One misstep,
an ill placed footfall,
the single clumsy blunder,
can ruin even the most graceful
trips.

The mortal enemy of canvas
is the day the sun doesn’t shine.
The day the sky sheds its grey onto earth.
Whether rain or snow,
it doesn’t matter much.

One misstep,
and cold hearted canvas
absorbs the error you’d like to erase.
Mistakes fade,
but will always be remembered
by your cold, wet socks,
and the cold-hearted canvas.

A girl and a boy pick their way across the snow-wrecked parking lot, holding hands even if they have to stretch to reach. She’s laughing, an arm out slightly for balance, like a gymnast. They come closer together as they reach a spot that is snow free, brushing arms, then the inevitable happens. The boy steps in the cold snow slush; trying to pretend his canvas shoes aren’t soaked through. The girl laughs, covering her mouth; hiding her amusement at his misfortune. Their mouths move through quick conversation, the words inaudible. They don’t really matter though, He’ll get home and peel off his damp socks and remember her yet again. The laugh that escaped her lips before she could control it, the cold hearted canvas that failed to provide adequate protection, and the way he smiled and continued walking, just to hold her hand.

“I’m just confused.” You say.
“About?” Is all I volley with, throat still clogged with tears.

“Your writing, I feel like I know you, then suddenly I feel like I don’t know a whole part of you.”
How do you think I feel, Love? I thought you only had pretty words for me, then surprise, and your doubt, fear, lies, love, are all exposed for the world to see. My faults and yours for everyone else. Our relationship falling apart as your fame grows greater. Pain gets reads.

“I don’t know where it comes from.” I say.

Silence.

“It’s like I put my pen to paper and it pours out.” I continue.
Your brow furrows, digging for something more.
“It’s not even just that, It’s how you act around people it’s different with everyone. I don’t know if you’re real with me.”
I don’t either, I think as the tears spring forward faster. I’m frantically searching for a shade of me to hold onto, one I like. It’s hard to find, personas slipping through fingers like sand.

“I just…” I trail, hoping for an interruption, but you wait.
“I’m a people-pleaser; I know what makes them feel good. I can read them well, I can understand their wants, so to ease some pain, I’ll be what they need.”

Still Silence.
The fullest, noisiest silence.

Am I real? I thought so, with you, yes. With others? No. My parents need a good girl, who loves them like a child. My roommate needs someone to ***** with her, bend to her will, be her punching bag. Your roommates need a girl with *****, someone to shoot **** like they do. Someone to ignore sexism, and racism, hate speeches, and ***** jokes. My school friends need a quirky weird girl who’ll never say no. My teachers need a hard-worker. My boss needs more availability.

I need quiet. I need love. I need to find myself in a maze of personas. Each only slightly different. Then I realize, I’m me already. I don’t need to find myself, I’m here waiting, I just need room to grow. RoomToBreathe. So I light a match, set fire to the maze, and watch as all the lies go up in flames.

I don’t love you dear, because you make me laugh, or smile, and never judge.

I don’t love you friend, because you’re almost always on my side.

I don’t love you because you make kick-*** coffee drinks, or because you don’t try to understand my pain.

No friend, I don’t love you because you’ve seen me at my best and worst or because you’ve seen me high and sober.

I love you because you’ve helped me.
Because you never ask why.
Because you found a way out of the labyrinth.
Because you pushed past the pasts.
Because you hate my pain.
Because you give everything, always, even if it means you hurt.


I love you dear friend, because you’ve struggled, lost, failed, and you’re here, pushing on.

Moving Forward.

And I’ll be there; I’ll be your mother, your sister, your shoulder, your spine.
I’ll be your guide, build you up so you can keep up, keep moving.
Because, friend, I’d only be returning the favor.

Just like any other town, except the middle school is in an old strip mall, selling free education. The bank advertises a “Kalachi Festival” and nothing else, not low interest loans or free checking. The streets are lonely, but then again, it’s Sunday morning and most are at church. Where I’m headed, riding passenger, just for you. I hate riding passenger, but I’ll let you wear the pants today, I’ll stick to my fifties inspired floral skirt and clichéd pink teddy bear sweater. We arrive. Nine-thirty on the dot. Right on time, you say “I told you we wouldn’t be late.” I roll my eyes and breathe deep as I open your car door. We walk across the gravel lot to a low lying building. Church. No loud music or free coffee to hide behind. No large crowds or jumbo screens. Just people. We go into a classroom. Read from the bible. Meet people whose names I promptly forget. But that’s okay, they forget me too.
We finish on the gospel of John. And take a bathroom break, I take a while, not willing to endure the awkwardness that is sure to occur if I exit before you do. I stare at my reflection and regret my eyeliner. I’m glad I wore flats, not heels, and feel a bit overdressed to be honest. I exit, after using hand sanitizer as hand soap, realizing, then proceeding to wash my hands again. You’re talking to an elderly woman, she’s small, fragile. I hug her awkwardly, I’m terrible at meeting people. Another deep breath. Your father comes into view. What if he hates me? What if you realize you’ve made mistake? What if I accidentally say ****? ****. ****. ****. Deep breath out. Shake hands, smile and greet awkwardly, yet again. Meet Pearl and Ruby. The Two Jewels of the church. Meet Leonard. Joke with leonard, Think of my grandfather and how I should call him. Mentally punch myself in the arm. Greet your mom, get told I’m pretty, laugh, not knowing what to do.
I sit next to Alanna and the *** Smoking boyfriend, Scott. Sing. Pray. You do announcements. Everyone takes communion, Myself included. You pray, with such conviction and belief I’m confused. I put on the pious face for the congregation. Look innocent. Observe. Sing again. No instruments, only robust voices, all together. Your hand is in mine for the sermon. Finding it hard to concentrate, I notice the approximate age and décor of the church. Probably mid-late seventies. The Mauve carpet reminds me of my mother. She loved mauve in the 90’s, when it was popular. Exposed beams make it feel more like a chapel. They remind me of my church at home. There’s a choir section, making me realize it could have been another church at some point, you don’t have choirs. The sermon’s finished. Your hand has left red marks on mine, small ovals that you fuss over. We make our way out of the church. The last to leave. Following your parents home.
You lived in the country. In a wooden house that reminds me of my first house in Perry. Covered in dark wood. Your kitchen reminds me of my mother, covered in sunflowers, her favorite. You give me a quick tour.  The art that covers the walls of your home is yours and your siblings. I’m amazed. We clomp down the stairs; “they’re extra steep” you warn. Your mother’s preparing lunch. I contemplate offering to help, but don’t want to look like an *** if she says yes and I mess something up.
We retire to the living room with your father. He asks about my family. My parents, an Engineer and a Marketing Director. He asks about their expectations for me. Asks me if I live in the country, No, I reply, I live on the golf course. His eyebrows raise further. ****. I should have left that out. He thinks I’m wealthy. I’m not, neither are my parents. Mercifully we get called in for lunch. Roast, salad, corn, cantaloupe, potatoes, I love home cooking. You peer pressure me into cheesecake. Your father suggests you take me to the pond. You think twice. Taking in my shoes and skirt. We go anyways. Kiss as soon as we’re out of sight. I wish we could just lie down beneath a tree and sleep. We walk back to the house. Collect groceries and money, Even me. We go to the car. Drive away. You’re tired. So am I, we fight a little on the way back, mostly joking. We fall into bed and sleep away the morning. Which you say went well, I’m still unsure.

I want summer like I want you, constantly. I’m tired of cold that snatches my breath and hope. I want the trees to regain their decency and cover their bare limbs. Wearing the greenest fullest blouses. I want the grass to grow. Thunder to roll and rain to fall. I want fat drops to bounce of the pavement, to wash my face and hair.

I want the sun to bath my skin in beauty, making it glow with warmth. I want dresses and shorts and skirts. I want brown legs and flip-flops. I want turquoise pools and florescent swimsuits.

I’m sick of cold fingers and toes. I’m tired of heaters and blankets. I want to roll down the windows. I want sweat on my back and only sheets on my bed. I’d love warm nights, drinking sweet tea, and making love beneath the stars. I wish for glowing street lights and lake nights. I want to sit in the windows of cars at sonic.

I want barbeque sunflower seeds and the fourth of July.

I want field parties with only beer and red bull, and only bonfires to see by. I want fireflies and chigger bites. Lemonade out of mason jars.
I miss cotton, and sandals. I miss volleyball, ***** feet, and ponytails. But what I miss most about summer is freedom. Those summer night driving under an endless sky of stars.

In third grade, I lived in a white rent house; forever known as the “white house.” It was in the backyard of this house that I played Pocahontas, and Little House on the Prarie, it is also where I met him. I don’t remember his face, or his name, only his age: sixteen, his buzz cut and the fact that he live with his grandma.
I was a quiet girl, with long brown, curly hair falling past my shoulders. I was nine. The boy and I became friends of sorts talking through the chain link; the criss-cross of the metal keeping me from his full face. Eventually our friendship moved from the backyard to the Front yard, where there was no chain link and things blurred together. The two yards meeting in the middle, mirroring the friendship of the boy and I.
Soon a game developed, a new version of hide and seek perfect for two. I would hide a piece of paper, and he’d try to find it. I hid it in the same spot every time, the huge terracotta *** on my front porch: the one with no plant life, only black potting soil with the white fertilizer specks.
I remember staring down at the small white paper as he quickly scanned the porch, not really looking. Then his eyes would latch onto me. He’d kneel before me, and ask the question I would always dread, “Where did you hide it?”
I didn’t dread the question itself, just the after. He would take my hand and lead me over the boundary between our yards. The one that was invisible and mirrored our friendship.
I remember looking down at the green outside carpeting as I climbed the steps to his grandmother’s house, hand in hand with the boy. He took me inside, down a long hallway to his room. His grandmother wasn’t home. I stepped into the room, my tennis-shoed feet sinking into the thick carpeting, which was so very much like my grandmother’s.
He closed the door; I remember exactly how the lock clicked into place before he turned to me, smiling.
“You’ve been a bad girl,” he said “you hid the paper in a place I couldn’t look at outside.”
I told him it was in the big *** outside my ouse then, afraid, but not really sure of what.
“No,” he said, “I check there. Why would you lie to me?”
And that was when he lifted my shirt, exposing the chest of a child, with my baby fat belly, and not a hint of puberty. The pants were next. I remember watching them, red with white hearts, the shorts my mother had made me falling to the ground, pooling softly around my ankles. I never said no, I was only silent, my brother was four at the time, he was the cute one then, so I desperately wanted the boys attention.
I was standing there in my underwear, too tall socks, and tennis shoes. Glancing towards the door that seemed to have grown in size, like the Christmas tree in the Nutcracker.
His hands went to my *******, sliding them down to my ankles, making the familiar swishing against the dry skin of my legs as they went down. He just sat there for a moment, staring. Finally he said “Well, I guess the paper must be out there after all.”
He pulled up my ******* and helped me into my pants. He opened the door, which had returned to normal size, and lead me out into the sunlight, crossing the invisible boundary of our yards. He plucked the paper from the planter and smiled.
“You know if you want to be on the internet all you have to do is show your underwear.”
He turned and walked away then, dropping the precious paper on the boundary of our friendship as he went.

I need help.
I pull back my hair. Tame my locks.
I put on my mask for the lovers.
For the Customers
For everyone.
Anyone.
I’m struggling behind these eyes, Below these lashes.
I’m drowning in my own mouth.Sinking in my own skin.
Desperately clutching at anything that looks as if it might float:
                     Illegal substances
                     Old Lovers
                     Best Friends
                     Books
                     New Lovers
                    
And we’re all sinking.
All drowning.
All floundering about this ******* life.
Blind.
Deaf.
Bland.
Caged.

Let’s all let go. Let’s all run.

Let’s all get California eyes and sit on beaches.
Let’s all hold hands and sprint.
Let’s go to a place that doesn’t sleep.

Let’s let go. Let’s Be free.

If I take a step, you’ll take two,
Right?
And two will turn to two thousand, two million.

And we’ll run. We’ll Laugh. We’ll Live. We’ll Die. We’ll Sing. We’ll fall silent.
We’ll Relish in the contrast
We’ll find comfort in the chaos.

His words crash around us, his miserable dark dampening everyone’s light. Your blue eyes roll high, then low, letting his hanger catch on your shoulders. I protest, claim love and want hope, but he’s well prepared; bible, violence, and stereotype in hand.
  At first, he locked his anger up tight, disguised the resentment, fought the archaic nature of his values, the great expanse of his hatred, hidden. He kept it in, fought it, failed to understand it. Finally, internal battle lost, he started leaking. Any hope for happiness killed by a diet of frozen pizza, polish sausage, and spaghetti westerns. He respects men who don’t respect women, loathes anyone who dares to think or feel more than necessary.
His eyes shift, and a creeping moustache has begun above his upper lip, framing a mouth spewing misunderstanding. You say: He makes everyone miserable. He says: Its all the cigarettes and alchohol they’ve been using. You shake your head, knowing an argument only spreads the contagion and inflames the rash.
   I forget, ask him how he knows so much about things he’s never done.  “You don’t have to try it to know,” He replies, the creeping moustache more and more evident. I roll my eyes, lay back and listen as he preaches theories  about women he’s never known, never had. How many times can he fail to realize he’s no better than anyone else. He preaches God and Christianity, but hates more than anyone, has no hope, or faith, or love, and lacks any shadow of compassion. He’s filled with violence and anger, yet claims to follow a God of love.

   He’s not tough, or hardened, or experienced, he’s afraid. Afraid to love, to lose, to understand, to hope, to accept, because it means a change.  It means growing up, throwing out comic books, drawing mor than Batman, finding friends who are real, feeling the pain, understanding the gravity, and embracing it all.

All I’m beginning to feel is pain. My mind is buzzing and throbbing because I’ve shoved it out of sight. My chest aches from a diet of fried foods and breathing toxic conversation. My ears sting from biting criticisms my parents present of: homosexuals, the homeless, drug addicts, hippies, and myself. Ten days trapped, with no escape but my mind. I should have prepared better; brought armor and weapons, but nothing cuts through the opinions of the ignorant. Nothing can expose the lies they’ve fed themselves.

My mother loves “people watching” she says, but only from a safe distance. Far enough to see the grit, but not the despair.
My father is fickle, brooding and American. He can’t look foreigners in the eye and scoffs at language barriers.

Together they make assumptions: drug addict, idiot, fornicators, harlot, thief, terrorist, local, wealthy, foreign.  Maybe they’re right to assume the negative; maybe they’re right when they say all the homeless are drug addicts. I hope not, I maintain faith, faith in the beauty of life, in the inherent differences we all possess, not in a God they say, says no to: liars, and *****, and prostitutes, and druggies, and the tattooed, I run, from them and their prayers, and arrogance and conclusions.

Smite me, parents, your darlingdaughter.

I’ve been all of those.
I lie to you, hide my true self, to spare you.
I’ve smoked ***.
I’ve drank underage.
I’ve been a ****.
I’ve been called a *******.
I’ve loved the idea that love is real, whether you’re gay or straight.

You **** my faith, force in your ideals and chain me to a cross you’ve built yourselves of hypocrisy, of hate, of misunderstanding, of fear, of criticism. I struggle to get free. Defend my principles, play “devil’s advocate,” when you know as well as I, I’m not playing. I’ll prove it, be more than you’ll allow, do more than you want.

I’ll find more love than your Christianity-tainted mind can fathom.
I’ll explore the depths of the mind you’ll never know.
I’ll remember the love you made me forget.
I’ll make love to men without a ring on our fingers, and feel no remorse.
I’ll tattoo my body, to show the world the beauty of my mind.
I’ll buy a Koran because I see its beauty.
I’ll attempt to understand others.
I’ll give to the homeless, even if they’re drug addicts.
I’ll love everyone that’s real, because I can. Because it’s more important than God or war or assumptions or generalizations, or patriotism.

You think I’m rebelling?
No. no. no. I’m just living.

The current trend is breaking down, then breaking up. The right thing to do is reexamine the relationship, they say. Everyone’s stepping back, pulling out, cutting short, calling it quits, giving up the fight, but quitting only leads to an easy exit.
Let’***** the gas, push past the carnage and tears. Pull each other close, and listen to breathing hearts and beating lungs. Forget the trends, or the rules, or their advice. Lose it all, gamble your entire heart. It’s the only way to win big; it’s the only chance you’ve got. Forget what you are with others, be who you want together.
Relearn the old strategy of giving until you’ve got nothing left. Then receive until you’re full again. Form your words into sentences, paragraphs, stories, that expose everything.
Fall in completely and don’t flounder.
Forget the silence; fill it with music, with laughter, with anger, with lust, with sighs of sleep.
Then share the beauty of it, show them the strangest loveliest thing in existence.

A little advice from when I gave a ****.

You never fail,
Nomad,
to be disappointed by your Domino Lovers.

First,
your persian,
the big one,
the first love,
the true love.

Second,
your *******,
the responsibility
the mistake,
the theif.

Third,
Your yoko,
me.
the sweet one,
the **** up.

Last,
your Lioness,
your destroyer,
the final cut,
the Karma.

She delivered the crippling blow.

But no worries,
Nomad.
I'll patch you up,
friend.
I'll match you up,
friend.

I'm not yours,
anymore.
And you're not mine.

Float free,
friend,
cut the strings,
friend,
forget the lovers,
friend.

Stop the Dominoes
from falling
one
after
the
other.

A night is lost in tangled rumpled sheets
Each hand is struck by every curve it meets
And eyes are lost to beauty in found in flaws
It seems the fear is lost to open jaws.
We make our way down paths which are worn low
This maze we walk at paces marked and slow.
My love the labyrinth is ours to map
Within its walls our love we must entrap.
And build a shelter from a world we fear
Of grey wood worn and sea glass beaten clear

We’re alone, together,
The rhythm of the coffeehouse swirling around us,
A quiet cacophony of colliding ceramics,
flatware, and the splash of coffe hitting cups.
Each lost, writing on legal paper
I buy in daisy yellow in a small attempt to brighten my day.
The couple to our right aren’t anything spectacular, really.
Even though they did talk about
The drug market when you left for the car.

Even farther right, at a table you suggested, I sat with josh.
We came in early on a Sunday morning,
Stumbling clumsily upon a place he really wasn’t too fond of.
Funny, as he complained of the coffee and décor, I wanted to stay more and more.

It irritated me: his lack of knowledge or the willingness to gain one.
With you I’m comfortable,
And secretly, I wish he was sitting there,
So you could butcher him with words.
Chop off his 70’s ***** hair, with one swift cut,
Because you always seem to peg him,
Exactly where he deserves to be hit.

I love the contrast of the moments,
With him, I struggled to see, wished for more, and searched for an end.
With you, skin is velvet, voices: harmony, memory a beautiful cacophony.

Bo, I’ve just been Playing Pretend.
Putting on make-up and brushing my hair. Putting on dresses and smiling. Faking.

Dear, I wish I could say you’ve replaced the past, but all I can say is I hate me.

I’m dragging you about. Breaking your heart one atrium at a time. I’m putting you in his place, taking you to our old haunts.
Truthfully, I hate the product in your hair. I despise the nick-name “boo.” I could care less about champagne and “fine dining.” I wish you read more than non-fiction. I want you to laugh at my cheesy jokes. I wish you’d gotten upset when I told you about the boy. You claim to be free, but you’re more caged than me. Worry worry worry. About one word answers,  about slow responses, about me, about the non-existent us.

I’m offering apologies, because I never told you. I’m sorry, dear, but the way you offer me your cheek offends me. The way you put my hand on your leg repulses me. Your damp fist in mine, makes me reach for hand sanitizer. Your love for eighties fashion causes me to worry for your sanity. Your style drives me crazy. I want band shirts, and thrift stores, but you want quality over quantity. I want fifty-seven fifty cent skirts that I’ll wear once.

I’m tired of playing happy for you. I’m sick of being sweet.

I was in it because you were interesting, now I’m in it for the drugs.

I’m avoiding your gaze more. Hoping you don’t see the things I do, because dear, I’m afraid to be alone.

Honestly, sweetheart, your hands get me nowhere. Every touch is just that. I’m sorry dear, but your kiss stops at my lips. I apologize love, but you’re not in my head. Or my heart. You’re just a placeholder.

You’re me trying to find solution.

Try, try, trying to find the answers. Trying to find the cure.

And failing.

Miserably.

All I’ve figured out, is I can’t stop looking left, when you’re sitting to my right. All I know is kissing you feels like cheating. All I know is I can’t get him out of my brain. All I wish is that I would have fought harder. All I see is how us ending has pulled him further from the surface. All I can worry about is his masochism.

Darling, I’m sorry, but I’m dead weight. I have nothing left to give you.

Now, we find needs just so we can fill them. We go insane so we can buy the meds. Soccer moms popping children’s pills. Everyone dreaming suicide and depression. No how. No why. No reason.
We want inventions so we can make infomercials. Who cares about shipping and handling? **** the national debt. I’ll give you my credit card number, and you’ll send me a pet nail trimmer, even though Max (the dog) died four years ago, you never know what you’ll need right?
We find government just to have politicians. Everyone promises a solution to the problem. No one ever expects it to pan out. Instead, we vote on name recognition, parties, and skin color. Who cares about platforms or empty promises?
We wage wars just to make video games. I’ll shoot you now, your brother will shoot me later, but don’t worry, when we’re all in the ground. Someone, somewhere, will design a kickass, strategic, lifelike game, where dying only means regenerating and less ammo.
We all want something, or nothing. We all work to live, live to die.
Try just to fail, fail to try.
We want anonymity, just to forget the tragedy of our minds.

Dylan plays softly,
As my ink stained hands
Map your milk white hips.
And we could play this game
Of push and pull
For hours.

I rake my night hands
Down your ivory spine,
Find myself Enthralled with
The soft plains of Your back
And we’ve been playing this game
Of push and pull
For hours.

I pull my blackened fingers
Through your silk strands
And I’m Caught,
Lost in
The soft moonlight of your hair
And we’ve been playing this game
Of push and pull
For hours.

I trace the structure
Of your face with my
Ink
Black
Hands.
Hoping not to ruin the
Pale moonlight it radiates.
Praying to keep your
Silver Skin
Pure.
And we’ve been playing this game
Of push and pull
For hours.

And your skin is still
Light,
Your hips still white,
Spine; Ivory
Your hair, still moonlight.

And I’m in awe,
Again, again, again.

Five days a week,
I sit in white classrooms
With hard plastic chairs.
I watch as teachers
Walk in
Out
In
Out.

I buy journals to occupy the time
To try and grow my mind,
Out of the redundancy of lectures,
Notes,
Homework,
In five years how much of this will matter?

Because I know I won’t remember
The details.
Just that I was in love
With the brightest star,
In the biggest way,
And that’s all that matters

She’d been my best friend in high school, marked by her pale skin, cynicism, and lovely smile. She was unique, hard edges softened by square teeth, arranged perfectly behind full lips.
It’s odd to think it’s only been year, now, her hair has been cropped short in the French style, her eyes hide behind enormous polarized aviators. Her navy tank top worn thin, bra straps exposed. Her jeans rolled short, revealing rubber flip-flops that’d been on her feet since high school. It felt strange, like I was seeing a relative I hadn’t seen since I was six. I could see her changes, taking them in as we made awkward conversation, free of the easiness we used to share. Something was off, and continued to pull my mind from the strained conversation. Just as she’s told me her aspirations of being a French major, I see it. The Hard “f” exposing what I was trying so desperately to find, it’s occurrence has impacted her gait, her presence, her attitude. Her teeth; now chipped, broken, browned. The vicious despair surrounding her started seeping in to my brain, my eyes, my teeth. I can’t resist the pull behind my eyes, drawing me back to the new-found flaw. The infallible feature I’d always expected, disfigured. Gone before I wanted to let go. My best friend finally exposed in front of me, no witty sarcasm and smile to hide behind. I couldn’t comprehend the context of the ruin. An abusive relationship? Drug Addiction?
A fall, certainly, farther and faster than I’d ever care to see. Harder and more dreadful than I’ll ever know. The fall the world can see, the tragedy only I can hear.

You say those other women don’t matter, that they’re in your past. It doesn’t matter. I’m like you in that sense, I want to know, and then again, I don’t. All I can see is that you were with them first. Each of them stealing a bit of you from me, marring your surface.

They left you with scars I can’t mend. It’s too late for that. The wounds have already scabbed over, been picked at, and faded into ghostly white scars. All I could do was try and pull you from the water you were struggling to keep your head above. My grip slipped once, and I let you fall back into the blak glass of water. That makes me one of them, like them. Then I dove in after you, pulling you from the bottom and towards the surface.

I didn’t make it though, I got confused about up and down and left and right. My lungs were throbbing, throat begging me to take a breath. I opened my eyes then, and found yours. Blue meeting green in the black abyss. Then suddenly, you kicked, propelling us towards the surface. We broke together, rippling the dark water. Gasping for air. Filling our lungs with precious gas.

Then they’re there again, picking at my brain with their writing and their text messages. They smiling knowingly, whispering in my ear, “You’re just like us,” over and over. Until my throat tightens and my eyes burn, glowing green. They make me doubt you, but even more so, doubt myself. Am I enough? Pretty enough, smart enough, different enough. I hope so, because no matter how many times you say it, or how far we swim, they’re still there whispering across the abyss.

I’m sitting in my mother’s
Friend’s
Driveway,
Trying not to look like a creep.
While my Honda civic
Is hardly reminiscent of
*******,
My nervous eyes
And shaking hands could be.

Finally, they arrive,
And I realize
I’m wearing no make-up, my hair is wet,
And there’s paint on my arms,
And I have a girlfriend.

Mother
emerges, smiles wide.
I meet her for a hug, notice
Her eyes straying to my left ear.
“Do you like it?”
Long pause.
“I’m indifferent,” she replies.

And I think, if she only knew
About the black, black ink
On my right hip,
She wouldn’t be indifferent.

We make awkward conversation,
About apartment details,
Cable,
Cable bills,
Moving,
Gas and electric,
Avoiding anything evoking emotion.

As she walks away she turns,
Asks,
“Do you have money?”
I don’t say anything, taken aback.
“I wish I could have bought you dinner or something…”
“Mom. It’s fine.”
“No, no, no, here’s some money,
Tell Amanda hi.”

“Alright, I love you, mom.”
I say has her heels scrape away.
“Love you too."
She calls over her shoulder.

And she’s gone.

And I’m free to do as I please,
With ink, piercings and girlfriends.

But I wish she knew,
I wish she could love
The free me too.

There is comfort with you, the softness of you, hair, eyes, smile, hands, counteract my hard edges. Neutralizing. My acidity becomes neutral as you trace the angels of the spine and hip bones. Our chemistry creating the ultimate balance. Locking eyes ignites chemicals below the stomach bubbling in my throat and chest. Soft lines of fingers, juxtaposed against my fumbling appendages. The quiet of your voice colliding with the raucousness of my own. The basic collision of differences creating the uncontrollable, but inevitable reaction. But within the difference lies the similarity, the melody of voices vocalizing literature. The magnetic pull compelling our bodies to become one. The warmth of flawed bodies tangled together in a twin bed. The resentfulness towards hatred and hypocrisy, the inclination towards love and understanding. The creation of something inexplicable, something unknown, unexpected, something that has redefined beauty.

There comes a point in summer when I begin to wish for winter. When I tire of sweat and lukewarm showers.

There is a day when I’d like every tree in sight to stop covering their pain, and expose the reality of grey and withered limbs.

There is a night I wish for twelve blankets on my bed, only my nose exploring the freezing atmosphere.

There is a minute I wish to replace sandals with boots, and tanlines with skin like moonlight.

There is an hour I’d rather you and I hid away, with cold toes and frigid fingertips, than go to the lake and sip beer with plasticine friends.

There is a second I spend wishing for grey clouds to cover the mocking sun, for bitter gales to replace a dancing breeze.

There is a month, I wish the grass would hide its bragging leaves, and the snow would come out and play.

There are a few hours I spend pretending, I turn on every fan, dim the lights, put on pajamas, drink coffee, and cower beneath one solitary blanket. Hoping winter spies me, takes pity, and make the hours-minutes-days-months-seconds his.

Since you’re moving on, it’s okay to talk. It’s okay to share, because she’s taken my place. She’s shaken your foundations, buried herself deeper in your soul than you buried our pain.

Since I’m moving on, it’s okay to tell you my discoveries. To show the happiness I’ve found. To hide the anger at your failure to tell me about her. And the guilt I feel at hiding him from you.

Since you’re okay with pretending we never loved. I’ll be okay with it too. You buried your pain deep, you say. Mine, mine is the surface, flaking away with each kiss, each whisper, each smile, each intake of smoke, each shot of liquor.

I’m making new playlists, learning new songs.
You’re posting more poetry, finding new loves.

You’re driving new places, losing more weight.
I’m watching new movies, and gaining mine back.

You’ve discovered liquor.
I’ve discovered THC.

I’m trying hard not to break a heart, finding that slow-growing love is just as scary as the unexpected fall.

I’m learning to give and take: compliments, favors, anything really. I’ve found new eyes to explore and a new face to map. I’m kissing those other boys. This time though, I’m still here, I’m still me.

I still don’t want picket fences, or a God. But, he doesn’t either. We don’t plan further than two days in the future and savor the moments. And now we’re spinning faster, farther than I thought I’d go anytime soon. And what you and I had fades fast. Faster than I thought possible. I’m pushing forward. Moving past pain, and anger, and jealousy. And the fear that I’ll never be the same.

I’m letting people in, letting them help. Sharing the weight, alleviating burdens, letting myself be loved, be healed, be anything.

I just want happiness. For you, for me.

I want to see more than flat plains and a familiar college campus. I want to explore the unfamiliar. I want to find truth in a new mind. I want to say with absolute certainty that I’m past us, and you. That I’ve let go of our eight months, and grabbed onto my present.

Since I’ve let go, so have you. Since you’re unburdened, so am I.

Since we’re both moving further and further apart, I guess I should say Good-Bye.

I’ve discovered a world in your eyes. Brilliant blue surround black. I’ve discovered fear there. Trust, too. Lust, love, and secrets. All hiding hiding hiding, resisting discovery.
I’ve mapped exotic lands on the planes of your arms. We’ll escape there if the parents start shouting, if the people start pointing. If the doubt weighs heavy. We’ll run there when the “ifs” become truth.
In the dark I carved a labyrinth into your skin. Later, when it’s just you and me, we’ll roam there. We’ll love ourselves in the walls built high. You and I will live there. Talk there. Discover there.
I built a small black box to put our fear in. To hide our pasts in. To fill with our doubt. To free our minds, so we can explore. So we can map continents. Galaxies. Universes.
We’ll map stars, planets, cities and towns. Eyes hipbones, necks, and hands. We’ll explore hometowns, bodies and minds. We’ll build futures, laughter and trust.
Molly we’ll burn bridges, inhibition, and hate
Molly I’ll hold you close while the cities fall. I’ll map your lips with mine. I’ll show you my flaws and fall in love with yours. Molly we’ll find paradise. We’ll lose reality. We’ll find ourselves. Find each other. Build worlds of our own.

I’m sitting. Staring straight ahead, feeling nothing when he smiles my way. Wanting nothing as he laughs at my jokes. I want nothing more than for him to fade completely into someone I see in passing at a monthly meeting. No pasts.
I’m free, finally I feel as if I can move without limits. That I can let my feet trace the contours of each continent. Now, my love, don’t worry about my pasts, they’re behind me now, nothing more than ink on the page. I’m not running away, I’d rather take you with me.
I’ll curl up with you until we forget the world outside my door. Until the roommates come knocking. Until the world comes calling.

Two lovers: tangled in words and sheets,
cower behind walls twelve feet high and deep.

Two lovers: lost in mazes of minds and
of bodies they only recently set free. 
Afraid of the fall inevitable.

Two lovers: and they can finally see
their desires are matched and are free.

I love you, one says,
And the other replies- breaking down 
walls she built twelve feet thick and high.

There's nothing left now,
but their two naked hearts,
their two exposed souls.
With their cracked an lovely parts-
Waiting to be written,
Waiting to be discovered.

Knowing all the while 
each holds the piece to a possible disaster. 
Because love once let in is not easily let out.

L E Dow 2012

June 2, 2010

Don’t make me into something I’m not. If you do, I’ll never win your heart. Don’t turn me into one of them.  I love you more than they ever could. Don’t put words in my mouth. I’ve got different ideas in mind. Don’t put me high on a pedestal, out of reach. I want to hold you. Don’t buy me pretty things or make me lunch. I’ve got all of that already. Don’t cut short or hide away. I’ve got all the time in the world for you. Don’t push me away, or wipe away the feeling. I can see it in your face. Don’t categorize me with those who don’t think or feel. Look at me. Don’t make me into something I’m not. Don’t leave. Give me a chance. Don’t let me down.

He’d never mentioned her before, but then she started showing up more and more and more. A Thursday, a Saturday, a Monday, her invite was planned, mine was a “make it if you can.” I watched his eyes, his mouth, his hands, as he watched her, taken by his newfound love of the moment. She’s just more than me, her hair is strawberry blonde, her skin is smooth and freckled, her eyes green, larger than mine, with thicker, longer lashes. Her lips are full and always pink, hiding a lovely smile. I can’t loathe her, in fact if I let myself, I could love her too, she’s that sweet. She’s what he wants, why not let him have it?

A guitar player, a woman with an incredible voice, a lady who doesn’t say “****,” or have a history of sleeping with too many men. Maybe I should go down, no fight, surrender myself to an imminent defeat. Just let go, before I’m let go of. Cut the cord, break the ties, blow up the bridge, whatever you want to call it. My love can survive, can endure, can be lost, if only for a moment, before it’s found again. His love is fleeing me. He falls easily, and hard, no turning back. His nomad mind pulling him farther and harder than he thinks I can love him. One new love like ours could turn out to be easily found, and easily bought, easily changed and easily lost. I love you “harders,” “more’s” and “mosts” have been replaced by a simple “you too, sweets” or nothing at all. I guess a bit of friendly competition is good, not for the love, or the hurt, or the fear, but for the realization that nothing’s real or permanent. Nothing lasts as long as you hold it, even if your grasp is firm, steady and wanted. Now, who wants to start the friendly competition?

Today and Tomorrow there is nothing
for the People, but everything for the Poet.
fiery buildings litter our papers
and politicians of plastic make the rules
everyday grows dim as the sun rises higher.

A dusting of grim grey has begun to build
upon the faces of all,
Everyone crying out for peace and love,
Everyone preaching conspiracy and the end of the World.

Some people cling to a god, one that, according to a recent survey,
they probably know nothing about.
Others cling to the things they’ve acquired, a wife, 2.5 children,
a three-bed-two-bath house in the suburbs, twenty minutes from the city.
The poets cling to their pens, burying themselves in paper.
Hoping if they dig deep enough they’ll reach the bottom of despair,
to find the meaning.

But, the buildings are still on fire,
the politicians still plastic,
no matter the meaning, the grey is still growing,
building walls and hate out of grim grey that has swallowed
us all whole.

Today, you're breaking my heart.
Tomorrow will be the same, I'm sure. The really funny thing is: you don't know you're doing it. 
So **** it.
**** this. 
**** me. 
Keep breaking my heart, 
soon enough I'll be numb as hell and it won't matter what we've done.

It's okay, baby.
Don't worry, I'm happy.
I found my plaster mask-
Made up just right:
pretty, smiling,
And just what you'd like
To lay your oceans on.

Don't worry, I'm numb.
And no no no, I don't feel that knife.

I've never felt more alive than I have in this moment,
Never felt less than that knife's
Cold spine against frigid mine.

It seems everyone
Knew.
I was getting ****** over,
Again
Again
Again.
Everyone

But me.

I was blinded
     By façades
     By words
     By love.

Now, I see.

The one sided Conversations.
The tears.
The lonliness.
The fears.

I’ve found Clarity,Love, Best Friends,
Freedom.

I appreciate the pain,
Because it made me more.
I love the rage, because its burned through
It all.

I’ve learned to keep
My eyes wide,
To remember it all.
I’ve seen the necessity of Appreciation,
Of savoring each
Moment.

You never know when or
If you’ll lose it.

Tomorrow
Today,
Never.

I’ve let go,
Set myself free.
I’m planning futures And ignoring fears.
I don’t know anything
But love and
Truth.

I can see the beauty in her
Eyes.
The Light in her smile,
And I’m lifted higher,
Made lighter.

The way her hair falls
Is Magic.
Her beauty is found between
Caught breaths and the pages of novels.

Her love is
               pure,
               Innocence,
               Magnificent.
Together, we are more.
We don’t need each other
We want each other.

Our love is more
Than words
Than time
Than platonic.
Her eyes in mine fill
                    The silences.
Her hands on mine break
                    The barriers
Her mouth over mine
                   Builds anew.
Creates.
Sets me free.

Breathe in.
Bob sings “Don’t think twice, it’s alright.”
Breathe out.

Is it? I’ll surely thing more than twice, I can’t let anything go without thinking of it at least thirty-seven times. But times are a-changing. I can’t keep up, I never can, I’m always one step behind, discovering things just as they become obsolete. I try to run to catch up, to fit, but fail and watch as the bus I’ve repeatedly missed flies by.  That’s when I see him. He doesn’t care about the bus, or the discoveries, he just sits in the gravel at the station, pen in hand.

Breathe in.
He has no use for buses, or planes, or cars, or trains, he has feet.
He doesn’t need people, he has solitude.
He doesn’t need roots, he has a nomad mind.
Breathe out.

I approach, looking right, left, walking quickly across the black top that separated us.
He glances up at my shoes grinding into gravel. I sit next to him, looking straight ahead.  He breaks the silence.

Breath in.
“Hello.”
Breathe out.
“Hello.”
He looks my way, glasses glaring in the sun, takes in my brown curls, green eyes, my despairing mind. “Here,” He says, “write.  It makes it all go away.”

Forget about breathing.  

He hands me an empty notebook and a pen. I think back, think hard, wonder where to start. The beginning seems the most simple. I pull one from my mind, one beginning of many.

And write. Write, write, write, write, until everything falls away.
Until I’m lost in me.
I write of Heartbreak, of Fear, of Love, of Death, of Lies, of Me, of Him, of Them, of Parents, of Pasts.

Then I start on my new beginning, I’ve caught up with me, now. Like Peter finally catching his shadow.
I’m free of the maze that held my mind, caged my soul. That sewed my lips, filled my ears. I look left. Smile. He’s waiting, patiently. I hand him the book, some pages stained with tears, other with laughter. He opens, begins reading, I lay back, thinking of nothing. Mind free to float.

The sky enormous and blue above me. Filled with no thought, no fears, just space.
“How does it feel?” Bob asks.
Like it must have felt to discover something first. Like the first lovers must have felt. Like the lovers still feel.
Like bliss.

I’ve never been good at
Braking habits
Being patient
Planning ahead,
But with you, I’m good.
I’m better at being me,
Because loving you is pure,
Is free,
Is bright, is new.

You’re a sun I can touch
Your rays color me yellow,
Paint me pure.
Your light gives
Clarity, vision,
Warmth.

So come closer,
Sun,
Light my way.

I ask how you are; you look at me like each word is a stab through the heart. I’m murdering you slowly. Your **** was quick, precise and clean. I’m dragging you behind me. Beating you about your eyes.

I just want you to smile again. To hope with your heart and your eyes. I want you to lift onward, upward. You’re allowed sunlight, you’re allowed picket fences, and a God if you want it. I don’t want to break you; I don’t want to hold you. I want to lift you, light you brighter and more beautiful than you thought possible. I want  your mind to stay clear, and your head to stay light. I want you to build your innocence, toil over self love, I want to watch as you grow to more, grow farther. I want you to love with a purity you thought gone.

I want you to give your love completely, maybe not to me, or anyone, but to yourself.

You are beautiful. You are loved. You have a future. You deserve better, you’ll live for more. Don’t stop pushing, start hoping. Stop thinking, start building. Put pen to paper and scratch. Your life, your love, take your own advice.

Live Again.

Reclaim the beauty and your ability to make art, forget work and school and me. Don’t sit back and watch the wheels. Stand for something.
Even if it’s just yourself.

It seems that something has been flipped, as i sit in classes about literature, about music, about life. It seems I'm capable of recovering from love lost, in the best way possible. I have hope. I remember the things you taught before you broke my heart, and begin to mend the pain. I feel the soothing of my own heart beating against fear and self-loathing and sorrow. And I know that I can be saved. I can  be pulled from the depths of this ocean. Not by you, or by another, or by a friend, but by me.


I kick and struggle until there, i see it. The most glorious light. New and beautiful and free. I'm torn, i can't just give up on our love; but I can't take it with me, not in the same form, of course. So i mold it shape it into something I'm proud of, into something innocent, and pure, and lovely. That is closer to our beginning than our end. I swim and swim. Until I'm walking ashore. Until I'm free of pain, and fear, and guilt, and sorrow. Until I come closer to the thing I've been searching for. What I've longed to find. Few others gather round, each knowing the purpose it will serve us, save us.


I take in the shear power of it above me. It grows and grows with no beginning and no end, there are some climbing up, and others slowly descending; heading towards yet another beginning, I look back once. To remember the things I'd learned, I loved. I stretch for the first bough and foothold, frustrated when I can't reach. Then up and up I go, I look back again, and there you are, helping me on my journy. I pull you up, too. And then begins the adventure. We will ever spend oure days climbing higher the limbs of the tree of life. Living, learning, always looking up, moving forward.


Pushing each other along  until we can survive on our own. Until we know our love and ourselves. Then there will be joy. Then ther will be progress. There will be change. There will be sacrifices, failures, success, trials, love and hope. Mostly hope, fo a world and i life that means more than a past. Fort he ability to give up tomorrows and yesterdays for right now. To froget what if, just to live. To give yourself completely over and over agian with no fear, or strings attached. Just Hope, and maybe Love.

You bait me, feed me words to break, so I might break you. I won’t, I can’t. Not because it will hurt you or because I don’t notice, but because I’m afraid the petty words are true. Five thousand instances to back them running through my head.
“Just like the others,” you say and look straight ahead at the apartments we’re parked in front of. It’s hot, stuffy, you’ve got the car shut off and you’re pushing buttons hoping one will work.
Marriage. Months ago you said “I look forward to seeing you all in white,” Or “I can’t wait to marry you.”
Is this what happened with the others? Am I anything special? Probably not, you’ve spilled the same speech about illusions to them as well. How many girls have you promised marriage? Forever? Being different?
Maybe I’m the only one, maybe I’m one of fifty. I’ll never know; I’ll keep loving you, and ignore your bait. I’m not hungry.

I used to be afraid of:
Going numb
Being disliked
Love
Heartbreak
Scars
Wounds
Fear.

Now, I’ll show you my wounds and you’ll lick mine. Salt may spill form the corners of my  eyes but I know your smooth fingers will remedy the pain. I’m certain that showing you the pain, the anger, the love, the truth will only build us higher. Only grow us stronger.
Molly. Your pasts don’t scare me, you wounds, they hurt me, but don’t worry. I’ll remedy them, if you’ll let me. I’ll lick the blood from your limbs and pull the shrapnel from your side I’ll swallow the pain your sick of eating, because I can.
Molly, I’ll live with you in this moment. I’ll love with you until our time runs out.

But for now I want you to know a few things.
I love you.
The way your body curves around mine is perfect.
I keep my eyes wide, so I can remember every second.
I wish San Francisco was right now.
I know we’re special.
I’d give up anything for this.
I love losing myself in us.
Being myself is easier when you’re around.
Your hands are lovely.
Your smile is better than any sunny day.

Molly, you should know, I want forever.
I want you, forever.
And I’ll love you no matter what.