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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I’m feeling the need to go solo.*

Fly free.*
(Please don’t forget me.)

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yearning to be someone's
One
Under all circumstances

Has to be
A tough job and still you
Valiantly commit to
Each and every feeling you have

Against your brain's demands.

Logic has never been known to bring
Order to the longing soul, though it still
Vies for sole control of
Everything that you are,
Lovely little heart--but
You know that.

Liking and loving are not one
In the same,
Though sometimes the brain
Tries to convince the
Lovely little heart otherwise.
Enough is enough.

Hearts feel what they feel.
Eventually, you will find that there is
Always and forever
Room for your lovely little heart
To stay beside my little longing heart.

The wind colors your cheeks
the way I only dream of doing.

It dances through your hair
the way I itch to with my fingers.

It whispers lovingly in your ear
the way I hope to one day soon.

It gently caresses your beautiful face
the way my hands were meant to.

If only I could borrow
some of the wind's
luck.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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



Distant.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.