She leans on my shoulder
hisses to me softly
with her serpent tongue
that slips into my ear
curls in my brain
lobotomizing

She is like a siren. That is not to say that she is some sort of sea witch that lures sailors to their graves, do not misunderstand me, but rather that she possesses the kind of beauty that sinks ships. Knowing full well that if we stray too close we will be dashed upon the rocks and our merry vessel will be torn to shreds, we press on ever further in her direction, arms spread wide like sails, and I will proudly shout from the crow’s nest, “Oh, my captain, we have run aground again, and this time I fear we shall never break free!” For it is surely madness that drives us; that makes us happy fools if not dead ones, that we would brave a sea of treachery for only a chance at her hand… No, there simply must be more to it than that.
     She is indeed an artist; keeper of both artistic promise and foolish ambition, and yet she is wise enough to tell the difference. She is unfooled by serpents, yet kind to their lovers, for she knows they suffer too. Her womanly charms attract all whom lay their eyes upon her, and yet her modesty captivates, beguiling me like no other. Her eyes shine like tide pools, yet they possess all the wonder and depth of the seven seas; and it is for this reason I fear to look upon them too long, lest I be lost within them. The flow of the tides are in her hair, and as I run my fingers through it, one moment it is a soft as the wind in our sails, and in the next it becomes thick and coarse like my own, and I open my eyes to find that I have been dreaming; Asleep on the deck dreamily running my hands over the tangled fibers of an old rope.
     But even now as I sit in the warmth of the sun, pen in hand, the cold spray of doubt falls upon my back and I am beset by the question, “would anyone ever read the tale of the siren and the crow?” You see, it is not the sea that I fear, nor the serpents or sirens or any other creature of the deeps; what I fear most is that if she knew I pursued her she would flee, leaving me and mine alone in her wake. Surely mine is not the only vessel that sails this route, and surely there are others more fit to weather the journey, but what good is there in jumping ship if even a thread of hope yet remains?
     **** the dangers and let the course unfold; I’ll not give in so easily. Storms, serpents and shipwreck, let them all come. We will press on full speed ahead, and if we should be so breached, I will doom myself and rob my captain of his final honor, for I, I must go down with the ship.

I have to tell my heart that I am worth living for
I argue with my legs that I am worth supporting
I promise them that one day I'll take them to new places
I tell my hand that I’m worth holding
But sometimes, I tell myself to let it go
Because I really don’t have reasons for any of them
All I have is hope
That they don’t leave me in my own shadow
My shadow only sticks around because Peter Pan stitched it to my feet
I don’t blame it… I would leave me too
That’s why I don’t blame the people who choose to not stick around
They choose another person's life to live in
I like going to movies by myself
I would rather read a book than write my own
I know that I’m weird and I accept that as "good"
So when others tell me what I already know
I pretend that they’re not saying it with negativity
Like it’s been done typically
I know that I stick out
I wear really bright clothes and I’m obsessed with my shoes
I’ve never listen to them, but I can feel the rhythm of  blues
I feel like Chicago blues get her lyrics straight from my life
I’m still trying to convince myself
That missing myself is worth fixing myself
I don’t have an argument that I’m worth all the effort
But once I stop… There’s no one left
I’ve been on my own for a long time
And my tears don't quench my thirst anymore
My arms are sick of only having me to hold
My chest has swallowed my pride
My mind and my body have left me alone
I would leave me too

I never understood “made in God’s image” until I saw her.
Anyone who’s seen her has higher expectations for what heaven looks like.

We’re both sensitive enough to know what love feels like,
and reasonable enough to know that it can be broken.

The first time you use a new toothbrush is nothing like the first time you kiss a girl,
But I still love them both.

Her laugh is a paradox; an outsider would think she either just said the cleverest thing ever or she wishes she could retract it faster than it was said.
Only I know it’s simply because it’s beautiful. It’s easily my favorite language.

I have considered wearing a wiretap so I could go back and listen to all of our conversations again. And I hope that it picked up her heartbeat. She told me, it’s beating exactly like life should sound like.

She offers to iron any wrinkled clothes. I don’t have any. But I have a wrinkled heart.
I thought it was made into origami but it’s just a wadded ball that missed the wastebasket.

The way she dances to hip-hop shows her versatility,
yet you can tell she doesn’t do this every day; but she still dances.

I’m almost too nervous to hug her - knowing it will have to end.
Whenever I let go, I feel like I made a mistake.

Her voice trails off into silence,
like an hourglass that’s trying to hold itself together.

I like that “click-clack” of her boots.
It lets me know I’m next to someone really going places.

She goes to the mini mart with me even when she doesn't want to get anything,
besides more time together.

from the mind of an anxious depressive

from the time i, as a little girl,
dressed up like a princess
[tiara and all,
pouffy, pink dress and all]
listened to my mother tell me
a fairy tale
of a woman who finds
her prince charming,
and is rescued by him,
and lives happily, happily ever after
in a magnificent palace by the sea…
and i, as a brooding teenager,
insecure and reclusive,
observed a
[now viewed as ridiculous]
romantic film
about a woman who finds her
one true Love,
and he rescues her,
and they live happily, happily ever after
in a beautiful three-bedroom home
where they raise two,
perfect children…
and i, as a young woman,
fully aware and adept,
recognizing the world for what it is
as *i see it,
seeing love dismantle time,
and time again....

i am fully aware that nothing can possibly last for a happily ever after.

the doubt is consuming,
the wall is well-built and
unyielding.
my heart remains too crippled
to possibly endure the grief that
falling in Love elicits.

but,
Love finds you even if you have
given up the notion of it.
it gallops in on its white horse.
has bright blue eyes.
sparks a smile that can illuminate
my somber heart.
has no regard for my opposition to itself.
is selfish and greedy and exhausting.

it is utterly impossible to avoid
being seduced
into the black hole
from which i will never leave
precisely the same.
from which i will surrender
a piece of myself
essential to my functioning.

Love sweeps in like a tornado
[destroying everything in its path]
and so the five stages of falling in Love,
and falling apart,
begin.

denial.
i feign disinterest.
i pretend as if he doesn’t
engross my thoughts
as if my heart doesn’t encroach upon my stomach
when he enters the room.
if asked by a friend,
“why does your face turn bright red
when he dares to utter your name?”
i pretend like she is the insane one
[when i am the one denying my heart.]

anger.
i become enraged.
Love has taken control.
the knowledge that i let Love
dismantle the wall,
that i have spent years building,
and reinforcing,
[brick by brick, piece by piece]
infuriates me.
i let him gradually demolish it.
and now i am powerless and susceptible,
and now he has me by the heartstrings.
he holds me in his greedy palms.

bargaining.
i avoid the fact that i am falling,
yes, i am falling.
oh, so deeply for him.
i watch myself fall from such great heights
straight into the ground
crashing through to the
center of
the world.
i even pray to God,
the one i'm not even sure i believe in.
i tell Him that i would do anything,
anything just to take back control.
to have two firm hands on the wheel.
to be the driver
instead of the passenger.

depression.
i cannot bring myself
to shove off the covers.
to crawl out of bed.
i am miserable and helpless and
he is all i can think about.
he is my first thought
when i am awake.
my last when my mind
finally tires of him,
and i fall into a
fitful night of sleep.
yet, i do not tell him any of this.
he wonders why i am so distant,
so removed from him.
what he does not know is that
he carries part of myself with him
wherever he goes.

acceptance.
when my nerves have finally worn themselves down,
when my heart has reached an understanding with my mind,
when Love does not appear as something to be grieved,
that is when i fall in Love.

never once have i
accepted Love from a man,
Love that could alter
my melancholy mind,
nor have i trusted a man with my heart.
[although i have been forced by Love itself to relinquish it.]

i have been obstinate and headstrong
and refused to give all of myself
in fear of losing myself.
but maybe one day, i will be
rescued from myself.

I keep tearing open my own old wounds.
Maybe I like the pain.
Maybe we both do.
I can't stop trying to convince myself that I'll never be good enough.
I won't give myself a break.
He won't save me from my own hell.
He has his own to deal with.
To put me through.
I feel less and less important by the day.
I'm the pretty petal on the breeze.
Worth a moment's pause to wonder over,
but not worth more than the passing thought.
No matter how I try,
I've never felt important.
There's always something better.
The pain reminds me not to let my head float away in the clouds.
Happiness is for someone else.
Someone more deserving than me.
So don't get used to the feeling.
It was never supposed to be mine anyway.
That's not my place in life.
I'm the stepping stone from despair to daylight,
but never to be taken on the journey.
I'm worth only leaving behind in search of better things.
Better love, better people.
I'm the shadow that reminds you of the light awaiting.
Go in search of the brightness,
the sunshine,
the air worth breathing.
I am only quiet reflection.
I live in the in between place.
I think this may be where all of us, who should not have lived,
go to dwell.
No real purpose.
I was never supposed to be here anyway.
And so I fade.
With time, they all forget.
I was not meant to be remembered, anyway.
Certainly not to be kept.