Writing is exhausting.
I feel as if I am scrambling to scratch down
all of my feelings
before they drift away,
leaving myself drained and open for all to see.

Writing is exhilarating.
My fingers cannot move fast enough
as I let emotions spill onto the page,
relieving the building tension
that was once pressing down on my chest.

Writing rescued me.

Laying in the grass,
our eyes searching the sky
for answers to the question
that lies between us.

Almost touching
Not quite,
but I can feel your warmth.

Fingers itching,
begging
to reach out
and grasp yours,
if only for a moment.

Shattered glass rains
down on my body,
each piece glittering
and shimmering
in the sunlight
like tiny gems meant
for the crown of
a majestic queen.
The chair that I
had thrown lies
limp, unable to
move until I gave
it permission
to do so.
I stood the chair
up and moved
it back into the
dining room,
tucking it safely
away from me
underneath
the table where
it belonged.
I sometimes
wish that I
were that chair.

When you look up at the sky,
the moon herself blushes,
for the light in your eyes
shines brighter than hers.

The adrenaline is pumping
through my veins
at critical levels.
I thought my heart had wings;
it soared so high.
It skipped one beat,
two beats,
three.
It did a jig
and danced right out of my chest.
You caught it.
I looked down at my heart.
It was beating happily
in your hands.
I suddenly realized
that I was holding your heart
and it was joyously keeping time
to the beat of my heart.
I feared that I would drop it
or squeeze it
or harm it
in any way
and I wondered
is this what love really is?

My grandma gave me a jingle,
as she liked to say,
and asked if I would like to go shopping with her tomorrow.

She knew I would accept her invitation,
as I've never turned her away before,
so I am sure she was counting on an all day road trip
in her purple minivan.

The next morning,
I sat on my front porch,
hands in pocket,
as I waited not so patiently for her to  arrive.

My feet tapped the cracked cement
as I watched the red ants
scurry around my shoes.
I tried as hard as I could not to squish any.

With every car that happened to turn onto my road,
I lifted my head up,
expecting it to be her.

First a silver car,
then a gold truck.
After that, a blue van.
Where was the purple minivan
with the fire helmet on the tip of the antenna?

Five minutes turned to twenty,
twenty minutes turned to forty five,
forty five minutes turned into two hours.
Still no crunch of the gravel.
Should I give her a call?

I could have used one of the Lifesaver mints
she had in her purse,
in her pockets,
on the floor of her purple minivan.

Mints calmed the nerves and stimulated the brain,
she always told me.
She would say that
with her slow and patient smile
as she unwrapped another mint.

Just as I began to really worry,
my grandpa gave me a jingle
and told me that grandma overshot my house,
accidentally taking her purple minivan
all the way up into the sky
so she could shop with the angels today.

While I sleep
the dreams I keep
will cement you
into my memory.

An ocean of ice once covered my entire surface
Until you came along.
You crash landed into me.
My inner core began to melt.
I am now a molten mass of warmth.

You and I
were meant to be.
You're not blind,
but you can't see
that we could be so much more.
Take a chance,
walk through that door.
Take the leap, trust me.
You and I
were meant to be.

My heart lives dangerously.
It spirals out of control
from time to time.
There is no safety net.

My brain lives chaotically.
It goes off the deep end
from time to time.
There is no organization.

I live with you in my mind.
I can't stop thinking about you
from time to time.
There is nothing but love.

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.

If you called my name, I'd come.
If you shouted help, I'd run.
But when I shout help instead,
you move as if your feet are lead.
Move, trick.

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.

Bloodshot eyes greet me
when I look into the mirror.
I shuffle my way into the
kitchen, where I smell bacon.
The sizzling popping noise
soothes my half awake mind.
A plate appears in front of me
and two eggs with a side of
bacon peer up at me,
begging to be eaten.
He plops into a chair
beside me with a plate
of his own and we
dig into our breakfast.
I watch him chomp his
greasy bacon and
I smile widely.
Another day
has begun
and I am thankful.

You are the twinkling stars
that light up
my night sky:
constant,
full of hope,
beautiful,



Distant.

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.

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

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.

I want to lay beside you,
warmly near,
gently coo into your ear
and hold you
close

I want to trace a finger
down your hips,
press my mouth against your lips
and let it
linger

I want to nibble at your skin,
rose petal soft,
taste of your sweetest sin
and leave you
longing

I want all of this to be,
but
your skin crawls
away from
me

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.

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.

Flowers sway in summer’s breeze,
regardless of the coming freeze.
Flowers dance in warm sunlight,
approaching clouds a far off plight.

We must have been flowers
grown with limited hours.
We were happy
until we weren’t.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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'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.

Blue skies.
White clouds.
Yellow sun.

Warm eyes.
Warm smile.
Warm heart.

Charged phone.
Loading app.
Message sent.

Shining eyes.
Happy smile.
Fluttering heart.

Long wait.
Shrugging shoulders.
No response.

Sad eyes.
Wane smile.
Fragile heart.

Phone bleeps.
Short reply.
Wrong response.

Teary eyes.
Missing smile.
Broken heart.

Blue skies.
Empty promise.

White clouds.
Hide feelings.

Yellow sun.
Go away.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

I am a barbed wire fence.
You are the pair of pants
That got snared in my grip
That I ripped
To shreds.

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.