I have this theory that butterflies taste like bubblegum.

When I was a kid, my tongue was a permanent shade of bright pink.  Shoving as many pieces of BubbleYum into my mouth as I could fit was the epitome of happiness, and when I could fit an entire package at once I knew there was nothing I couldn’t achieve.

And I’m sure that right now if you cut me open my stomach would be a fluorescent pink, because
when I see your face in my mind as I’m sitting in class or
when your name is on my tongue before I fall asleep,
that’s what it tastes like.

Bubblegum.

But please don’t cut me open. My dissection would be too ****** anyway, and far too colorful to detect butterflies…
Because my blood runs red, white, and blue.
When I was younger my mom would always tell me that as I grew older my tastes would change.  Of course, she meant that eventually I would grow to like peas, but even though that still hasn’t happened, she was right.  

Back then red, white and blue tasted like
      hamburgers
               and apple pie
                       and baseball.  

But just recently I cut my finger –
and as I brought it to my lips I tasted
      lingonberries
               and fish and
                        skiing.


Have you ever wondered why blood tastes like metal?  It is the
SWORDS and SHIELDS
that flow through my veins,
passed down from ancestors of millennia past.  And every time I am injured it pours out in protest, those ancient warriors urging me to fight against this strange land and this strange culture.
I was born away from home, as were my parents and grandparents before me. And as I feel the shapes of foreign words in my mouth they taste like meeting an old friend. Because I’ve come to realize that my blood never ran red, white and blue.  



                                                      ­            It runs rødt, hvitt og blått.

My Evidence professor told us
Testimony is not believable
Unless other facts back it up.
            That terrified me.
My word means nothing
Unless I’ve left a trail of breadcrumbs
            But I was raised to clean up
After I eat.

The chemotherapy left Dad a full head of hair,
And no one questioned his diagnosis.
Yet you search for scars on my wrists
            As if corroborating evidence is necessary
To prove I’m not ok.

Our nation was founded on the ideas of liberty and justice
And I have the right to be thought of as
            Innocent until proven guilty
Clearly you paid attention in civics
Because you hold on to this principle
With every ounce of willpower you possess.
The only thing is,

            I didn’t realize mental illness is a crime.

Arrow enters flesh
piercing, and then lodging
refusing to pass through
refusing to flee the crime scene
and because of its loitering
the holes created are also plugged
and its presence is not noted.
Then the hunter, catching up to the victim
grabs hold of the arrow
and pulls
the poor beast screams in pain
as blood flows from the now apparent wound.
The hunter speaks soothing words, holding out a hand
but the creature turns heel and flees
angry at the arrow
angry at the hunter
'tis a vain flight
behind it lies a brilliant trail of blood
and the hunter pursues.
Ah Cupid! Relinquish your quarry
and end your cruel prusuit
allow the red flow to ebb and cease
permit the scabs to turn to scars
and the animal to live on.

{Body}I stand tall
straight-backed, head high
on high heels, bright and sharp
sophisticated
smiling gaily at passing people
meeting their eyes with sunglasses
so that they might never meet mine.

a politician's smile

{Mind}I crouch low
doubled over, head bent
on concrete, cold and hard
meekly
looking up at onlookers
that they might see that
my eyes, bared to the world,
hold tears.

a dreamer's heart

{Soul}I run wildly
arms wide, head back
on soft grass, lush and vibrant
free
laughing with the world
in my bare feet.

You know how kittens have claws?
Imagine trying to pull a drowning kitten up by its paw.
It reaches out for help but in grabbing its paw your hand gets cut up.
It’s like that.

My convictions were so strong, I had finally figured out life, my pain had ceased and my outlook was once again positive.
My concrete ground has crumbled; I trip as my feet are caught in the cracks as I walk past.

Before I envied those who had, and despised being the one without.  Then I gained, and stitched my life’s ***** on the fabric stitch by stitch, painstakingly sewing myself my own vulnerability with each day.  There, my greatest strength became my greatest weakness.  When the hand came down and ripped out my needlepoint, it effectively tore out my very life’s blood.

A wraith, I floated though a land no longer my own.  I was a mere shadow of myself, the person I had been a thing to be mourned, but I could not perform even this simple task, for I had no way to generate the necessary emotions.


                               Never trust, for in doing so there is nothing to be gained, and all to be lost.


                                                       ­             But still, I endured.
                    I struggled forth, all of my strength devoted to placing one foot in front of the
                                                            ­                   other…
                                                         ­                  day by day
                                                            ­              hour by hour
                                                           ­           minute by minute.

                                                      ­             And I moved forward.

Like a fairytale princess waking from the enchanted sleep, I opened my eyes and for the first time in months looked around.
                                                        ­                       I was me.
                                                         I was not lost, nor sleeping, nor dead.
                               I was very much alive, and all the wiser of what waits on the other side.

                                                         I AM NEVER GOING THERE AGAIN.

I dug through the trash, searching for the remains of my once-beating embroidery.  Between the banana peels and non-recycled water bottles I found the scrap of material, tattered at the edges and unraveling at my touch.  I picked it up, and pulled out my needle and thread, setting to work once again.
This time the task was purposeful.  I took off my shirt and pushed an arm through the sleeve, grabbing hold of the end and then pulling back, turning it inside out.  There I began to sew, using each stitch as a reinforcing shackle, holding the artwork prisoner.  Though confinement is not pleasant, it’s safe.
That’s what matters.

                                                       ­                                 Right?

I was strong.
I went without, and did not desire anything different.
I needed nothing else, and my convictions strengthened by the second.
After all, it can’t be a poor philosophy if it ends the pain.

Why do you look at me like that?
I am right!  I will never again be vulnerable, open to such cruelty.  Don’t say that!  What do you know anyway?  How could you possibly give me advice: you, who has everything?  You, who lives the life my foolish, naïve self once dreamt of?

                                                         What compels you to wield the jackhammer?

The faded sticker on my dresser reads I AM JESUS’ DISCIPLE
and my church hates me.
I pierced holes in my temple and set diamonds in them
I took pictures of God's image
and sent them to a man so that he could admire the beauty of creation
because I am a **** beauty
and God knows that.
Hell, he created me, right?

The shape of her necklace
Is mirrored in the clouds,
A moon like her smile.
She looks at his face
Glowing in the sun,
Then turns to veil her tears.

As she inconspicuously wipes her tears,
Her necklace
Gleams in the sun
Though the clouds
Partially shadow her face
Allowing her to drop the smile

He looks at her smile
But misses the tears,
Seeing her face
Framed by the necklace,
Ignoring the clouds
For the sun.

He lifts his face to the sun
Baring his smile
To the clouds,
Comprehending no tears,
No meaning to the necklace,
Seeing only a beautiful face

On her face
She feels the sun
And reaches up to touch the necklace.
His presence creates a real smile
Which conceals the tears,
But not the brooding clouds.

The laden clouds
Drop their burden to her face
Combining their load with her tears.
Chasing the healing spray, the sun
Reappears to coax back the smile
And dry the dripping necklace

One day he’ll see the tears falling from the sun,
The clouds hiding in the face,
And the importance of a smiling necklace.

Note to self:
Tomorrow, go back to that store that sold you today and return it.
And suggest that they install a fitting room
Or something!

Because today didn’t fit.

The arguments stitched into every fiber are just cheap
And the anger and accusations are signs of poor quality.

The first rule of shopping is to never buy something
That doesn’t fit right
And certainly don’t buy something
That causes discomfort or pain.




So make sure you get to the store before it closes.
And don’t forget the receipt.