eating Thai curry in small increments because no two curries are the same something like snowflakes and i want to feel flavors burn on my tongue.                 pacing is everything except when it is not attacking devouring smoking tumbling fondling smothering
over doing it

feels right. right as right can be when having an idea of right is wrong. improvisation, dear
making
it up as you go along and along and align your thoughts with your bones
what would it be like to go sleep and never wake up? meet me at the first star on the right and straight on til morning

                                  we were too big for that place and everyone knew it

woke up in a circle of your icy sweat. ironic after a night that made me drip
heat
leaving you scares me so i try to slip away unnoticed but i always kiss your eyes before i go
and i always love you most
the only one i have ever spared from the
brutality
of my indecision
as it turns out, brutality ***** and the look on your lips when you asked if we could be forever eliminated any chance of that anyway

i would win a staring contest over a man with no eyelids for you

the thing about love is that it makes
my
spine straight
my path clear and it came the second i stopped needing it

i’m afraid of social encounters, of getting close but no closer, of meaning nothing to another person, everything, anything, the wrong thing. i’m afraid of looking around and realizing i don’t really know **** about those i love. i don’t feel okay unless i lay on the floor at least once a day because there are so many things i want to touch but can’t-

like the rim around his iris or the unspoken thoughts that tie us all into invisible knots or the pain it must be to live in a house where your dad once drank coffee and read the paper and pet the cat, but now he’s dead and you still have to walk around pretending he isn’t in every inch of every room.

i have to lay on the floor because it’s tangible, reliable, forcing every bone to stay still, to stop trying to float to some impossible place where i’d be allowed to run my fingers across everything and try every emotion there is on for size

so i could stop ******* guessing.

—————————————————————————————————————-

how does one pain differ from another? why does cancer take everyone good? why didn’t he tell me he had gone blind, that day i went to visit? why didn’t his parents cry? why is 4 years later and he still fills pages of my thoughts when there were so many people closer to him?

all the good in me came from you

i’d be bad if it meant you could live the life you wanted to

——————————————————————————————————————

love=vigilance

—————­—————————————————————————————————

the best poem i ever wrote was slipped into a journal and never read because he was afraid of the words

——————————————————————————————————————-

i can’t get enough of you

my neck hurts from trying to sleep without you

it's like this:

you breathe on my neck and say i'm beautiful; a painting

and i pronounce to anyone that asks that i'm single
as if i have something to prove

convince myself i am superior
i am wiser
i am independent

only to arrive unannounced in his sheets and seize him for mine, filling the vastness in my chest with his naive skin

tomorrow,
let's put Jack Daniels to our lips and a road under our
toes
.

let's find a frozen lake and fill our lungs up with majestic silence
.

you dream of a desert house with windows all around,
and i dream it too


of naked feet
of looking but not searching

.

there is still jalapeno under my nails,
                                                            i know because i bite them.


i feel microcosmic
i feel macrocosmic
i feel that the night i knew you were > all the deadend wannabe artists with groomed hair and a knack for saying the wrong things at the right times

the moon was full as a curvy woman's hips
and i sleeplessly felt its caress through the sky the roof my heart
it carried me pieces of you
and they fit

people ask me if i'm madly in love with a smirk
people ask me what happens when it goes wrong
first loves die hard, they say
i don't know what happened to make everyone assume that
love is destined to be a ship lost at sea

my mom raised me to be tenacious
and darling,
                              you know it's true

when you wrote a song but would not sing it because you were worried about it not being good enough for me.
i felt whole.
more
than
just
a
collectionofbonesandbobsledemotionsslappedtogether.

touch.

so cold it's hot.

longing.

a cat who almost       jumps     in the tub but hesitates and instead lets his
paw
skim the water.

tightrope hopes.

guilessly:   i find your beauty agonizing.

if i were pregnant, i would never wear a shirt so everyone could see
i don't know why i thought of that as i was
talking you to sleep, i thought it and didn't say it and then heard you say, 'i want you always'
so quiet i could hear your eyelashes scraping against my skin
your breath is the forest and i think about when walking and smoking and trying to find new things in the same.
remember the first time we touched each other?
now sometimes i feel guilty for taking up all the happy, especially when you put your lips a half second away from mine and the tiny things mean everything.

it seems like a cruel twist of the universe that letting go is
the hardest ******* thing you'll ever do,
while at the same time the most necessary:
my idea of
hell,
the look on your face when you asked me to not forget you.

i am a strong, wild piece of sky and you are the plot of earth i circle circle circle
never quite able to grasp.

the city we are obligated to call home:

'it's pulsing, like a heartbeat'
really
i          
just
want
to
feel
                            yours. a steady bassline to keep track of,
tap my foot to in this unsteady place called love.

'that? that's just gases rising and light being hit in the right way'

from where your arms are cold around my waist, it seizes my attention that the

                            moon is nowhere to be found.

scrape me down
like ugly wallpaper in an outdated house
leave nothing but gray framework
until beginnings are easy.

make me stop
dragging my heart through a cactusfield of memories
the ****** have got this body numb
apathetic to the tearing of skin.

wake me up
from sweaty black rabbithole sleep
tumbling&trying; to grip anything real
hand hits smoke.

cedar wood oil and the word BOUNDLESS inked for good.

'i want you'


i think that means more than one thing

half open eyelids don't lie  


the sun is slanting on your feet and how effortlessly my back curves into your belly scares me because
i'm always falling in love with what is right in front of me

and this might be different.


'the world needs more people like you'


i had a dream that i was on a bus to the Great Salt Lake
dark blue, foamy waves enclosing us,

and when we got there nothing  mattered.

the kind of sad that doesn’t fit

anywhere. mine to keep. the world lets so many

ugly

things exist i’ll never learn to

talk,

words come only when i’m the solitary

witness

it’s not your fault, it’s nobody’s fault

our parents could have taught us but the ugly keeps them

quiet

who wants to speak of that?

you say you are

weak

and i think of all the times you were my

steadiness.

i hate these tears because they make you

ache

you are too good for the

ugly.

my heart missed the lesson on holding back
so
i swallowed my pride and got
indigestion

i'll tell you in the smallest ways until the right way
comes to me,
i'll leave you notes in obscure places and kiss your feet

you are the butterfly branched from the moth,,,



and you are worth the wait.

you motif my dreams. and your poetry makes me cry. and i'd call you mine if i could.

people have developed the need for a crutch.
                                                         ­                   something, anything

so that they do not have to listen to themselves.
                                                     ­                       i am a rareity

                                                                ­            i need nothing but my own


truth.

i was born in a house on 5th south
my mother nearly bled to death
                                                           ­ i guess it's only fair that i am anemic

i learned to write long before i learned how to talk,
probably because a thumb was always in my mouth
and we didn't have a tv
                                                            th­e librarians knew me by name

i was always scowling, couldn't find reasoning
for my parents being sad, for the eating of animals
for not having any friends
or a cat of my own
                                                            w­ords were my escape from the start
                                                           ­  a lonely girl's only constant.

comfort is pen to paper
                                   therapy is a journal so used the binding breaks
                                                          ­                                                    writing is home

sometimes, the only need in the world
is to lie
on
the floor.

my hair, or so i like to think
        my lips, when i want to feel(that the night is mine)
                someone dear once said, 'grace&ferocity;'
                         my motives darling, are rouge.

the kid who smoked *** with me every night on my ratty couch
now has Elder slapped in front of his name,  a closet full of suits and matching socks, a two year sentence and a destination
Apostles who make nothing short of six figures
drop holy oil on his head and say words that are supposed to bless and 'set apart'
because now he is not just any kid,
he is a kid who must knock on doors and teach others that they aren't good enough.

from the age of 8 when he was dunked in some water and asked if he would join the army of Christ
like some kind of secret club on the playground
he was told that he would need to save money for this day
i guess the church spends too much money on political campaigns against human rights
to pay for their own missionary costs

here he is 10 years later
too afraid to tell his parents that he believes in God about as much as he believes in the Easter Bunny
because if he did, his mom and dad would be
frowned upon
whispered about
forever made the talk of the neighborhood
can you blame him?
he loves them

i wrap up a copy of Siddhartha in our favorite skate magazine
and leave a note that reads:

                                                 your own happiness is worth fighting for
                                                 best on your adventures

i look at you now objectively
and with a critical eye

a statue in the art museum of my heart.
              chiseled with sadness
              warped with never knowing anything but loose-end logic & promises                                 held up
high
like wire hangers in a dark closet      

i am the wailing wall of what was once terribly beautiful
              {a place where you saw through new eyes and pumped new blood,
              
               a place that desperate love was the architect of}
i am a remnant.

granite cheekbones and soapstone eyes unforgiving on mine as i ask:

               were you ever truly happy?

she won't look you in the eye and her
hands shake as she
organizes twelve pills a day seven days a drawn out week
things are fine for
now,
the tv runs, food stamps are in order, a smoke once in a
while.

she used to believe
Someone is after me
Someone is after me and i have to run away
she twisted her eight year old's hand in hers and told him they were going on an adventure
he was happy when his suitcase was stolen
he didn't have to carry it  from state to state to state
anymore.

               mom, you went to college?
               yes, i went to college
               teachers say college will make life good
               yes
               why isn't life good?

stability means being hallowed out and left to an empty room.

that call that never came
made me lose my appetite
                                                      for
                                                      spaghetti
                                                      and
                                                      for
                                                      love.

kicking you only means i'll run into you again, sometime.somewhere near cement
                                                                         bottom.

mindless
careless

                        *****.


helpless when it rains and he says, i'm alone at this coffee shop
i'll make you tea

powerless
to his book collection, singer voice, fingers

wordless
when he reaches the end of his
                                        
                                          investigation
                                          so called destination

invent and deny and deny and invent just to have an                  escape route.

endless

so you look out at the ****** city and see the bright lights of waking up and you want to think it's ugly
ugly as this situation
ugly as your conviction


it's beautiful as ****

regardless.




i love someone else.

i'm too drunk to tell you i love you

whiskey runs in hot waves, but never makes it to the coldest parts

the contrast sends me
fumbling.

high above these doubtful clouds,
your wet lips could bring me down

the place that feels familiar on the back of my tongue ---

new, like a drop down the window



your voice,your voice,your voice

breath in the back of my heart where things hide

as you say
'i
can't
be
in
a relationship'
the light flickers quietly in your eyes the color of tree leaves reflecting a piece of pain like a swallowed shard of glass sharp enough to surface still
blind
me
and collapse my heart.

i really, really, really have no place in thinking you're a ******

given the bed i sleep in most nights.


but,

since i'm seeking a convenient justification:


you silently abandoned ship

as if i know how to read a ******* map or shapes in the stars



regrets, resentment, apologies

what's the point

not worth it



i've got more love for you than i'll never know what to do with

even when i'm already climbing the next tree and you are god knows where



unconditional was not a lie.

i see something in you. nameless. esoteric. incomprehensible, even to me. the backshelfcellarthought

itches in my fingers

          in my words

          in my restrainted interest.

you could be flawless. despite the offsetting qualities others observe

          i see it.

a dull shade of the most lovely glow. and i am too proud, or maybe too afraid
tosayoneword.

you & i get  along because we can eat tirimisu and sip coffee sans words



convinced:

talking is wildly subpar. touch is greater than a vibration of a vocal cord.

but if you must;

scream it to the sea.

love is something
you want to take back,
like the ugly sweater you get for Christmas.
love is something
you have to accept in hindsight
even when you are sure
nothing hurts more.

October sun tickled and made me mean it
                                                              ­                     three
                                                                ­                   words
shouted at first
then whispered and kissed and traced over and over
subtleties in the way the world did not open up wide
and treeleaf eyes took a beat too long to find mine
subtleties in the way my arms enveloped too tight
and his
                                                             ­                      three
                                                           ­                        words
seemed to slide off,
water over a rock.
love is something
incapable of vanishing
as much as a
nostalgic heart
beating numb
wishes otherwise.

swaddle
me
else
my
arms
will
flail
wildly
for
your
love

a hug that smelled like last summer.
'you didn't have to drive all this way for me'
it took me two hours
on the backroads because the freeway is scary
lost in neighborhoods where everything looked the same,
rows of shiny white teeth. it never crossed my mind to miss it.
           how do his eyes burn impossibly blue,
           even under the awning?
'the thing is, i had to'
he understood,
he understood just then that i was the girl he loved second best
and a sore loser always eyes the trophy cravingly
before walking away small.
            'i'll miss you'
whose to say? i'll take silver & wonder if he ever wrote to
             the other redhead.