I ran there today
in one of those moments of euphoric need.
I wanted to see the view they told me was so appealing.
I ran there today,
and even though I was accompanied by several strangers,
they were invisible to my eye,
so the lake’s peaceful atmosphere wouldn’t escape me
as sweet classical music whispered melodies in my ear,
a solitary canoe sent soft ripples from its path,
and eyes locked on a view framed by the most beautiful mess of weeds
on top of the hill where I stood.

“This was so much prettier last year.
They need to mow this whole hillside.”

I guess those melodies weren’t whispering loud enough
if I could hear an invisible stranger’s voice.

I loved those weeds.

You know when you see a cluster of friends together
and just by looking at them,
you know that they each have a sense of belonging in that group?
I don’t remember what that feels like.
There are pieces of me that fit into separate puzzles,
but I have not found the one that rounds with each curve
and shifts with each edge so perfectly that I am secure.
So when I look at these weeds,
I understand them,
and even though they are spiritless beings,
I can relate to them in a way I have never related
to someone of my own kind.

I am not a gentle flower
that must be nurtured to growth and bloom.
I am the white dandelion you picked from a patch of grass as a child
so you could almost effortlessly blow every seed into the wind,
scattering me in so many directions that my personas
fall far from my roots,
no two of them planting close together.
In college
I felt too goody two shoes for the theatre department,
too eccentric for the fitness nerds,
too simple for the city-lovers,
and too urbane for the country.
So,
though you may think these weeds are chaotic
and ugly
and unwanted,
these weeds are life,
and they echo our time here
far better than the flowers or grass you desire.
We are not clean;
We are wild,
confused,
and aching for the love of our onlookers,
when oftentimes we are ignored.

Sometimes
I whisper the words
“I love you”
into absent air
just to remember what it sounds like
coming from my lips.
The silence I hear in reply is a reminder
that my words ricochet off of the walls
and back to me,
bouncing off of my ear’s bass drum
a beat that lets me know I am okay,
but this beat is one that most can’t follow.
You see,
within me are two opposing existences,
both equally me,
but different nonetheless.
I am not emotional,
but I feel all of life’s idiosyncrasies deep within me:
the light that peeks through my blinds as I wake in the morning,
the solitary solidarity of a morning run when the town is still asleep,
the sound of nature’s white noise,
the crunch of autumn leaves and twigs beneath my feet…
I feel these things,
and my heart swells with a sense of liberation with each experience,
though I have not yet been liberated.

We may not be pretty to you.
We may not be cultivated.
You may think we are competing with your ideal aesthetic,
but we are just trying to make it through this tangled life
alive and well,
while the rest of the world attempts to rid itself of us.
Little do you know that we are your backbone.
We are your strength.
We are independence.
We are beautiful.

Don’t mow us away.

They say a torn muscle is forever weaker in its function, even upon healing, and can easily be re-torn in the same area. They also say bones never break in the same place twice. Their breaking point repairs itself to even more immense strength.

The heart is a complicated ***** with hollow chambers that pump us full of life. It is made of muscle…

But mine wasn’t.

My heart was fist-shaped, covered in scars and dry blood. Having each finger broken year after year left it permanently clenched… or so I thought. I gave up at chipping away the blood because I stopped seeing the use in trying to outrun the treadmill of life beneath me. You see, sometimes moving forward is standing still. But while I was distracted, a stranger placed a damp, warm washcloth around me, erasing the dried-up crust of my old wounds and making my scars even more discernible. Blanketed in security, I felt the bone beginning to loosen back into overlapping muscle fibers, easing a grip I previously believed was stuck. Right before I completely relaxed, a gust of cold air enveloped me as the blanket was ripped away, chilling an open hand back to bone. People like to tell me that I’m strong. Maybe my strength comes from deeper within. Maybe my strength isn’t tangible. I guess I was more risk-ready than I thought, and it might be nice to have someone fit their fingers through my heart spaces.

Until then, I’ll keep attempting to force my knuckles to bend while re-covering my scars with the specks of dry blood I left scattered on the floor.

I've been treading the surface
to keep myself guarded,
and with weary limbs,
I'm ready to dive down.
Will you dive in with me
or try to hold my head under?
I'll grow from the adventure,
whichever you choose.

Is it wrong that I became so accustomed
to chaos swirling around in my head that,
even years since,
I find myself overzealous to run outside
every time the sky opens its eyes
to cry on us?
Somehow running through its tears
gives me an exhilarating boost,
stirring my consciousness to the oceans of blood within.
I can stand motionless,
eyes fully closed,
listening to its white noise for hours,
and the world suddenly stills,
time halts,
and for a moment…
I am indestructible.

There’s tranquility in the way
our star slowly hides itself beneath the horizon
before tucking our hemisphere into bed each night.
I ache for that view sometimes
to an extent that concerns me,
but I still live for its solidarity
alone under a blanketed sky.
Sharing it with anyone else has always
ruined its preciousness,
but tonight
hundreds of humans no different than I
gather along this pier,
unified in our attempt at peace,
quiet among the backdrop of a world
that has become so corrupt with hatred and violence.
For a few moments
I forget about the malice that causes me
to fall to my knees each night,
praying that we find a leader that can help us escape.
We are the cult,
and the pier our sanctuary,
but in this world
that may actually be more safe.
If but a few minutes here can briefly salvage
the hope within us,
I see no reason to walk away
until the sky falls fast asleep,
and I fall quick with serenity.

I’ve spent the greater part of the last decade
nuzzled in a driver’s seat,
fixating on the horizon,
while mellow tunes from my iPod
serenade the muscle in my chest
so that my breathing might stay steady enough
to control my impatience
for just enough time to see beyond this highway.

You see,
I’ve been chasing sunsets for as long as I can remember,
but I still recall the tranquility that rushed over me
the first time my feet touched the ocean floor
with the tide’s white noise silencing my cares
and a rainbow-canvas sky mirrored in sparkling waters
blinding my responsibility.
I’ve never been able to find it again,
because every time I greet the skyline,
I fall short.

There is something missing within me,
a piece of myself I never quite found,
even after the chaos of orchestrating my own
death and rebirth.
I know everyone finds the ocean sunset peaceful,
but there is a key in that fiery heaven
that only fits the crevices to my brain,
and no soul could match its sanctity,
so I will keep running to that shoreline
until I find a sky that can fix what the locksmith broke
and the waves that will put my reeling mind to sleep.

For a split second
I believe in the glimpse of my past self
with muscles swelling
to the pounding of pavement,
comfort in my skin
and breath flowing freely.

I snap back to a present
stamped “Handle with care”
for the feet that stumble stay fragile.

Maybe this glimpse
is a vision of the future,
the possibility of granting
of a year’s worth of wishes.
“Patience is a virtue,”
I’ve always heard.
Give me the sanity to see through.

If you were a poet
and I the words,
would you wrap me in metaphors
to keep me warm?
Would you sprinkle my edges
with hope and love?
Would you warn me when judgment
comes far too strong?
Would you claim my existence
to those who abhor?
Would you flaunt me in cultures
all over the world?
Would you edit my errors
to hide my faults?
Would you give me syllables
of beautiful awe?

Would you twist me to fragments
of vengeful lust?
Would you scribble my ink
to darkened blood?
Would you tear through my home
and throw me away?
Would you burn my stanzas
to ash and ****?
Would you strip me naked
to bare my soul?
Would you forget the stories
you lost in my hold?
Would you laugh at the lines
between which you see?
Would you shadow the shivers
so eloquently?


Would you care for the letters
you etched into me?
Erase me?
Erase
Era
E

They say a torn muscle is forever weaker in its function, even upon healing, and can easily be re-torn in the same area. They also say bones never break in the same place twice. Their breaking point repairs itself to even more immense strength.

The heart is a complicated ***** with hollow chambers that pump us full of life. It is made of muscle…

But mine isn’t.

My heart is fist-shaped, covered in scars and dry blood, and every attack has left a new finger broken, each inhibiting my ability to perform at my best, but when the soreness bids farewell, so does my weakness. People like to tell me that I am strong. I am strong because my heart is always clenched and ready for the next fight. Even those who manage to open the hand will eventually be crushed by my grip. I don’t have any issues with this. As far as I’m concerned, no one will get a chance to start breaking knuckles for quite some time. Maybe by the time I’m risk-ready, I’ll relax just enough for someone to fit their fingers through my heart-spaces.

Until then, I’ll keep chipping away at the pieces of blood.

One of these days
someone will be intriguing enough
to break these bricks,
turn off the electric fence,
cross the ocean,
and trek the desert
that surrounds the swollen bruise
in my chest,
but if it's time,
all I’d require
is a simple
knock on the door.

I should be tired,
but all I feel
is every piano strike
as it reverberates through my ears
and dances its way into my chest
so all I can sense is the stillness in the night.
If I wasn’t driving,
my eyes would be closed
in an effort to soak in every drop of peace
before the austerity of daylight
squeezes me dry.
Tonight I wasn’t good enough for anyone.

I can’t remember a time in my life
that I have spent this night alone,
but it seems only fitting that I start the next chapter
among the best friends I’ve come to know:
music, memories, and myself.
If only there wasn’t a war
between my desire for solitude
and ache to feel loved,
I could have enjoyed the evening’s involuntary isolation a bit more.

All I ask now
is that in this moment,
one of these notes could take me on a ride
to the nearest slice of complacency
beyond this bed of uncertainty
and fill me up with a sound of belonging
that will sing me to sleep
when my head greets the pillow,
then wipe away the invisible tears
that never fell from my soon-weary eyes.

Sweet
is the scent
of a blooming world
that has slowly
illuminated
to beautiful intensity
since the moment
you walked out of it.

Some days
I lose myself
so deeply in my thoughts
that I find the person
I was meant to be,
instead of the person
I wanted to be,
and in those moments
I realize
I don’t have to try anymore,
that I already am,
that everything I ever wanted
is everything that would have killed me,
and a new world
suddenly fell into my lap,
even though it had been there all along,
and in that world,
I am already my best,
I am enough,
I am free,
I am appreciated,
and every piece of life
I have ever lived
has brought me to this moment,
a moment where I can just be

and continue to be.

With each step
the keys swinging from my wrist
lightly graze my thigh,
urging it to continue moving forward
and resist looking back.
The aroma
of freshly bloomed honeysuckle
fills my nostrils
with the sweet nostalgia of past springs
alongside friends.
Meticulously-
picked songs bounce against my eardrums
as the soundtrack
to a life of simultaneous apathy, agony,
and ecstasy.
It seems
some higher being knew that
I needed to feel
the lonely tonight in a way I haven’t allowed
in quite some time,
that I just
needed to feel within myself
everything I’ve been
stowing away under my lungs,
adding pressure to each breath
that I never
noticed was there in the first place,
forcing away
the laze with which I’ve treated the existence
I’ve become.
In my peripheral
I see that colors are bursting
in the sky behind me,
and it’s enough for the wind to press my cheek
to look back
on a vision I’ve not witnessed
since autumn approached,
and I close my eyes to let my head fall back
because it’s almost
too much life to feel.

It occurs to me
there is beauty behind us
sometimes worth giving a glimpse,
and if we don’t turn around
at a time that calls,
we won’t find our way back home.

On dark nights I lie in bed in hopes of a sleep
that will appease the uncertainties of my brain,
but somehow it rarely approaches.

Just close my eyes to what my world has become
and place me somewhere I recognize again.
Bury my feet in the sand, and let me dig
each crevice of my toes into the grainy earth,
sifting and scraping away the dead pieces.
I pray that when I open my eyes, I’ll once again
be surrounded by those I call my friends,
but I imagine that when lashes meet lid,
there’s no one in the distance.
A beach’s waves sing me a lullaby
each time they greet the shore,
and I’m comforted by the realization
that this is where I always felt f   r   e   e.

Slowly I lower myself to the ground
and find a comfortable home against the shoreline.
My fingers find their way through the grains,
and as if they have a mind of their own,
their voice bellowing in the subtle path they form.
Before I know it, I am reading the words
“I love you”
in the sand.

An eager wave washes the letters away
and a piece of myself with it.
Relentlessly, they trace the earth again,
and the sanding of my skin cells stings sweetly,
and before the sensation grows painful,
“I am loved”
appears below.

Yet once again, as the sun begins setting,
the ocean grazes the shore in a soft embrace,
this time leaving traces of my work
but stabbing me nonetheless.
One more time I actively and purposefully
etch a last sentence into the granules,
because I believe with (almost) every part of my soul
that it must be a legitimate reality,
that I don’t wonder if I lie to myself
or if it’s just a rare moment when my old pal
Depression
comes creeping back to spread fabrications,
and I shove my finger so deep into the earth
I swear it will be covered in blood when I’m done,
but I have to believe in every syllable of the phrase
I wear over, around, and within my heart,
because if don’t,
I lose myself completely.

“I am happy.”

I.
Am.
Happy.

The salt may wash these words away,
but I’ll be ****** if they take me with it.

Just open my eyes to what my world has become.
Awake, I still find myself dreaming.

We met.
You comforted.
We loved.
We breathed.
We broke.
I lived.

There were days
when the ice in her pupils
would burn their victim
to a mess of frostbitten limbs
among flurries of captivity
and twirling, black masks
of hatred and woe.
There were days
when her throat seemed forever blocked
by the boulder heart that arose
to choke the breath that she wished,
when she woke each morning,
would shallow itself
until frozen in time.
There were days
when the humdrum drone
of life surrounding her,
dialogues of laughter
and dances of camaraderie,
only tipped her sideways
until emptiness set itself
deep within the chaos she harbored beneath
camouflaged skin
that was cold to touch.

Take us on a journey
through the rocky rivers that will lead us
to the mind that awakened one day,
melting those eyes
into tributaries of courage.
The aroma of rain is on the horizon.
Let it wash us away into the ocean
that splashes against the beach
where her feet tread sand,
where a breeze greets
the palm trees in the distance
and finds its way through each strand of her hair
while her eyes close in remembrance of the moment.
Freedom is just past the vantage point.
Watch as she delicately forms fists in preparation
for its fight,
and hope unburies its sanctuary inside her lungs.
The bitter taste on her twisted tongue
will soon be swallowed
in sovereignty.

There’s a world
outside my window
whose breath is made of ice.

There’s a universe
in my chest
that could turn this place to summer
from the fire that’s created
when your skin collides with mine.

If I bleed out my truth
before I breathe out my life,
then I will have not one regret
to carry with me when I go.

Life is all about timing.
We are bombarded with epic adventures
and tales of romance
and gracious words
that are supposed to inspire,
but sometimes
all you need is to close your eyes
and listen to the white noise of life.

Soak it in.
Squeeze every muscle in your body
as though the daily knives that cut your soul
are resting their blades on your skin.
Feel the blood begin to boil
from the spark in your chest
that quickly catches fire.
Then listen to the world around you
and know that you are immensely irreplaceable.
Let go of each knife you hold,
release each joint,
and focus only on the wind
that dances through your fingers.
Feel it lift your chin to the sky
as it makes your arm into wings,
your fingers into feathers.

Open your eyes now, dear.
You are free.
Every breath you take
is either a drop in the ocean
or a splash in a puddle.
There's a difference
between living and being alive.

So imagine the possibilities,
and be them.

There are days
when I can still feel the agonizing ache
in its accelerated beats
as your image reveals itself
behind my lids,
when I think the threads
of those stitches I sewed
four years ago
(has it really been that long?)
haven't yet dissolved
and are keeping me closed,
and when I can feel your breath
against my cheek
and eventually my rhythm
keeping time with yours.
But these words are not
unfamiliar to the pages that I bleed onto
every time I briefly feel broken again.
So, this is a letter to the last person
who broke my heart:
Not you,
but myself.

To this day
I don't recognize the eyes that stare back at me
every morning when I rise to soft beams of light
that creep their way through the holes in my blinds
as I make my way down the hall
to look into the reflection in the bathroom mirror.
You see,
sometimes
when someone tears you apart repeatedly,
you just start to view them differently.
There are times
when all I want to do
is reach into that image
and clasp my hands so tightly around her throat
until her skin grows blue
but her fight grows red,
and if she would listen to me,
I would tell her to quit sprinting
from anything that makes her feel,
Because every time I hear her feet press the ground,
every time her leg muscles bulge in flight,
I can also hear a glass heart shattering
against her thoracic cavity,
but I still feel nothing.

Let me raise a glass to finding the solution.
Take a sip.
Swirl it in your mouth.
Feel its bitter taste against your tongue
until you unlock the door
to the invisible brick wall
in front of you.
Let someone else break your heart for a change.

There’s a post-it on my mirror that reads,
“You are enough.”
I still remember the day I placed it there,
long after the initial dust settled
from the gunfire I started beneath my own skin
like the itch of an insect trying to gnaw its way in,
and I blamed the bullets on the loader of the gun,
but someone had to pull the trigger.
So much time has passed now
that I forget it sticks there,
funny how a reminder can become
so commonplace,
how I can look in that mirror every day
and never once notice the three words
that used to empower me.

But today I did.

Life is just a balancing act
of continuous changes and steadfast invariability,
but my own scale has always favored
one side more than the other
and never the side I desire.
Sometimes I don’t recognize that reflection anymore
but in best way imaginable.
The fingers that pressed the note to glass
were weak, overly trusting, and dependent,
but the eyes that watch its message today
have witnessed its every honest actuality.
I am enough.

I.
am.
enough.

But maybe now
it’s become too true.

When gathered around a television
among close friends and random strangers,
dressed to the nines with champagne in hand,
the clock strikes midnight,
and the silver ball drops,
person after person locks lips with their love,
so I choose my victim wisely
and have not one regret.*

I left my lips on my champagne glass.

I laugh
when my truth
is twisted
to lunacy,
because
what else
is left
to do?

I don’t want a delicate metaphor
wrapped in porcelain echoes
of rhythm or rhyme
to describe the way I feel when
I lay myself in bed at night,
and the drummer in my chest
beats loudly with love,
but the ice in my veins
manages to melt from my eye
into the cotton fur of a cat
who wraps herself ‘round my head
night after night
‘til
(sometimes)
I can
f  i  n  a  l  l  y
escape consciousness.
A **** cat -
This is where I ask you how pathetic am I,
how unwise to unwind,
how sad is it that this is where I feel safe at night,
how can one person burst with such fulfillment each day
and still hear the “ting” of empty tin inside.
Dear God, why?
Why why,
why why why why why can’t I unscrew the bolt
that began the paradigm
that refused to subside,
that just lay itself down where my frontal lobe lies,
guarding happiness from uncontrolled growth in my mind,
and this,
this is where I unveil what’s beneath,
where I stop the poetry
and just tell you what I need.


I need a friend.

I need a friend who understands the struggle of waking up every single day to the choice between fulfillment and failure, the struggle of using every breath as a reminder to be free, to be happy, to be loved, to love, to feel. And most of all, I need a friend who understands the struggle of succeeding in doing so.

Success is lonely.

As I’m kneeling in church, eyes fixated on the crucifix above me, I realize I already have that friend. Then I realize I need more than that.

So, I have one last question, God.
What kind of Christian does that make me?

The sick, sweet pit
at the bottom of my stomach -
that makes me nauseous
when my throat drops down
so I can barely speak,
no audible whisper,
the one that nudges
every desire within
to call you and spill
everything I'm made of,
every word withheld,
every story untold,
because I miss the sound
of your presence in my life -
always comes
when I'm too tired to feel.

There’s a whisper in the wind tonight,
a placid serenity I don’t encounter often.
Do you hear it?
Tell me of the shadows that fill your sunsets
with ebony-hued desires,
and burn me a fire down in your soul
to fill their empty spaces.
I can’t fathom a life without the laughter
that makes my sides ache from convulsion
until I have to,
And I don’t remember what it feels like
to have this every day.
There’s a thirst in my gut that never quite quenches itself,
but, good Lord, that doesn’t keep me
from filling it with anything that might.
Listen to the words that lie chained behind my tongue,
and submerge me in the freedom I feel
when I watch our star fall asleep on the horizon,
its dreams dancing above in purple and red gowns.
Leave your lines behind your lips,
and lie with me in silence,
a silence filled with the echoes of the rustling leaves in the trees
that hold secrets of eternity.
Then watch my reaction as a faceless ghost
hums seven songs in my ear:
Don’t go. Please stay. I love you.

Breathe me in.
Let me fill your washed-up crevices.
Sweat out your lies,
and bleed out your hatred.
Fill the empty spaces between my fingers
with your dry, callused safety.
Tell me why I’m worth this,
or just show me why you care.

...Things I must ask of myself
on a daily basis,
Things I never quite learn correctly

I write for two reasons:
to make myself feel everything
to make myself feel nothing

Once in awhile, neither happens.
Once in awhile, both do.

I burn with the need to fill your spaces
with metaphors of darkness
and adjectives for freedom.
I carry your spiral-bound glimpses of madness
in a whirling echo
inside my chest.
I scour my lobes for pulses of feelings
in little black lines
that cover my wrist,

but whenever I try,
my bones grow weary,
and I never
complete my

I can feel every voice inside of me screaming,
sound waves bouncing against every cell,
clashing with every heartbeat,
and colliding with each aching muscle,
but all I hear is the swish of the ceiling fan’s blades
as they slice this stale air.
I have no voice externally.
You’d think I would be used to this by now,
but I don’t welcome a home
that tries the beat the life out of my joy,
that takes every loving moment I feel
and replaces it with a reminder that I’m unnoticed,
Forgettable.
I want my real home again,
where my walls don’t form massive brick barriers
ready to cave with any gust of wind,
where the fence that surrounds me
won’t shock me when I try to escape.
I want to feel life in my fingertips again
and wake every morning to a day worthy of sunlight.
I want to be seen.
I want to grip every worry,
every fear,
every smile,
every laugh,
every vulnerability
so tightly in my fists
that my fingernails cut holes in my palms
deep enough for me to bleed out all of my insecurities,
and then I want to hold each hand out
toward anyone who claims to care
and release the muscles that are trembling so softly from grip,
so I can release uncertainties that have shaken me so swiftly from flight,
and I want you all to watch as each part of me
presents itself before you as it falls from my grasp,
each part of me that you didn’t know,
each part of me that I thought died,
each part of me that I’ve worked intensely to build,
and each part of me that you look over,
because every move I make
and every piece of my soul
is like a light breeze
in the midst of autumn:
invisible,
lacking importance,
nice to have,
but unnecessary.

It’s so cliché:
the view from the plane during lift-off.
We’ve all heard about the neatly lain world beneath us,
more shapes than we knew possible to make
with our roads and landscapes,
the twists and turns that make us dizzy
when we live in them
but from above seem small,
almost easy,
almost remarkable.

I like it up here,
considering the world so neat and tidy.
Here I don’t need to dive into
any confusion.
Feelings of doubt float away
and cave in,
the way my chest caves
from the air pressure.
Up here
my heart is a rock.
Down there
my heart is a boulder.

I could watch the world forever
if it meant I’d never break.
I could watch the world forever
if it meant I’d never drown.

I couldn’t watch the world forever
if it meant I’d never feel.
I couldn’t watch the world forever
if it meant I’d never live.

So, dive in with me,
laugh with me,
love with me,
hurt with me,
let this pain consume me
so I can feel the way it seeps out of my wounds
so slowly
when they are ready to heal.
Then heal with me.
Give in with me.
Feel with me.

I miss that.
And I didn’t know it until now.

Are you ready?
Because I’m not.
But that doesn’t matter anymore.

We’re coming in for landing.

Dear Life,


For the longest time,
I’ve been complacent in this little nook I dug for myself,
a stagnant existence,
happy…
could be happier…
but happy,
and that’s what I wanted, right?
That’s what counts?
That’s what I worked towards for so long?

What’s that cliché?
If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it?
Yeah, don’t fix it.
Cover me in silence,
fill me up with good enough,
and settle if it’s so.
Who needs to strive for amazing?

You haven’t thrown me any curveballs in a while.
Maybe what I thought was healing
was just a piece of me that grew numb.
You’ve changed the plan mid-play.
Are you really trying to fail me?
Is it your goal to get into my every crevice
simply to pull out each emotion you can find
and witness what it does to me?
I’m not sure my bat is still strong enough;
it hasn’t been used in so long.
I could swing,
but I’d miss,
and I can’t handle missing any more.
I forgot what it felt like to have so much uncertainty
lodged under my fingertips,
to see one pitch after another too late
and not even realize it until a giant, blue welt
appears on my skin.
I’m terrified of your throws,
because something might shake up my world
and break me all over again.
I can’t,
I won’t
go back to that place.

Instincts scream to hide in the corner of the cage,
construct a shelter
in peace.

But,
dear Life,
my heart…
my heart tugs at my puppet strings
to grasp the bat in my hands,
walk up to the plate,
and find you face-to-face,
“because this time
maybe,
just maybe…
we’ll hear ourselves collide.”
In a barely-audible whisper,
it says,
“I think you’ve missed enough.”


Signed,
Scared & Confused

I could pick you up
in my callused hands
and let your grains
massage my skin,
sanding away the wall,

but I want to feel
your every move
slip
    right
        through
            my
                f   i   n   g   e   r   s   …

With every step
I can feel the cloud of heat around me
growing stronger.
It’s been so long since I’ve
heard my own footsteps here.
This is my favorite silence,
light buzz of dim lighting,
a door close every now and then
on the floors beneath.
I retrace every year before me
with the words I carved here.
This is embarrassing.
Every letter reveals a person
I feel I’ve never known,
pathetic in self-pity,
A mirror to my past
whose reflection I don’t recognize.
I’m glad she’s gone.
A while ago I tried to scribble away
some of my stories,
but my marker was so weak.
They are a part of me.
Beneath one of them
I notice a stranger’s replies,
but they are only that:
words of a stranger,
meaningless without an identity.
I remember why I stopped coming here now.
I stopped needing it,
because I couldn’t find my answers up here.
I’m not sure I ever did.
I guess you have to know what you’re searching for
in order to find it.
So, instead of prolonging this reflection,
I descend to fresh, evening air
and breathe in the thoughts
that brought me back to life.
That place only strangled me peacefully.
A gust of wind places it’s palm on my cheek
and utters,
“Chin up, dear,
the world needs you today.”
So, I walk away quietly.

This place is my release,
A white screen in front of my eyes
waiting to be filled with a story
that emerges from the tiniest thought,
the most fleeting sight,
the most faltering emotion.
Whatever shoves me around,
whatever makes me fly,
this place keeps me grounded
to where I am the safest.
And sometimes,
when I don’t know what brings me here,
I just listen to the clicking of the keyboard
held prey beneath my fingertips,
hoping to see the answer reveal itself.
That didn’t happen this time.
My heart hangs heavy in my chest,
held there by cages of bone and blood,
swinging from an avid artery
back and forth,
back and forth,
like the ticking of a clock
tracking the time till I explode.
Have I detonated yet?
Maybe, when the clicking stops,
it means I’m whole again,
without needing to learn of what ails me.
I have nothing to say here.
I have yearnings of freedom
crying through my nerves here.
May they release with these words here,
calm with these words here,
rest with these words here,
so I can go on with the earth here.
Can it stop me from unease?
Will my eyes lift again
to the beat of a heart left floating?
I still hear it,
the clicking of the keyboard
held prey beneath my fingertips,
held pray beneath my fingertips.
Can it lead me out of this one?
This place is my release.