My broken bones
In a decorative vase
In New York City’s living room.
What an honour it is to be
Misunderstood.
A tragedy, oh.
Look at the way her femur is cracked.
The pain she must have felt! To have
Tasted an ounce of it, I’d never
Understand.
And the pictures are taken
And the young boys don’t “get it”
And the girls laugh at their ignorance, as they themselves
Struggle for definitions.
But I am enigmatic.
My bones have no story.
My bones can be yours.

You are carlights through white window shades,
You’re moonlight on the shore.
You are sun before rain had a chance to fade,
You’re bare feet at ocean’s floor.

Your voice echos atop the hollow waves
that we sleep to every night.
Your laugh is your heavy heart being saved,
all silver shadows fighting golden candles’ light.

I am grays and blues and evergreens,
I’m early sunlight reflected in clear eyes.
I am ever changing and ever seen,
I am pastels trapped inside thick black smoky ties.

We are a single whispered chord, retuned and redefined,
We are coastal byways and yellow dotted swerving lines.
We are deep navy skies inhaled by wintry crystal night,
We are watercolors cooled by the sea then cast in firelight.

the truth is,
healing was never going to be linear.
we were never going to conquer our fear
or our pain or our guilt or our shame
and move onto the next thing.
we were bound from birth to conquer the same
thing over and over and over again.
the past would never be behind us.
the present would never be the only
space we existed in.
the future was never tangible,
never really in front of us...
it's just kind of a concept that hangs
unreachable above our heads.
this thing we think we're walking toward,
it keeps us moving.
we're always moving,
but the grounds we walk lead nowhere.
our lives are no more a journey
than a jog on a treadmill...
moving forward was always an illusion.
we are walking the same path
again and again and again
and we develop shin splints
on random occasion,
and then we have something to heal,
and we do it...
we heal ourselves of our shin splints,
but they come back
and we are forced to start
the therapy all over.
life was never about fixing
all of our problems,
until we are left with nothing
but goodness and strength,
because all of our problems
are not constant.
we aren't born with every
problem we'll have,
so that we can spend the
beginning of our lives
fixing each one until
we are rid of the pain
and the flaws that
slow us down.
we fix a problem
and an other appears
and we fix that problem
and we are catapulted
into tragedy
where old problems
resurface suddenly.
and this never stops.
nothing is ever really "fixed".
nothing is ever really over.
i wasn't built to ever be whole
and present all at once.
i am pieces scattered out
all over every inch
of the earth,
that i've touched.
i couldn't wait for that
anatomy class to end
last semester,
but even when it ended,
i never really left it.
there's still a piece of me
sitting in a seething frustration
at my own inadequacies,
my own inability to retain
the information,
and that piece will
be stagnant in anatomy forever,
because now that i've unlocked
that specific brand of frustration
that exists in me,
there is no way to lock it again.
my growth was never linear,
it never will be.
my growth is scattered
like half smoked
cigarettes on long stretches of
endless pavement.
i am a good person.
i have bad intentions.
and i am a bad person.
i have good intentions.
i am everything
and nothing
and i am who i wanna be
but i am hardly anything at all.
i am strong today
but i may be weak tomorrow.
my growth is not linear.
i am scattered.
i am in bed
and i am dreaming
and i am writing this
and i am waiting
and i am comfortable
and i am content
and i am terrified
and i am exhausted
and rested
and confused
and full of clarity.
i am never one whole.
i am always a half of a half
of a half, and so on
and on and on.

I've watched you fall in and out of love
Over and Over again,
Each time envying
The closeness,
The love,
The soft whispers,
Until they abruptly end
In heartache,
Tears,
Yet I envy you still
And ask always,
When is it My turn?