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HR Beresford Nov 2012
with lotus hands
I have surfaced
from the mud

I mistook the suffocation
for the ground loving me
it felt too good
to be true

it was thick with leaving
warm with sunlight
I was a *****
for the murky

tired of the cloudy
I am striving
to exist
in the space
next to godliness
diving into
clarity

a flowering proclamation
of a renaissance
HR Beresford Nov 2012
I heard someone utter the words,
"Sober is just another word for thirsty."

And I did not believe her.

Until my throat started itching,
the moment I stopped the stitching
of molecules that altered me,
turned me around,
I had been treading backwards.
My body ached with vacancy,
my hands trembled with an appetite
that played the part of
of my hands on the wheel.

It is an agonizing contradiction,
to be weighed down by nothing,
every drop that plunged into my mouth,
every plume that escaped
the narrow path to my lungs
was a nail in my soles,
keeping me firm to the ground,
I became stagnant,
only dipping under the influence
to ask for what I thought
was needed assistance.

My temporarily
stainless bloodstream
bred venomous ideas
while the darkest parts of me quivered
with insatiable hunger,
and made a show of it
with my fluttering fingertips.

I had dreamt
on nearly every day of the week
with my eyes open,
of clawing my out of this
canyon of flesh
I had been trapped inside of,
the echoes of an empty heart
were enough
to keep me awake for days,
witnessing a continuum,
of sunset,
sunrise,
sunset,
sunrise,
yet the sky never brightened.

The darkness was addictive,
I became a ****** for the murky,
and I have been buried.

Underneath habits
that stifle me.

Smoke that leaves my lungs
no room
for new air.

There is an invisible layer
of soot
caked onto my skin
falling from my nights spent
drunk and unaware
of which direction
I was growing.

My odometer
slowly screams
for me to stop,
to reverse,
begin again.

My shower head works hard.
It tries to bathe me in rebirth.
The shampoo bottle whispers
with its shape,
asks me to sing again.
Why did I stop singing?

Because I no longer enjoyed the sound of my voice.
I stopped believing in it.
Drenched in half truths
and uncut delusions,
my tongue was poison.

I had denied the beautiful methods
of me.
And employed the ugly.
I gave a managerial promotions
to the mean
the spitting mad
and the angry
slices of my heart.

But I will dig through
these concrete slabs
of toxic routines.

And I will take back my beauty
and revive my love.
And become who I am,
climbing out of who I have been.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
How do you get those boots on?
I’ve never seen any straps or laces or snaps or velcro.
When did you know you could fly?
Did you fall out of a tree when you were five and missed the ground?
How does Gravity feel about this?
Does that spandex itch?
Do you wear underwear under the spandex under your underwear?
Do those cuffs rub against your forearms?
How does it feel to a lift a car?
Like a tin can?
Like a paper bag?
Like a bucket of feathers?
What it is like to look eighty stories down and know that you are safe, that you can always save yourself?
Do you have a sixth or seventh sense?
Does it ever wake you in the night?
Do you experience the blistering heat and the chilling cold?
Do you feel it in your bones like I do?
Do you want to destroy your living room when someone has lied to you like I do?
Have you ever destroyed your living room when someone has lied to you?
Does your cape get stuck in the elevator doors?
Do you ever take the elevator?
Do you ever take the remote into the kitchen during a commercial break?
Can you stay on the couch and reach all the way to the counter?
Do you wear a mask?
Does it leave those red marks like my glasses do on my nose?
Do you want **** people who are dangerous and rotten in some places on the inside with one hand?
Does evil reside in you as well?
HR Beresford Apr 2012
11.
Only in retrospect
do I put together the pieces
that form the key
to my own sexuality.

The weeks when I bought
spearmint gum
and prayed to Jane Lynch
hoping that the girl who sat next to me
in third period Chemistry.
would ask me for a piece.
I didn't like spearmint
as much as I liked peppermint.
But she did.

The lunch breaks I spent
in the classroom
of my vertically rewarded
gloriously collar *****
and beautifully articulate
English teacher,
when I knew very well
that there was nothing wrong with my
essay.

The nights
when I was slide
as close as possible
to my best friend in sixth grade
thinking maybe she would turn over
and look at me
the same way I gazed
at the back of her head.

The smiles
that landed on my parent's faces
when I told them,
"I want to kiss girls
the way my friends want to kiss boys."

The hug
my best friend gave me
when I told him
I didn't want to join the
Gay Straight Alliance
because I didn't want people to think I was gay.

Because they would be right.
11/30, 2012
HR Beresford Apr 2012
10.
For a long time 
I thought that the smell 
of the elderly, 
"that old people smell",
was the smell of decay. 

A smell so honest, 
other fragrant molecules 
could not bear 
to intrude 
or cover it up.

I wonder when 
I will start to emit a scent 
that signifies my adventure 
turning to departure.

Will any of my atoms 
transform 
when I arrive 
to a new life? 

Will I fill the noses 
of strangers with 
rebirth? 

With beginning?
10/30, 2012
HR Beresford Apr 2012
I sweep up the pieces.
Methodically
and with the same rhythm
of the feet that walked through me.

I gather them and I spread them out.

I touch
and feel
and remember
each piece
and who resided there.

I think about all of the places
they took them
and all that they must have seen.

And after studying and remembering
and maybe imagining
some of the history
since I last pulled out my needle and thread,

I write.
I stitch together things that were,
I thread through myself
the things that couldn’t be,
and I plunge
into everything
that will never exist.

I come out of it
shocked
and sober.

I draw my heart
into a Venn diagram of sorts
and try to keep experiences separate.

The lines fade after time.

Sometimes I awake
in the middle of the night
and must sort through everything again
because it has all slid to one side.
I walk carefully,
attempting to keep balance;
the road is not smooth.

I cry.
A lot.
I flush out the sadness
and fill myself
with emptiness instead.

But then I feel hollow
as if a breeze could pick me up
and I might blow away,
and I allow the thoughts of what was
to weigh my heart down
and anchor me;
this heaviness leads to
me ringing it out again.

Heartbreak is a vicious cycle
that tears me apart
but teaches me how put myself back together.

I also drink a lot of chai tea.
I warm myself from the inside out.
And do a lot of ballet.
Discipline my muscles.

The most excruciating part about heartbreak,
is that it is completely irrevocable.
I do not,
cannot,
remember
what it was like
to not feel this way.

How did I sit still
without my heart quivering
and making a show of it
with my trembling hands?
How did I smile
without feeling untrue
to the inner most workings of me?
Will there always be these cracks?
9/30, 2012
HR Beresford Apr 2012
8.
My heart begins to
quiver, and makes a show of
my trembling hands.
8/30, 2012
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