I came here
To seek a place to hide
To seek solace
Because
I'm absolutely tired of
Being judged
I hate
Being misunderstood

Sure
I'm not good with words at all
But
Leave me alone
Stop harping on
My words and
My views

You've misunderstood me
You've judged me
I could have explained
If you hadn't seen through me

But you robbed me of that chance
As you stepped into the
Weaved
Abstract
Cloud of thoughts
That stemmed from you
Not me

I was in love with anatomy
the symmetry of my body
poised for flight,
the heights it would take
over parents, lovers, a keen
riding over truth and detail.
I thought growing up would be
this rising from everything
old and earthly,
not these faltering steps out the door
every day, then back again.

As blue turns to a blending of colours,
I grow hungry to hold her again,
and in the security of midnight blue,
I treasure the moment I am able to summon her presence

Caressing her beauty I mould her,
adding extra fingers, arms, curves,
unbelievability turned magic,
enchanted I lose myself, unconscious.

She gives me unicorn kisses,
and twinkles like the eyes of god,
loving me, she loves me,
she loved and I love and love is everywhere now.

but from the blending of scarlets, violets, roses,
back to bold, burdensome, blamed blue,
she slipped through my shivering solitary fingers,
escaped from under my sheets and is forgotten in the cold.

Her body not ever to be realised,
still I bring her out each night to bring warmth,
to be held in the delicate moments of dusk.

Mr. Jones you’re an All Star
You broke my Achy Breaky Heart
Because you’re cold as Ice Ice Baby
I saw The Sign but
I Would Do Anything for Love
If you don’t want What I Got
Good Riddance

My Heart Will Go On
But if you Wannabe
Living the Vida loca
Play that Funky Music
Baby One More Time

What’s my Age Again?
Smells like Teen Spirit
Its My Life and I feel like it’s over
Just Say My Name or
Quit Playing Games with my Heart
Genie in a Bottle please grant me three wishes
Because my life Don’t Impress Me Much.

I’m Blue. Da ba dee.
Im Torn.
Its been One Week
And I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.
And of course there is No Rain.
Because all my Tears are in Heaven

I think I would enjoy an Iris
Much more than a Kiss from a Rose.

If I said
"***"
Out Loud
Would I get your attention?
You'd definitely get mine.

You watch the little one teeter,
precarious, fifteen feet above
the mat on the chalked beam
with white tape wrapped around
her wrist and the cracked webbing
between her thumb and forefinger.
You watch.

Her fingers tight against themselves
she reaches left arm out and bends
to grab the structure wrapped in taut
leather and sanded down into a smooth,
uniform surface, the likes of which are
stacked in warehouses in central Pennsylvania
or southern Iowa or west Texas and shipped
to community centers and middle school
gymnasiums for use in competitions with face paint
and streamers and yelling parents donning
appropriate colors and shouting cheers in unison.

You watch her shift her weight from left
leg to left arm and kick up to handstand.
You see her look of concentration and you
see when her eyes open wide with surprise
and you see her balance shift backwards
and you see her overcompensate
and you see her back bend to the side
in a way it's not supposed to go.
You watch her fold in half and fall hard
onto the bright blue mat
in a cloud of chalk dust and you watch
her face full of disgust and disappointment
and white tears and sour looks.

You run to her, laying on the ground in a
small pile. You push competition officials
to the side and hurdle trainers and instructors
to get to her, to hold her in your arms and to
hear her crying and whispering softly,
"I'm so sorry."
"I'm so sorry."
"I'm so sorry."

You put your lips on her forehead
and you put your lips on her temple
and you hold her against your chest
and your eyes start to quiver
and you grip her tighter
and you tell her that she's perfect
and you tell her that she's doing
all she can do, and that everyone
makes mistakes and everyone falls
down once in a while, but the part of
life that's most important is to get up,
get up, get up, get up.

She repeats,
"I'm so sorry."
"I'm so sorry."
"I'm so sorry."

You hold her and the two of you
rock together and the room falls
silent and you are the only two
there, you are the only two who
matter in that moment, and if
she could just listen, if she could just
hear you, she would know and she
would believe and she would realize
that all she can do is be who she is
and get up and try again and that
every day is a new day and that
every moment is a new moment.

But she can only sit in your arms and cry
and whisper apologies to nobody and
everybody, apologies that seem out of place
in the first round of the junior varsity
gymnastics tournament in the fourth
of five divisions in a nothing town on a cold
Saturday afternoon in March when she's
got a scholarship to Berkeley in the fall
and an award for increasing student
engagement and a clarinet concert the next
day and a family who loves her.

You lift her up onto your arm like
you did when she was small and you
carry her to the car to raucous applause
and admiration for the little girl who did
it all and will continue to do it all.

She wipes the tears from her face and
looks up at you through hurt and furrowed
brow.

"Ice cream?" You ask and she smiles.
"Yes please." She looks down.
"Chin up." You lift her face towards the sun.
"Okay." She opens her eyes with wonder.