You make me uncomfortable with your warmth.
In the unyielding heat of your presence,
I melt.

When you leave,
I remember you fondly.

I welcome you with open arms each time you return,
but I am still just a dandelion puff
on the wind of your thoughts.

Cobwebs for eyes
and a cotton ball tongue.
I can't see what everyone else does
and even if I did,
how could I tell you
it hurts?

No one ever expected my buried body
to climb back out of the grave
I dug for myself.

No one ever expected my blackened lungs
to draw breath again,
to breathe the air that smothered me.

Twisted claws
gnashing teeth
slimy scales

And when I wake up
I finally see
that the nightmare
was always me.

She’s got a cheap cigarette
she uses to bury us all in smoke.
It hangs off her lips
and wobbles when she talks.
She’s cracked open a new book,
another ****** romance.

It’s always romance,
she says, taking a drag from her cigarette.
It’s in everything, in every **** book.
Each word she speaks is followed by a puff of smoke,
small clouds that form as she talks
and roll off of the curve of her lips,

the very same lips
that told me romance
is for suckers, told me talks
of love are talks of nothing rolled into a cigarette
she’d never smoke.
She buries her nose in her book

once more, leaving me to stare at the book
cover and nervously gnaw at my lips.
The empty space between us is full of tension and smoke
and somehow, a stubborn romance
that hangs in the air like a half hit cigarette
hangs on the edge of an ashtray. She talks

to me, around me, and about me, but our talks
never include that tension, though I could write a book
full of the way she glances past her cigarette
at me, how her inviting lips
beg me to foolishly romance
her by hurling apprehensive smiles through her wall of smoke.

The tiny wisps of smoke
that swirl around her dance as she talks
about this dime-store romance
novel she happened to pick up, a devastating book
about a man who spent his life with his lips
sewed shut. She finally puts out her cigarette.

The smoke from her cigarette peters out and silence settles over the two of us.
I move my lips and no sound comes out. When she finally talks
again, I cross my fingers in hopes of being the next romance book she wants to discuss.

She’s got a cheap cigarette
she uses to bury us all in smoke.
It hangs off her lips
and wobbles when she talks.
She’s cracked open a new book,
another ****** romance.

It’s always romance,
she says, taking a drag from her cigarette.
It’s in everything, in every **** book.
Each word she speaks is followed by a puff of smoke,
small clouds that form as she talks
and roll off of the curve of her lips,

the very same lips
that told me romance
is for suckers, told me talks
of love are talks of nothing rolled into a cigarette
she’d never smoke.
She’s burned pages of a book

before, left small holes in her **** book
when a gasp left her lips.
The empty space between us is full of tension and smoke
and somehow, romance
that hangs in the air like a half hit cigarette
hangs on the edge of the ashtray. She talks

of mystery and science and pool and our talks
never include that tension, though I could write a book
full of the way she glances past her cigarette
at me, how her inviting lips
beg me to foolishly romance
her by hurling nervous smiles through her wall of smoke.

Clichéd as it may be, smoke
alarms scream when she so much as talks
about any sort of romance,
if even just the fictional sort in her book
and I want to sear her with my fire, burn her with my lips
just like she burns her cigarette.

The smoke from her cigarette doesn’t bother me anymore
and I can’t help but watch her lips when she talks.
I keep holding on to hope that maybe I can be a chapter in her ****** romance book.

At first, you think a thief in the night
has come to take you away.
And though you know that can’t be right,
you pick the truth that suits you.

A bump, a grunt, an earsplitting curse,
all signs that point to heartbreak.
Not thieves at all, but that means it’s worse--
Dad’s coming up to your room.

You throw your blankets over your head.
He makes his way up the stairs,
all sweaty cheeks and feet made of lead,
all cruel thunder and bluster.

You wish that he would pour it all out,
the drink that makes him this way.
You want to kick and you want to shout
and break your turtle figurines,

the ones he buys you every time
he smashes your lamp to pieces
or you make his blood pressure climb
by being small and worthless.

What’s next, more holes punched into the wall?
Or maybe red-faced screaming?
How can your dad love alcohol
more than he ever loved you?

The Svedka never braided his hair
or scratched his back or hugged him.
It didn’t have a father who wasn’t there
even when he was.

Hide under the blankets for now,
little lamb. It’ll all be okay real soon.
This is the last time he’ll come to your room
full of fire and mixed drinks.
You’ll still be afraid and broken inside,
but at least he’ll be broken, too.

The chickens watch us
with their tiny T-Rex eyes,
their funny feather hats shaking
and pulsing
with Heaven only knows.

Collecting warm brown eggs
from haughty hens
is an honor.

That’s what Papa says, at least.

Papa built these coops himself,
I tell all the chickens.
He made them because he loves you
or maybe just because he wants your eggs.
I’m not sure which,
I say,
but it’s one of those two
or both.

The silkies are doubtful
and pacing
and ready to peck me into a bare corn cob,
but I’ve got an egg carton to fill
and this is the first time I can help
because Grandma isn’t home.

Papa humors my toe-turns
and my untamed joy
the way that only Papa can,
with squinty jokes
and whistle-wheezy laughs.

An almost dropped egg here,
a yellow yolked yelp there,
and my egg carton is full.

Papa wears a sunny-side up smile
and the chickens don’t mind if we sing.

A needle, a thimble, a canvas.
a fine line of damp sand between soaked and not,
a drop of old salt to meet new wounds,
a wild freedom that cannot be hung.
A needle, a thimble, a canvas.

Thread together the torn teddies,
the favorite brass buttons,
the rusted gold earrings,
the letters unopened, still waiting.
These are patches on the vest of the ocean floor.

The vastness of the littered basement
has many secrets yet,
but some holes cannot be filled.

These bobber and blueberry plaid sheets
don’t seem as sleek as they once were.
I don’t think I washed them last week.

A put-together person
really ought to wash their sheets
at least once a month
because wrinkles and stains
don’t just take care of themselves.

Didn’t our mother raise us better?
I ask the neatly put together bed
that silently sleeps beside mine.

Although, I suppose,
the ticking of the clock
is the only answer I’ve got
anymore.

That bed only stares,
always stares.

That bed is done in purples and reds
and I always said it could use
a dash of black or white.
And when it won’t sleep at night,
I flip its radio on
and I keep country going,
even though I can change it
to play anything that I like.

The radio sits on an empty dresser
next to a bare table now,
one that I really should dust.
You’d be surprised how much collects
when no one stores
deodorant and lip gloss there.

Bench.
Book.
Breeze.

Sunlight
       peeking
through
       the
trees.

A long gaze
into my lover's eyes
reveals full moons
and shooting stars
that hypnotize.

These electric stares
shoot searing sparks
that zap and zip
and melt me down
into a work of art.

You say that you love me.
You say that you care.
I thought that the pastures
between us
were gentle and fair.

When I gaze
into your eyes,
I see the truth,
the awful truth
you try to hide.

Love,
your eyes
are cold
and dead inside.

Weave me into what you like, dream-maker.
Fill me with your unavoidable heat death;
smother me in warmth and ashes.
Paint me all your brilliant colors,
all your blues and reds and golds.
Twist me into impossible designs;
mold me into something new.
Make me, dream-maker,
and take me away
from those who don't like
who I am today.

You and I
high in a tree,
happy as
two birds could be,

but the bough breaks
but the bough breaks
but the bough breaks

and so do I.

There are one hundred and twenty six tiles on my ceiling
If you count all the halves.
I know because sleeping is what normal people do in their bedroom
and normal is not my favorite descriptive word.
Why say you're normal when you could be
fabulous,
magnificent,
tenacious,
or incorrigible?
But why would I ask you?
It's obvious you don't know the rules of the game
because why would you say you love me
when you don’t?
Is it because my halves
don’t add up to perfect tiles?
I know I have a few cracks,
some warped edges,
and missing chunks,
But my imperfections tell a story;
I won’t hide behind flat spackle.
Besides,
I always thought my ceiling
could use a few stains.

Flowers
bloom and grow
when my vines
twine around you.

You are steady,
always ready
to bring
me in.

You help me
reach
for the sky
and heavens
above.

You're good for me,
good to me,
but
I'm slowly
killing
you.

Once upon a time,
there lived a happy girl.
She smiled at all
and brought joy to the world.

But then she got older
and chemicals reacted in her mind.
The dark thoughts that plagued her
made it hard to be kind.

She still wore a smile,
but that smile was just for show.
The feelings locked inside her
continued to fester and grow.

She stayed in her tower
and vowed never to come down.
Who could ever love a girl
whose smile wore a frown?

Doomed to live in her own gloom
and sure she should be alone,
she sat in silence and in darkness
even when around her bright lights shone.

Sometimes she thinks she really should
get up and join the fray once more,
but the energy it takes to do so
keeps her rooted to the floor.

She wishes she were surrounded by dragons
so that a handsome knight in armor
would steadfastly slay them,
for that would be simpler.

Who knows how to save a girl
from herself?

Surely not her.

You're the pesky bee
buzzin' 'round my head.
I'd slap you away,
but I'm afraid instead.

Afraid that I might miss
your annoying buzzing sound.
Afraid that you might kiss
other flowers on the ground.

Sleepless nights have been my fate.
Tossing
             turning
                          tossing
                                       turning
                                              How much longer will I wait?
                                       tossing
                          turning
             tossing
turning
Your soothing words came far too late.
tossing
            turning
                         tossing
                                      turning
                                             I've flipped the latch and closed the gate.
                                      tossing
                         turning
            tossing
turning
I'm only something you'll grow to hate.
zzz

You will not control me.
You will not control me.
You will not control me.

But you will compel me

to write you into my lines
to lock your image into my mind
to think about you all the time.

You will not change me.
You will not change me.
You will not change me.

But you will shape me

into what I am meant to be
into a better me
into a soul that is free.

You will not leave me.
You will not leave me.
You will not leave me.

But you will.

You gave up your last breath of life
to give me this life of sadness
and I am lucky.
I knew you in life
and I know you in death.
I knew you.
I know you.
You've left me
and you'll never leave me.
You're my lucky coin.
I'll carry you always.

You're the grass beneath my feet,
tickling at my toes,
and darling,
your softness is inviting.

You're the sun that lights my face,
teasing out a smile,
and darling,
your warmth is inviting.

You're the swing set in my back yard,
strong even after all these years,
and darling,
your steadiness is inviting.

You're a mug of cocoa warming my hands,
so pleasant after a snowball fight,
and darling,
your sweetness is inviting.

You're a picture of loveliness,
hung with care on my wall,
and darling,
your frame is inviting.

1. Your sweet embrace
2. Your grinning face
3. Your cherry lips
and
4. Your cheery quips.

The first four in a long list
of reasons I will
always
accept your invitation.

A faint scar
rests just above her hip.
Crescent shaped and
small,
it can almost be
ignored.

Almost.

The scar
on her heart,
the one shaped
just like him,
cannot be
so easily
forgotten,
though
this scar
is no real scar.

There is no healing.

It is an open wound,
oozing and infected.
It is a sore
that just won't scab.
It is a bleeding ****,
raw and red.
It is a welt on tender skin,
angry and swollen.

It will never
leave her.

I can play
the razor,
you can play
the skin.

One cut.
That is all I need.
I will make you love me
and that will make you bleed.

Blood pumps through a heart,
beat by thumping beat.
That makes them best
to conquer and
also best
to eat.

Have you ever
taken a picture
of a sunset,
just to realize that
you'll never capture
the true
colors,
the intense
emotions,
the full
beauty
of that moment?

Have you ever
taken a picture
of the crescent moon,
only to find that
you'll never catch
the unfolding
mysteries,
the brilliant
light,
the unwavering
loyalty
of that moment?

That's how I feel
when I try to
write poems
about you.

You see yourself as a fall tree slowly creeping towards demise.
Each leaf that falls from your gnarled branches
and throws itself to the mercy of the whipping wind
that blows without end through your once proud plumage,
shaking you to the core,
edges you closer to a fearfully empty winter.

You once were green and strong,
standing tall and proud with no thought of the coming cold.
You now bend to the will of the passing seasons,
bowed and pushed nearer to the end of the world,
the end of your world.

But you are no mere fall tree.

When I look at you,
I do not see death.
I see beauty in your colors and in the way your cracked limbs twist.
I hear music in the wind that howls as it dances across your bark
and in the crunch of your leaves that cover the ground.

No, you are not simply a fall tree to me.

You are a tree,
one that still stands
and one that will never be
forgotten.

I am a sunrise in your eyes and at times,
that makes me green.
I see only red
and sometimes shades of muted gray
when I look at others,
but those colors don't suit you.

A sunrise would suit you,
but I cannot make myself see it.

Instead I see a twilight sky,
riddled with stars,
yet still dark.
If you surround me,
I can't be seen.

If I can convince myself
to believe in the sunrise that you are,
your light will finally banish the darkness
and I'll hide no more.

That frightens me
more than I can say.

You're a trite phrase,
spat with pity,
but with grace.
You're the warm
inviting smile that
stays stretched
on my face.

You're an
autumn wind
sending shivers
to my core.
You're an excess
of wealth and
I've no want
for more.

Twinkle twinkle, my little star.
Your beauty is both near and far.
Near, because you are in sight,
but yours is such a far off light.

I've wished upon you a thousand times
and put you in a hundred rhymes.
I've dreamed that you were next to me,
but some things are not meant to be.

Where the sidewalk ends
and the  pavement turns to sand,
that's where you'll find me,
that's a nowhere man's nowhere land.

I am not a dog walker
nor jogger on the beach.
No, I am a no one
and I hold no one's leash.

Friendly to some
and deadly to others,
I am no book
you can judge by a cover.

Heed my words or write them off,
I care not for your affairs,
but listen when I tell you this:
Time stops for no one
and no one really cares.

Hurray, hurray!
There's a party today,
one that celebrates
your special birthday!

I'll invite all your friends
and we'll party 'til ten
(I would if you had them...
So you don't, then?)!

I'll decorate your hallways
with streamers and balloons.
Your house will be festive,
though you may just keep to your room.

I'll bake you a glorious cake,
complete with your favorite frosting,
even though you know the cake that I bake
will be eaten singularly by you.

I'll buy you a proper present
and wrap it with care
and you'll start to cry
as the wrapping paper tears.

I'll march through your sadness
(It's quite selfish, really)
and sing Happy Birthday to you
while I look at you with pity.

You're alone on your birthday
and no one is to blame.
At least this day is only a day
and tomorrow brings a day
that isn't your lonely birthday.

I am a doer of things.
I do the best I can at doing
and given due time,
things get done.

I am a sayer of things.
I knit words together;
I am famous for my
sprawling I'm Sorry scarves.

I am a dreamer of things.
I hold onto a hope and a wish
with both hands,
even if those things are invisible.

I am a fixer of things.
I kiss it all better
and glue pieces together
after I have been
a breaker of things.

Calm, unmoving, silent,
you are still.
Sitting, patient, waiting,
you are still.
I still envy the stillness
that you possess.

There are always the haves
and the have-nots.
I once thought I was a member
of the have-nots,
but I had not considered
that I do have you.

I am the girl that is called a fool,
the ever hopeful dandelion.
I am the dreamer, the feeler, the lover.
The girl that dances with the moon
and colors outside of the lines?
Yes, she is me and I am her.

I'll shake your hand and
smile warmly at you
because it is so great to meet you,
but we both know that true meetings
happen later when our souls
finally say hello to each other.

A projection of pure light
crackling with energy
and waves of happiness,
you are almost too good to be true.
If I did not know better,
I'd think you were some sort of hologram.

I live my life,
but I feel it, too.
Emotions are my life blood
and you, my dear,
are keeping this darling girl
alive.

I remember when you called to say
that you were planting a garden today.
My excitement for you was pure and true
and we knew there was much to do
before life could grow properly
in your garden hideaway.

I watched you sprinkle water down
from your watering can
and spread fertilizer across
the soil of your young plant,
making sure it had all the nutrients
needed to live.

You tended lovingly to your seedling,
singing it songs
and weeding out all harmful things.

We called her Peanut.

You were so proud.

I was with you the day Peanut was no more.
Your garden was no longer full of life.
Nothing grew there.
Your carefully weeded soil did nothing
to stop this from happening.

I now watch you look at the empty seed packets
while you think of your empty garden
and the pretty things that should have grown there.
You were a good gardener,
but apparently your thumb wasn’t green enough
to keep the fates from
ripping your plant out of the earth.

I remember when you called to say
that you were planting a garden,
but I wish you didn't.

Rain pounds down on a window,
pain clear for all to hear.

Let me in!
Hear my words!
*If you would just come outside…

Birds chirp
and bees buzz.
You left
and I miss
what was.

Frogs leap
and flowers bloom.
You took my happiness
and left only gloom.

Wind whispers
and silence echos.
You'll never came back,
but I miss you so.

There is an ocean in between us.
It churns in violent winds
and shimmers in shining sun.
The inky black depths of this ocean
seem to reach infinitely down;
I've yet to find the bottom.
An entire world lives in this ocean
and it is one that I'm not a part of.
A toe dipped into this water reveals
the true frigidness that lingers just under the surface.
The ever moving waves pull me in
just to push me away again.
I can hear the ocean through the
empty conch that was once full of life.
There is an ocean in between us
and we're still holding hands.

I am the mouse quivering
under a claw,
the crumpled paper
tossed into a bin,
and ***** clothes
shoved under the bed.

You are the fire that spreads
in a field of dead grass,
a freshly washed blanket
still warm from the dryer,
and the hint of lemon found
in sweet desserts.

I am a baseball being hurled past the pitcher's mound
at lightning speed.

You are the waiting glove,
always ready to catch me.

You called me at 1 AM just to hear my voice.
I forgive you.
I was hoping to hear from you
before I fell asleep.

You had a hand on my thigh all the way to the drive thru parking lot.
I forgive you.
Your hand was warm and
I liked knowing you wanted to touch me.

We fogged up your windows.
I forgive you.
We were two souls
caught in the heat of a moment.

You didn't want to stop when I asked you to.
I forgive you.
I know you've waited for me and
I shouldn't have been such a *****.

You groped at my chest while you took what you wanted.
I forgive you.
I was the one who wore my new
push up bra and pleated skirt.

You punched my chest and held me down.
I forgive you.
I shouldn't have tried
to squirm away from you.

You slapped my face and spit on me.
I forgive you.
I knew you were angry and
I just should have done what you wanted.

You told me I would never amount to anything.
I forgive you.
You were tired and I am an nuisance
who is nothing without you.

You dropped me off with ripped ******* and whispered threats.
I forgive you.
Now I know what to do
to please you.

You made me wear a long sleeve shirt to hide the bruises your fingers left on my arms.
I forgive you.
You didn't mean to hurt me and
people would worry unnecessarily.

You called me at 1 AM tonight and
I forgive you.
I know you can't wait
to show me your love.

Slice me open.
What do you see?
With so many cuts
will I even bleed?

A *** for a tat,
An eye for an eye,
You can't see my pain.
You choose to be blind.

Why can't you
just see me
and keep your hands,
your precious,
callused,
weathered,
beautiful hands,
to yourself.

There is you,
a marble statue
made to be seen
and not touched.
You,
a towering pillar
standing strong
when I cannot.
And then there is me,
a ball of clay
not yet hardened.
Me,
the flickering flame
caught in your winds.
We are different,
but when our
stars align
and shine just right,
we are beautiful.

Remember the time
that you and I
took a trip to the zoo?

You flashed your
dimples at me
while we watched
the penguins waddle and
your grin was infectious.

I smiled so hard
I thought my face would
shatter
into a thousand
happy pieces.

Remember the time
that you and I
took a trip to the zoo?

We strolled
down the path
hand in hand
with cotton candy
sticky fingers
and light hearts.

The animals
caught our eyes,
but we caught
each other.

Remember the time
That you and I
Took a trip to the zoo?

You probably don’t,
But I do.

She’s going out dancing,
she’s feelin’ real fine,
she’s having a good time,
and she’s dressed to the nines—
lives, that is,
as she hasn’t lost one yet.

She has no worries,
no troubles or cares,
aside from the dude
who keeps calling her Pet
and the tuna in her hairs.

Today is the day,
she chuckles to me.
Today is the day
that she gets to be free.

Free to be fancy,
free to have feasts,
free to laugh at
the dogs on the leash.

Reach for the stars!
If you try,
good things
will be found there!

That’s what everyone tells me.

And so I stretch my arms
towards the heavens above,
and yet,
all I grab
is air.

Hands on your hips
and a frown on your lips,
you stared me down
and made your wrath known.

With your round face glowing red
and hair swinging wildly
at the top of your head,
I still remember what you said.

“You babyhead!”
I didn’t dare laugh,
But I wanted to.

Sister,
your curse words
Were cute.

.dnuos a gnikam tuohtiw
rettulf traeh ym ekam ouy
.nwod edispu em pilf dna
tuo edisni em nrut uoY

It is often said that
a picture is worth
a thousand words
but no one ever mentions
how your kiss
leaves me with
no words.

You,
with your
blue eyes that pierce through me,
that puncture through my defenses.

You,
with your
razor sharp gaze that slices me to pieces,
that cuts through to my soul.

You,
with your
sidelong glances and furrowed brow,
have captured me
quite thoroughly.

Caution:
contents under
pressure.

I can’t take this anymore.

Do not expose
to extreme
heat.

Please keep away from me.

May cause
temporary
blindness.

Why didn’t I see this coming?

You taste like
cotton candy dreams,
sugar snap peas,
cold coffee,
and
intimate fantasies.
You are the
watermelon pop rocks
that tingle on my tongue.

You feel like
a roaring fire,
a tickle down my spine,
a belly laugh,
and
a brand new promise.
You are the
static electricity
that zaps my skin.

You look like
my past,
my present,
my future,
and
my forever.
*You are the
man that
I love.