I bite my lip and prepare to jump,
In my literary suicide.
I've got my diary scrawled over my heart,
And I've got nothing left to hide.

I'm an addict for your love,
But you don't exist.
We live in a world,
Of spelling errors and misprints.

So take your pen,
And sign your name on my soul.
Give me one last kiss,
Please, just to make me whole.

Tie the knot,
And kick the chair from under me.
This poem is all about,
Me just trying to let you be.

You tilted my chin back,
Tucked a strand of hair behind my ear,
Kissed my lips,
And whispered,
“Love you more.”
And in that moment,
All of the anchors that’d been holding me down
Weren’t a match for the rushing waves,
The salty sea,
Or the deep ocean floor.

We approached the counter, side by side.

I said, “Ladies first.”

And, with a trickle of a smile and just a bit of teeth, she said, “I’ll have a café breve.”
The words left her lips in a solid, confident tone, yet they brushed my ears like a whisper.

I must have ordered the same, because that is what I got.

And we sat down in the plush brown chairs and she let her amber hair free from its tight bun.

And we sat. And we spoke.
I spoke of nothingness, I’m sure.

For that is what I remember – nothing.

But she spoke of her dreams, her future plans, her summer plans, her favorite colors and why they were the prettiest.
She spoke of smaller things, like the weather, her chair and why it was so wobbly.
And though it was casual and carefree, I couldn't help but be bewildered by the beauty she bore.

The simple beauty that hides behind closed door and open-mouthed laughs.

And we did this all as we sipped our drinks, gulping down the vague design in the coffee and steamed milk.

And, setting down her mug, I noticed she’d left a smear of crimson on the edge.

And as I stared at the lipstick settled on the rim, I quietly took in the rest of our surroundings –

The frosted windows,
The scent of fresh coffee and pastries,
The lonely barista, who was currently changing the background music CD from electro to smooth jazz.

And as the music began again, so did she.
And the whisper of her voice was like the whisper of the cymbals,
Ringing in time to the beat of the song.

To My Father

I wish I had never met you
because then you'd be a mirage,
an illusion I created, more handsome,
still absent, but valiant.
Brilliant. The mysterious
dark figure who rode off
on a white horse, the epic hero
who gave me
my nose.

But, instead, you raised me
poorly, as if I were an extension of your
self-loathing. And it didn't work
and you left and I would rather
mourn your death than
eat dinner with you
ever again.

It hurts the soul to be conceived
in hate, veins coursing with accidental
heredity, like the daughter of
a serial killer, worried
I am half you and it's my fault
and I am doomed.

To Myself**

You have been handed lies
like family heirlumes
and they are not your
weight to carry, you have to
give them back.

You are not your father, you do
not have his nose, you are not doomed
and history does not repeat itself.
Unlearn your childhood and
clear the slate. You need to be
un-nurtured, my dear.

You are beautiful and brave
and you change your circumstances.
You run like hell away
from anyone who dims
your flame.
You protect yourself.
You change.