You're a ****
Most times I dig you out of the earth
The dirt gets under my fingernails, my heart beats fast because I dont want anyone to see-
And to think I'm a murderer.

But when I'm weak,
I water you
I pretend you're not there but I'll watch you out of the corner of my eye

Are you growing?
Is the sun treating you we-
No
Stop.

I'll ruin myself. Stop asking questions, stop giving attention.
I pluck you out again.

But you always come back.
I've planted other seeds.
I've gone months without looking at you.
I don't love you.

Stop filling my head and choking my tiny thoughts.

I'm sick of you.

My thoughts are dangerous
I am the pilot of the plane
But I fancy the idea of plummeting to the earth in a beautiful ball of fire

Romantic, I think
Stunning, I think
Breathtaking, I think

But the only beautiful part about it is the falling
What of the melted flesh, burning hair
Fragmented remains of something perfectly wonderful
I didn't need to ruin

My thoughts shouldn't be dangerous like this, but they are

I wish there was a bar
Where you could pay other people to drink your problems

Away.

When I get bored
I dip my toes in pirhana-infested lakes
I walk through snow caves where knives hang instead of icicles
I reach my hands into a sky filled with nuclear gas and breathe deeply

When I get bored
And review my life like a *** tape you feel guilty for watching but you can't help it because you're mesmerized by all your failures

I make a resolution to get clean, I scrub the stains from the bathtub with toxic chemicals until my head swirls from the fumes

I stumble and stutter
I can barely get myself to stand up--

When I get bored,
I think of suicide.

I'll go under the knife
Operate on myself
Split my head open with the toothpicks I used to poke at leftover failures that weren't there

I'll take my own brains out of my head with my hands
Ask the doctor for a scalpel
And maybe a friend

Humans weren't always like this, you know
Maybe there was a time when the things we were most afraid of were outside of our heads, maybe there were enclosures besides our own ribcage we never wanted to be trapped in

I feel a mini version of myself
Pounding against the glass of my forehead
Begging to be let out

The key is around here somewhere, maybe
But I can't be too sure because at some point being stuck in my own head was all I ever wanted.

Let me out.

I breathe here and there
The rest of the time I feel lifeless
There is nothing in my body worth salvaging
I could call a suicide hotline and ask them why I would ever want to live

And they wouldn't know what to say
The world would be more or less the same without me

Why do I plunge daggers into my own legs and then sit on the rocks by the trail to mourn my fate
Unsuccessful
Worthless
Wasted
I could have been so much more
More what, you ask
And the truth is I don't know

Maybe I am a paper cup in a cupboard of crystal glasses and beautiful things

Maybe I'm the ashes after the rare and beautiful light of the fire has faded

How am I supposed to know what I am?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
But the beholder is broken because the beholder is me.

Maybe one day I will gather my postcard thoughts and have a thesis on why people hate, and why my face twists into ugly grimaces when I think about the bad in the world

I wish the good had as powerful an effect as the bad, and maybe it does but the good might not occur as often.

I don't really have a way to end this,
Even though I want to.

And the lines above could refer to my life, this poem, these tragedies.

I was the kind of grime that made you hesitate before you put your foot into the shower
You watched the water hit against me as I refused to move.
You stepped into the shower, anyway
And I know you regretted it immediately because you ignored me
It was easier to pretend I didn't exist, pretend that I wasn't a mess that needed cleaning
When you would step out of the shower and the water threatened to suffocate me
I would drink it
I let it feed me and I grew stronger
You couldn't tell
But you stand in the same place every time you shower
And with each shower I grew closer and closer to you
I wondered why you never acknowledged how well I was doing

You were gone for some time each day.
I don't know where you went, but I heard your shiny black shoes against the bathroom tile as you brushed your teeth and hummed a song by the Killers

Somebody told me you had a boyfriend who looked like a girlfriend--
I loved hearing the music you made
You made me want to be more than what I was
I couldn't reach beyond the edges of the shower, for without water, I would be terribly dry and probably die.

I would entertain myself in the hours you were away. I counted the time it took for the water to dry. I would choose a droplet from the shower door and watch it race the others, hoping it would win. But my favorite time of day was that 15 minute shower. I lived for that, you know.

I tried to relay feelings I didn't know I had
For days
But you never said a word.
So I let you scrub me away
Out of your clean, white shower.

I awake in an empty cage
My nest is a pile of aspirations
I see people in fancy suits on the street
Dropping their dreams as they go
I gather them in an old trash bag
And the ladies with their short skirts and fancy shoes look down on me (mostly because I'm short, and partly because I am not like them)
Because once I scrub those abandon aspirations, iron the wrinkles out, and take a closer look I find that their hopes weren't worth throwing away
There was so much life left in them
And I know that's why the world is empty
Why the world is growing dark
For without the light a dream can spark
The demons can come to play and take your heart.

I'm a poet tree
Water me down to the roots
Carve your name into the bark

I am never leaving
I'll stretch my roots as far as my soul will let me
I'll reach for the sun

(But promise me you'll be there in the shade)

My New Year's Resolution
is not to keep a running count of unfixed nicks and cracks along my foundation
i want to train myself to understand that the blemishes and smudges i see when i look into a mirror are not real because the beholder is broken and the beholder is me.
i want to sit down at a table with myself and have an honest conversation
stop telling myself that my accomplishments are amateur and meaningless
i want to stop wiping my name off the trophies in my brain with nail polish remover
give myself credit where credit is due
i want higher self esteem, don't you?

I spew ink.

My whole life I believed I
Was made of tar
People walking by would leave their shoes behind
I thought that my lovers were stuck there
Caught in the goopy blackness of my stirring soul
I had no beaters, no mixing spoon
And they would gasp for breath on the surface

I pushed them out
I could not stand to hurt them so
Letting them die would be such a low blow
And it surprised me
To watch them leave so quickly
Like they didn't even want to fix me

One boy tried to clean me out with his bare hands once
And the farther he reached, the dirtier we both became
He traced my name with his fingers on my grimy car windows
"Wash me" the message would say
And I would try to shampoo the tar out of my hair

But as I looked at the spattered stains underneath my fingernails
My poetry, black and white
I saw right through my self-told  lies.

I spew ink.

Like an exploded pen in your white shirt pocket.
Look at the beautiful spots bleeding into the cotton.

Please don't leave.
I promise it's just ink.

Are you raising plants from the ground
Are you coaxing foxes from their dens
Are you waiting for the sun to be confident again
(for it to stop hiding because it thinks the moon shines brighter
and it is ashamed)
I need time alone
Need time to sift my thoughts through my spaghetti strainer brain
You took a ****-whacker to my youth, too
And somehow I survived
So I will be still
And close up like a flower
When the darkness comes.

I wrote scores about him
Dipped my hair in paint and left a trail of where thoughts of him would take me
Who knew it would line the entire highway
Dotted lines
Straight lines
All mixed up
I could have written novels of my lonely journeys
The Hobbit has nothing on me
I filled notebook after notebook
Love that he would never see
And I am glad you like long showers
Because lately
I have torn the pages from those notebooks
And watched the ink run together as the water hits the floor.

but what of the men
who work hard
sacrifice
keep their hearts pure?

the age has passed where one would think to honor them

the only recognition comes

in being a working woman
or a man who believes he is a woman
or the man who has feelings for another man

but what of the every day men
who also do extraordinary things?

I do not well up
Do not turn green and rip my pants up

I do not let the world see

I sit on the couch
Eating my lemonheads

Stewing.

a hand.

my breathing slows
i fight back the throbbing in my forehead

"what's wrong?"

i bury my tear-stained face into his chest
he slides onto the bed
pulls me tight
rubs my back

"it's okay.
it's all okay.
it's okay."

Falling.
I close my eyes. I don't want to be seen,  don't want to be asked what is wrong.
I will suffer and die alone.
I do not even flinch as I am about to hit the pavement.

Every month when I have ***
It's like a hurricane ripped through my sanity
Tearing the curtains
Shattering the glass so I can barely see out the window
My perception of myself is distorted
I feel like a sandbag being carried through Arizona
Useless, purposeless
I lie in my bed staring up at the ceiling
My hormones are writhing, mixing, I lose my balance and teeter off the edge
Into the gulley below.

i don't want to flatten you out
put you on a frame in the hall of fame
where people would go just to gawk and stare at you
that would be so cruel of me, because you-
you
are so much more complex than that
you are the foundation of a house
something everyone takes for granted because they cant see it
how many times have you slipped out unnoticed
by those looking for the shiniest, brightest stars in the world
if you look for those
you miss the planets
you miss the way that you sleep with a shirt over your head to "block out the light" so you can sleep better
you miss the ridiculous, pleasurable conversations
"did you know that Louie Armstrong would cut off the callouses on his lips with a pocket knife?"
"we should write a comic strip about a starch that smokes **** and call it "The Baked Potato."'

let's keep away from the photographers, the paparazzi, the artists, the writers

you hate attention anyway
said you would rather "sleep on the roof for a week" than give a presentation in public

i have discovered you
but i won't ever tell

the books will not mention you
there will be no statues of us
but the ones we build with sugar cubes on the privacy of our own kitchen table
where messes like us can be swept away and kept in no other place than our memories
and the storage on my phone

i will memorize the lines on your torso and back
but children will never study you in geography, they will never be asked the year you were born or at what latitude and longitude your chest muscles meet your abdominals

a search on Google will pull nothing about you

you remain undiscovered
to all
but me.

Dress up like the ghosts
From your past and try not to
Scream when they come by.

Today is the day
We dress up like the skeletons in our closet

We will see witches
But we will not remember the normal women in Salem
Accused

Today is the day
We let the children dress up like goblins
Wrap their arms around our necks
As the demons from our past leer just behind
Breathing down our backs.

His white, wool shirts hang in the closet
I count them like sheep
To put my heart to rest

Our eyes lock, our lips lock, our legs lock, we become completely undone.

And even when it is over
He nestles his head against my chest
I run my hands along the grooves in his muscles

We are inseparable
(Who knew something so lovely could be in two places at once)

To think that for six continuous months
He has been mine and I have been his

i. we flew to a foreign country
We paid for over-priced sunscreen to "save the environment"
And we laughed as we paid $15 for something we'd only use once
Swam with dolphins and didn't have enough money to buy the pictures in the end.
But we had experienced it with each other and it really didnt matter.

ii. two am in the emergency room
He was wearing the hospital gown that makes your **** hang out
And it wasn't funny until after his kidney stone had passed
And we knew it was going to be okay

He and I have been through car problems, job searches, *** meltdowns, misunderstandings, laughter, love, and happiness.

See--

You and I
had moments
He and I
live moment to moment.

Trying not to be
A grump over something as
Small as sandwiches.

I will leave lipstick stains on the glasses
When you try to get drunk you will still remember me.

i
secretly
loved
a
wookie.

(the most thought-provoking thing in the world is a soul--)

skin cracks
mud ***** on his feet
shuffles when he moves
barely hanging on
so thin

dry, rough
the skin breaks
but does not bleed

he is rusty
flakes off slowly

he could tell me that he's gone mad
that it's a slow and painful way to go
could say he cannot handle the itch
drives him to hysteria
can't i take him out of his misery

and i would,
but i won't

(that is not dying,
but growing)

You cut off my hands
You broke my brittle, blackened body to bits, searching
The hands of a healer.

I felt nothing.

The nerve endings no longer crawled with static
Worms dried out in the sun
Lumpy, hollowed tunnels where the monarchs would fly
Now concave, the ceiling falling in, my spirit in disrepair

You grounded me
When you had every reason to bury my remains
But what little life I had took root, worked its way around your wrists
Lazily laced the veins in your arms with the vines

Months to nurse me back to health
Now
Flourishing after the fire.

You will ask me where it hurts
Like I can point to a map and say
There
That is where depression slipped a bag over my head and made off with the sunshine that I carried in my pocket.

You will ask me why it hurts
Like I can say
Well,
At 3:00 pm this afternoon, I was sitting in traffic, minding my own business, when Anxiety cut in front of me. I slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision. I've had pains in my neck all evening from whiplash.

You will put on white gloves, want to examine me and fix it.
I will let you listen to my heartbeat with a stethescope.
You can put a popsicle on my tongue and I can say, "I'm fine. It's fine."

Because the pain isn't tangible.
And nothing seems wrong.

I could demand an x-ray
And you would see the bones of a perfectly structured life
A house
A job
A family
A purpose
A white picket fence of a ribcage to match those pearly whites I flash for show, because

I don't know where or what is  hurting
(I can just tell that it hurts)

I suffer from failure
Well
What kind of failure?
You would ask.
Liver failure, heart failure, kidney failure-
No

Something inside me has gone out
I'm still walking
Still seeing
Breathing
Dreaming

But the light is gone

Somewhere between my chest and my head, a wire's been cut
The power is dead
I know that as long as my spinal cord is intact, a current is running

But where is my present self?
Why do I feel like I'm dragging, slowing, sitting down until someone finds me

Illness consumes me.

a shell of a man sat in a cavern by the beach
barely willing to breathe
and he watched as the fishermen in their boats went by
deep inside he would let out a sigh,
"if only my father had taught me how to fish
and we had been wealthy and had servants to dish
up our food
then i would not be sitting here in rags

i would be in a nice little house with a pretty lady and we would have three children or four
if i had the money, perhaps we'd have more
but, alas, i cannot

i am poor and this will never change."
with what little he had, he fed that rage
he sat for days
begged for food from the passersby
they brought him shrimp, which he claimed was too dry
"and these scallops do not have enough salt.
yes.  everyone else is at fault."

with an upturned nose he'd cry 'bout his lot
his body was famished but his pride was not
it grew and reared its head like a lion
all while the leftover food would go flying
in tempter tantrums of rage
because his lot would never change
he loved his pride more than his own head
so he fed the lion of pride instead.

one day, a man (new to the town) saw him sitting in the cavern as people gave him food
the man, as usual, in a sour mood.
the new man had never seen anything quite like it before.

"Why," he asked himself, "I'll be darned if this man has never been taught how to use a net.  If I be a man of God, I ought to teach this poor fellow what he'll never forget.  I shall go out in the morning and teach him how to fish."

True to his word, the man was there the next morning before the sun peaked, while the corpse-like body of the man was fast asleep.

"Good morning, sir."  Said the man, shining his lantern into the cavern.
No answer.
"Good morning.
I am Cornelius.  I saw you yesterday being helped by the people of the town, and I could not help but want to show you how to get around.  Teach you to fish, how to make it a dish, I would even let you steer the ship.  How would you like that?  If I teach you, it shan't take longer than a month, and you'd get money to get you out of this slump.  Why, any employer would love to hire you on if you could figger it out and show some brawn.  You would earn more than enough to eat.  Could even buy yourself some nice new sheets.  Perhaps build a home, wouldn't have to be alone.  Find yourself a wife and have a happy life.  Would you like that, sir?"
There was silence for a moment, and the voice from the bed of rock and seaweed mumbled, "It is far too early for me to be awake."
Cornelius said, "Why, sir, there is no reason not to be awake right now.  I am offering you a day on the sea, I won't let you down.  Some people pay money for that, they do.  I haven't much time, I need to know if you'll come, too."
The mumbled voice, "I haven't any shoes, I could get splinters in my feet.  Besides, the morning mist is sweet."
Cornelius, "Why, I have an extra pair on the boat.  They might not be the right size, but they'd be perfect and nice."
Voice, "No, no.  I have bad vision, I will never be able to be a fisherman."
Cornelius, "Well, you don't have to look out long distances unless you are the one steering.  That won't be a problem, sir.  Come out, I will teach you to fish."
Voice, "I cannot be out on the waves too long.  Motion sickness, see, so much could go wrong."
Cornelius, "I had motion sickness as well, but you grow accus-"  
"And my arms are too frail to use a net.  No, it's best that I stay here and get some rest."
"Well, it wasn't for nothing, I suppose.  Maybe tomorrow you'll want to go."

He didn't move, his lips barely stirred, he said,
"Good sir, when you get back with the ship, will you bring me back those shoes and some fish?"

i look back on the past
the demons jeer from behind the glass
but they cannot reach me now

i have moved far beyond what i ever thought i would

i remember when my legs were broken
my fingers were cramped and swollen from crawling across hot pavements, the thorns of life i left behind.

i must look back
to reclaim the glowing embers of memories
but not the ashes

i don't much want asthma
we are not stuck in the twentieth century anymore
there are child labor laws now
and i am not required to stoop down and scoop the **** from my past
it is gone now
fossilized

what is the lesson to be learned from Lot's wife?
don't look back.

you will hear my roar
tackling the beaches
over
and over
and over
again

maybe someday God will give me strength
to make it farther than the shoreline.

>>>>>>>>>>i    of a well
                 d     t
                r     u
              a     o
            w    p
          m    u
         y     f
       s     l
        e



the more i draw, the more energy i feel expanding my mind.

m
a                                                       ­                                    o     u
k                                                              ­                        l                d
i                     ­                                                               c ­                     s.
n                                        ­                             into the                        
g                                    ­                 w myself
e                                             dra
v                                      a  n
e                ­                   c
r                                    i
y t h i n g  l i g h t e r



(i really can do anything)

(i)

It’s wrong of me, I know
            To wait around for you to say extraordinary things, sweetheart.
                      
But there’s something so enticing about true love
                        Wrapped up in fancy scratch paper
                        With half the lines crossed out
                                                [Those are the best kind of things to say, you know
                                                            ­‘Cause it means I’ll spend hours smashing myself
                                                          ­  Between those lines
                                                           ­ Trying to fill in the blanks
                                                          ­  About who you love,
                                                           ­                         And why.
                                                … I miss knowing those things
                                                          ­                          Just a little.]    
            All tied together with the broken guitar strings
[Where now rest those hummingbird wings?]
You’d tune for me
                        Before anybody knew who you were
                                    And I was the only one who listened.

I miss the you I knew

            The one who told me I was beautiful,
                        All mismatched and clashed,
                        Because we were the brains of this outfit,
                      
And how were we to know that
                                    Dreams and reality
                                                Can’t ever
                                                Be worn together?
                        [At least, that’s what Mother would tell me
                                    When I asked to wear her fancy pearls to bed]

I remember the day before we were expected to grow up
            [The day before the sky turned inside out
            And suddenly
                        We were expected to know why it rained sometimes,
                        Were expected to expect pneumonia if we played in the puddles too long,
                                    Were expected to know black from white
To stay indoors and turn gray overnight.
Yes, the day before all of those expectations rose to meet us,]
We were expected to go to a gaudy dinner party
To boast about ourselves.
And everything we planned to become.
            But I hated heels, and you hated lies
            So I showed up in fuzzy bunny slippers with my hair done up nice, and you-
Well.
            You didn’t go.
                        There’s something about growing up you never took a liking to.

Everyone knew who you were by then.
And I sat alone as they talked about you
                        And all of the wonderful things you were becoming.
                        And I just nodded, picturing the boy I once knew
                                    Yes,
The boy that no one knew
                                    With dreams so big they encompassed the entire sidewalk in chalk
                                    Whenever we sat down to visualize the future
we never really thought would come
                      
                        There was never enough room for me to color mine
                        [So I simply signed my name
                                    All small
                                    In the corner
                                    Of that sidewalk gallery of hearts and hopes]
                        And that’s the way I wanted it
                        Because-
                        Well,­
I didn’t need a dream if I had you.


(ii)

It was too perfect, really.
Well, I was, I suppose.
Perfectly innocent.

I now see how illogical it is
To assume that a heart can simply be cut away from the chest,
And given.

For it is impossible to do so
[Truly]

No,
You got so much more than my heart, my love

From the ends of my eyelashes to my fingertips
All of me was yours

Yes,
From the frantic way my heart beat against my ribcage        
[Like a tiny hummingbird
            Wanting to burst free
To taste you with my entire soul
            Swallow you whole
            Not merely glean a teasing sample with my lips]

To the way it melted through my chest
And slid softly to my fingers
Resting in your palm
Yes,
When you placed your hand in mine
            I was clutching the reality I’d only ever dreamed of
            [My heart and I were a package deal- and you held both]
            Yes, it was the closest I’ve ever been to happiness

Oh, love…
I loved,
With every part of me,
I hope you know.

But I never considered that I did
Not really

Until that moment when you led me in my fuzzy bunny slippers to the chalky sidewalk
And silently erased my name from that corner
            Whispering you were sorry all the while.
            But we were all grown up now.

[That was the day I stood with my arms outstretched
Mouth gaping open
To catch the rain
As the sky turned inside out
Because, well.
I needed new dreams if I didn’t have you]

Tears filled my eyes, then
For I felt my heart fall out of my chest
[Yes, I thought such a thing was impossible
But I’d also
(Naively)
Thought it impossible for you to ever leave]
To rest
Forever
In your hands
[A final parting gift]

What pain filled that void!
            [I would blame it on pneumonia,
                        -For I stood in the puddles forever that day
                        Making mouthfuls of promises to that empty rain-
                        But I think we both know better
                        Than to expect a little sickness to bring pain such as this]
For I was left with nothing
And you
            [You
With a tiny hummingbird you didn’t even know what to do with
                        As it lay
                        Barely breathing
                        Barely beating
                        But doing both for you]
You still had everything

From the tears that dripped from my lashes
To the tips of my fingers that brushed them away

To that empty ribcage
            [With the bones gaping open
            So barren, but for a couple feathers
            That blew about when you whispered
                        (Hanging on to a hollow kind of hope)
But fell to the bottom of my stomach once it was clear
That you were never coming back
With my little hummingbird]
And that flat thump in my chest
[From the pendulum I secured in its stead
                        Marking each moment I spent without a true heartbeat
No frenzy of feathers
No
Just a hollow, rhythmic stupor
That fell over my soul]
That reminded me
I had
Nothing to love anymore.


(iii)

            Who knows how long I stood
&nbs

We are afraid of tying knots.
Now, my brothers weren't fond of Boy Scouts, but those aren't the kinds of knots I'm talking about.
Our parents got us velcro shoes growing up (something about not wanting us to be overwhelmed with tennis shoes)
And that, perhaps, was the moment that started everything.
We could no longer trip on loose laces as we ran our races,
Our parents couldn't see our disappointed faces as we fumbled getting ready for school.
It was the perfect contribution to the flawed illusion that the human institution should be prevented from failing.
Oh, yes.
In my lifetime, cordless telephones were placed in every house because we did not want to untangle our own messes anymore.
Failure doesn't hurt as much when it is invisible.
We wanted wireless, no-strings-attached luxuries with no side effects.
But there were effects that couldn't be seen
(how could they until we were older than teens)
Because the end effect was this:
a generation that shirks responsibility
we have anxiety
because our parents didn't let us face our fears when we were young
we are jobless, loveless, purposeless
because we still haven't realized that everything has its opposite
love - lust
success - failure
happiness - sadness
peace - anger and commotion
you see?
there are full-grown adults living in the basements of their parents
watching **** from an illuminated screen
a no-strings-attached commitment to a video that will never require a vow or a promise;
so many see the term "settling down" as "kicking up dust" of a dull life "confined to a four-inch screen."

we've seen our own parents cut the ties
now living separate lives
better that way, but millennials can't fight
for love or for kids or for dreams
because their caretakers' examples couldn't teach
the right way to do a marriage
the right way to commit
we are shirking responsibility--

because we don't want to fail.

still as afraid of tying knots
as we were in kindergarten.

i remember
when i was little
the tub would overflow and i would get this awful fear that clutched at my chest
but my heart resisted being torn out

i remember
when i was little
seeing the smoking Twin Towers and i didn't understand what a terrorist was
so i would have nightmares of terrorists climbing the trees in the backyard
and looking at me through the window
it's the kind of fear that makes you question your own breathing

it's like your heart is asking you, "are you still alive?"

i remember
a few years ago
i had the mental capacity to experience suffering
i would take a paddle and hit the pain pong ball against the walls of my head over and over again

i could write it into the soles of my feet and i wouldn't even squirm from being tickled

am i overly sensitive now?

i can't even finish this poem for fear-

caught in little fishing hooks
pierced ears gone awry
its scales scrubbed viciously from flesh
hacked open
gory madness
soaking into the oak table
not very hygienic
not much of anything
congealing, drying
still wet enough that to touch it would be
to spoil everything
(makes such pretty colors in the wood)

i am looking for a reason to get out of bed
the way my husband will look for the toenail clippers which fell behind the desk
he could probably move it by himself
but i am weak
and it is very hard for me to lift myself out of these sheets
let my feet touch the floor
walk to the sink
finger my hair as i look in the mirror
softly blink
lift the weight pressing onto my shoulders
and whisper:
"Today is going to be a good day."
"Today is going to be a good day."
"Today is going to be a good day."

is this normal?
i could writhe and shriek like a chicken that doesn't want to be picked up
you could watch the feathers fly up and get kicked to the dust
i could scratch you and scramble to get away

we haven't had a fight yet.

is this normal?
i could lay in bed with you all day if we weren't shackled to other responsibilities that make our lives so rewarding and rich.

we don't get tired of each other.

is this normal?
nothing about you bothers me and I wonder if anything ever will. we are made for each other, you know.

<3

you walk in the door
as i walk out

freedom at last.

Come home, darling
Hop into your Jeep
And pray my soul to keep
I tire waiting day after day
But I will send you postcards
To keep you company.

i wanted to troll you
rummage through that closed mouth and find the feelings you forgot to floss from between your teeth

how was i to know
it "wasn't serious"?

you told me that you ached to call me yours--
and then you hung up.

they beat on us
for holding up a light

they tear at us
for doing what is right

but fear not, my love.

darkness is not a keeper of light
(they will be driven away)

there is a boa constrictor
wrapped around my ribcage

there is an old story lodged in my windpipe
and i wish Heimlich had been a composer
so i could write it out without turning blue

i am lop-sided
but, alas
there is no one to lean on

it is heavy
(i must sit down)
where is the floor?

i long to talk to strangers
and keep my house clean
and run my hands across my husband's beard
just one more time

all i feel is a loss of circulation
my words won't reach higher than my chest
struggling to escape,
to wriggle through a sealed-off space

i cannot tell if it is my love reaching through my chest
or if it's....

i have an itch on my heart
i can't get to
unless i write about you.

people say we won't always wear smiles
i wonder why they think we can no longer afford them
who do they think they are
predicting the future like that.

i will not let myself be swept away in the winds of human nature
am i not more than a rock that is weathered and shaped with time?

i have my will
- to adore you, kiss you, feed your soul, wrap you in my own skin and call you home.
you have yours
- to make me feel valued, cherished, loved, happy, touch me in ways that no one else has
God has His.
- to make us happy.

and if we are His children,
are we not creators, too?
coaxers of smiles.
forgers of forgiveness in the fires of tragedy and heartbreak.
carpenters of karma.
what we say and do will follow us throughout existence.

we do not have to fit the mold of the world
although, you've always told me i would still be beautiful even if i was round
even if i went round the continents and stayed away for a very long time

you told me i would still be your "Jenny"
and i believe you

because we are creators
doers
masters of our fate.

i will love you until the holes in my socks stretch wide enough to be a ski mask
and even in our poverty i will slip them off and go to bed with you

you will always find a safe place here.

the burden of self is lifted when i laugh at myself. -- Tagore

our generation should be known as the Meowlennials
because our biggest accomplishment was getting cat pictures all over the internet.

it's true.
what they say.
suffering drives you to make laughter.

i take on other people's fears
find their masks lying around
i put them on for fun

i pull threads from people's coats
make a cocoon of them
of the weaknesses
the dreads
the sadness

but why

i want to know what it feels like
want to have pity on their starving, naked souls

but they eat me alive.

let them be keepers of their own darkness
i say
let them reach to you through the prison bars, the high bars set by society that most can never grasp
but i have to take off my shawl and drape it round their shoulders

it's all that i have left

there are two sides to me
one wants to give and give
the other wants to take and keep and scowl at the rainbows as they form overhead

one loves the sun
the other wishes that the rain would stay forever

how to pull me out of myself
out of the dark abyss i've created for my soul

capture the moths in
your butterfly net and say
"you're beautiful, too."

capturing all the moths in your butterfly net
or so they say
but there is nothing wrong with being a moth
unafraid of living a life inside-out
unlike the people who jeer at you from the other side of the cage
you are not ready to find out if it’s you that is trapped
maybe we all step into the lava that the kids try to avoid
as they jump onto the couch
are you an adult now?

Me: You know what I like most about you?
Him: That I can down six tacos in one sitting?