sleep melds
in a vat of night
    the streetlights are deathly still

unperturbed on this black book of silence
      tears tap-tap on your windowsill.

the waves roar,
toes cuddle the sand
and the shoreline invites legs
with licks of salty breaths.
in and out,
the tide sighs
while tiny tourists glide
on sail boats in the distance.
and ice cold coke,
and you.

the sea purrs,
the sun begins to set
along the dusty horizon.
laughter becomes muffled
and the sand now naked,
stripped of umbrellas,
leaving behind
only foot prints.
a half-melted strawberry sundae,
and you.

As a child I'd stare fondly at the barn owl
That would coo outside my older brother's
Window.

My mother would go on and on
About how the owl was a demon.

I was four years old
When I befriended a garden snake in the yard.
I'd run out to the garden,
After ladybugs or in search of caterpillars,
And the little black snake would peer out from under a bush,
Awaiting a piece of frozen chicken I'd bring him from the freezer in the garage.

He'd slither over my bare feet,
And I'd ask him questions
That I never received
Any answers to,
But I was still satisfied
With his presence.

And one day,
I was five,
And excitedly came home from my first day
At a kindergarten I never went back to after September was over.
I raided the freezer,
And brought out half a chicken breast
But Luce wasn't by the hydrangea's.

Finally I heard the smash
Of metal on pavement,
And he had been beheaded
By a neighbors dad,
Using a gardening trowel.

I was not fond
Of the irony.

And in the days to come
I'd make friends with the crows in the yard.

And in the months to come,
I'd recognize a love for creatures other than my own.

And in years following,
I'd much rather converse
With things that would not respond nor listen,
Than beings who think they know better.

And as being repeatedly rejected
And ostracized
Commonly does to a person,
I had resolved that only bad things
Happen to people I care for,
And whether it is true or not,
It is not fair to attempt to protect them
At the cost of their feelings
And my sanity.

So if I'm just bad news,
Let me borrow a line from Taking Back Sunday:
"If I'm just bad news, then you're a liar."

I will never be the rising sun
On a rainy day,
But allow me to be the rain
For the roots of a dying plant.
Allow me to be warmth
On an especially cold winter's day.

Allow me to be the relief
To your pain,
Somehow.
Whether it be the ice that runs through my veins,
Or the fire within my chest.

You have shown me
That flying is more than possible
For the likes of me.
You've very much
Been a beacon of light
On a day that clouds were overwhelming my vision.

I wanted to hold your hand,
But if given the chance,
I'd like to hold your heart.

Arrival


Upon my arrival, I whisper-walked
Erasing my steps like a broom
I avoided bottlenecks and having my back to the door


Soft voices and sweet
Made me cringe
So did people who had no smell.


What was I,  they wanted to know,
Such a delicate and precariously balanced thing,
Doing at the Crossroads?  


Even the smallest and most inconsequential among us,
Could knock you apart
with a soft, experimental tap.  


I’m sure that when they were children
They broke all their toys.
And I’m a living doll.


Perhaps I should, but I don’t want
To creak open the hinges of their faces.
There are things worse than skulls and brains.


Such as humorless laughter.
Indifference. Intentions.
And voids.


What you must realize,
What you need to comprehend.
Is that.

At times like this,
A girl would give anything
To be ugly.

I remember the ivy
that grew in the side
of our first house

year by year, we
watched it shake off
its dead leaves and
tremble, naked through
the winter

in the Spring,
we'd take tea underneath
it, sharing the sugar spoon
like we shared sheets
and secrets

we watched it beat
again, like a heart
restarting, rising after
the fall

the wrought iron
chairs are rusted brown
now, and no-one sits
upon them

we're dead
but breathing,
blood pulsing on

and on

hearts beating backwards

and sugar spoons left
out for the
ants

On old tin roofs
of silent ruins fell the rain
Hark, woeful music

Onetime, I hit rock bottom
but it wasn't really rocky at all
it was actually pretty soft
it felt like my bed
in the middle of a messy room
that went unnoticed
because there was nothing
to provoke me to care
there was no feeling
soft was just a sensation, no emotion involved
I could've been laying on a rock
but it would've just given my nerves
a different pattern of stimulation
it would've just been another irrelevant reality
separate from me.
The phrase was coined "rock bottom" to scare people away
because feeling nothing is worse than feeling a rock
bludgeon your body
because when you feel nothing there is no reason
to ever come back to the surface
and live.