grocery store aisles and lines...
the first breath, this very breath,
and the next half a billion or so.

the long descent
further into herself,
arms sore from hefting up
this holy sword and slashing
into the rotten bits

blessed perspiration gathers
along her nape,
upon her brow,
under her swollen *******, and
between divine crevices

You expected a girl,
your own notion of femininity.
You expected me to laugh, to talk,
but only in bubbles,
Wonka’s fizzy lifting drink.
You expected to float
on my wiles
I’d heft you up while you cruise.
Well, you get nothing.
You lose.
Good day, sir.

I feel the need to fill it all up,
my days, that is,
gather plans and gorge
on seamless social interactions,
slurping up smiles and gulping
down the cool liquid of laughter,
picking my teeth with the bare bones of boring conversation.
I’m an introvert, but time alone isn’t helping anymore.
Alone, I spiral. I starve.

What is the purpose?
Someone distract me from these things in my head called thoughts.
Nourish me, I am dying and I’m wanting it, too.
Please,
laugh until my stomach is so stuffed that I heave out another joke.
Talk until I bite my tongue and bleed, eagerly chewing, cheeks
hurting.

What neon emptiness has driven me here
to the all-you-can-eat buffet?
While I feast on my friends under these fluorescents
my shadows only wait.

it's the smoldering
slight crackle of a joint,
a cigarette

the sizzling spark
slithering to set off fireworks,
TNT

the blackening wick
burning up wax
or wood

fire set to photographs,
slow swirling smoke
rising above red flags

he promised the moon,
he promised the stars,  
made the girl from Venus
love the guy from Mars

and he gave them to her,
all of these things--
a bright white dress,
a sparkling ring

but each moon has a dark side,
each star does die out,
forms a depthless blackhole
of crippling doubt

standing at the start,
the end for some others

take the first step,
then take another

that's it,
sit
spend some time here,
nothing to fear here,
lie down, but
stand,
keep moving, and

look around,
you are bound
to be late
and
right on time, too,
so, slow down, you
know,
the view is great
on both sides

And afterward,
I gather the roses at my feet,
white petals fall, splatter the stage

I lift each stem to my lips
with haste
They cheer,
but I do not fear the bite,
the taste--
earthy, metallic,
sharp.

I smile at their applause, my funny heartbeat,
while slow lines of blood slide
over my lips, drip
down my chin,
juice from a ripe peach,
dropping
onto soft white petals

I used to go
swallowing matches
filling up on lightbulbs,
light lunches

second degree burns
through my throat, I
coughed up blood,
splintered glass, ash

but the moths in my stomach,
they loved it, you see,
flitted around just for a glimpse,
a tiny ray,
until
blood-soaked wings
stopped
sinking insects
dropped

"good morning" every morning
and a warm smile,
a wistful sigh sometimes

unsettlingly deep
sweetly intense
dark and gleaming brown eyes
looking toward me, for me
again and again and again

he said my smile was like
a spring morning

and i was afraid,
aggravatingly afraid

cold and bemused
careful blue eyes
looking away and away
and away

The tide rushes over her body,
and I feel it.
She starts to sink and suction
into wet sand, and
I feel it.
Anchored in,
barely breathing, but
I feel it
all.

Finally.

I recall my hands upon the earth:
Delicate, squeaky blades of grass,
soft, dry dirt beneath.
I dug in,
dark crests of that which supports life
beneath my fingernails,
earth contained
within clenched fists.

Not sleeping through the night.
I keep waking,
my stakes in this **** thing are high.
He sleeps through it all: the turning,
gasping, box spring
squeaking.

He strolled through the front door
smelling like the cold,
like it hadn’t snowed yet,
but the fall was foretold.

Am I taking advantage of you,
of your always being there, here,
walking with me?
When my foot leaves the earth, yours takes its place.

Sometimes I start a poem and stop,
unable to finish.
"I haven't felt the emotions for this one yet,
to give it what it needs, to water it, make it grow,"
I think. "Some future version of me...
she will know,
she has those words stored up,
they'll flow,
but not for me, not quite,
not yet, no."

You're like one of these poems.
Do you know
how many times I've started, just to
stop and think, "Whoa,
not quite, not yet, no.
I haven't quite mastered this craft."
Save draft.

I want to feel
like the rays of sun,
the lucky ones,
that filter through the clouds and trees,
touch the ground, the fallen autumn leaves.
I want to warm the earth,
warm a hearth, warm a heart,
warm your cheeks when I speak
small words like your name and
big ones like "procrastinate" and
big feeling ones like "love"
also words I can't pronounce like "Worcestershire"
then words I don't know how to use like "assuage"
and okay maybe "love" again.

And okay I want to maybe love again
and when I hear your small name,
I think I do love again
because you feel like those sunbeams,
the ones that warm a chilly breeze
the ones I want to cross the street to walk in.

Some pesky emotions
stick to my insides...
They cling just under
my skin,
vacationing
in rosy-cheeked 98.6° temps.
I try to shake them off,
they slide around,
bloom up to my chest, crest
over my shoulders, smolder
the insides of my elbows, rove
across my ribs, rummage
into my stomach, and
smack
stuck again
snug again.

Not sure if they ever dissolve.
I imagine I have developed
layers of them by now.
But I guess we all have.

I have this feeling... like
something is cracking,
fractured.
Deeper it goes,
fissures.

I gasp.

Follow the sun,
little one.
Follow the sun
open your eyes,
rise. But
settle, too, nestle
in, rest.

Quiet wonder and passion—
Smoldering embers waiting to flicker and then roar,
twisted, pointed, shapeless... boundlessly ****** into the sky

my stomach is knotted
my resolve is rotted
i hate talking to him

My chest swells,
filling with heavy emptiness.
Under this duress,
everything hurts.

today is the first hot day in a while
moisture dews on my skin just walking,
but it doesn't weigh me down

i feel lighter than i have in a while
my hair is brighter, not from the sun,
but it's pink, orange, gold like a setting one
or a rising one
yes,
a rising sun

my phone was stolen the other night
and I had anxiety not being connected
or not being disconnected I guess

why am I warped,
wrapped up
in you,
and you,

just tread water,
like nothing
shifts, but everything        
           shifts, is fluid,
and drips
rain
down
this pane.

this pain
hits,
smacks, stains, and
lifts
red to strawberry cheeks,
blood wreaks
havoc, unfurled and blooming,
blotchy...

my tomb is
his apathy.

Dim, stormy silver skies,
then, a song,
and I am transported,
hiking through trees alight
with green fires
and rooted with dark veins
into soft malleable earth

I stood at a closed door,
its wooden surface
looked
smooth, interrupted
by grooves,
some deep, some shallow,
barely scratches.

I carefully traced my finger
across the maze,
hoping for a solution,
but my hand came back
stinging.

This pen is running
dry,
ink fading as I sit here
and write about you.

Suddenly,
a change
in direction of the wind.

I am moved with it,
but he is not.

I can feel my mind
reaching toward
indifference.
It's like I'm on a train,
between stops,
slowly rocking
back and forth
back and forth
back and
then
jolted
to one side—
a reminder.

I often find that when I am naked,
I lose boundaries.
I don't know where my skin ends
and the world begins.

When I lie in bed, I become part of its cotton comforter and sheets.

When I walk around my house, I become part of the nest:
I am the hearth, the warmth, and settling dust.

When I was with you, I
became part of you.
I was your skin,
you were mine.
I was your Sunday night stubble,
your whispers and breathy chuckles. I was
your short fuse and forced
indifference,
your silence.

When we tried to pull our
boundaries back,
we fought.
We tore uneven
       borders.

I took some of you, you took
some of me.

The stars in my eyes
blinded me
from the truth.

I have given you
so many things.
With a child's light innocence,
I've handed you my creations,
my emotions, my affection
(everything
I value most).

You took them,
excitedly at first, hung them up,
saved them in a box.
But as time wore on
and the novelty wore out,
you took it all
with a thin smile
and threw it in the trash.

The ***** of my feet burn,
my arches ache,
I'm exhausted.
I will fall. We will fall
apart

again.
Whiplash from leaning
one way then
the other so quickly.
I used to want to be near
you all the time but now...
Now, I still do. But we are constantly at
odds, wanting something,
some
thing the other isn't ready for.

We move together, fall
apart, move
together, fall
apart,
move

together,
fall

apart.

I've written a dozen poems
for each feeling I've ever had--
for every miniscule crush,
a simple flutter or skipped beat of my heart,
for every tear that blurred my sight and
salted my tongue (raising my blood pressure),
for literal and figurative red on my hands
or another's bloodthirsty lips,
for the swinging doors in my life,
coming and going before I've finished exhaling,
for the revolving doors who always usher in
the same breeze, the same dust, the same litter,
for the stones in my stomach that never pass
(or pass painfully),
for my trembling fingers and the hands that
steady them (or the hands that don't).
For every breathe I take,
there is a poem in my head,
but I look at you,
I touch you, I kiss you,
and

Salvador Dali's clocks have better timing
than my feelings do.

I'm a single, silver thread
spun by a poisonous spider.

I am an architect.
I design walls
to protect myself.

I used to crave darkness.
I used to stay up,
hiding myself away in
the black night sky.

I used to walk
around empty streets,
toward nothing,
toward anything else.

Drunks stumbled around me,
straggling toward home,
toward a cozy bed.
I still walked.

I don't know what I was looking for.
Maybe nothing,
maybe anything.
Maybe the sunrise.

My legs are still,
but they ache,
ache to move,
to propel me toward you.

They want to run,
slicing through the air,
like razors, cutting
like knives.

They are right angles,
like the rest of me:
Sharp
and unforgiving.

Your tongue is fire.
My skin has turned to ash.

I've always been
independent:
never needing anyone
to take care of me,
to hold me,
to love me.

You make me want that
and I hate you for it.

I'm an expert at
denying
myself pleasure to prevent
pain.

I want you to
give me parts of
your body,
repair mine.

Sew your hands to
what's left of mine.
Like a tree tied to a post,
my stubby fingers will grow
around yours,
reaching and reaching
toward
the light.
I'll outgrow you, suffocating
your once deft fingers with my
now
strong ones.

Mold your arms
to my fractured limbs. Like
a cast,
they'll hold and
protect my cracked
bones. But
the heat, the itch,
the sweat... I'll
saw
through your arms,
freeing
my fresh limbs.

Give yourself to me,
so I can take what
I want
and leave.

The greenest eyes I've ever seen
will never see me.

The salty sea breeze here
reminds me of your skin.

You are like static:
background noise,
I tune you out.