I'm afraid of the brush strokes,
afraid that the pain won't stick,
that it'll stain, that it'll look more
like Rorschach than art.
I'm afraid of the pen to paper,
that the words I want to say
will never ever come out right.
I'm afraid of sewing needles
and spray paint and I'm afraid
of torn canvas and dirt brush
water. I'm afraid that my art
and my poems will turn into
the tangent of my head, the
same strings of words repeated
over and over again and the
same messy lines that link
one hemisphere to the other will
bleed onto the paper, out of
my mouth, and all the paper
and the ink and the paint will
go to waste and all my attempts
will be on the floor and I'll
lay with them and they'll
put a sign on me saying
something like
                 she will be missed.

it's okay to
hate me now
as long as
you promise to
try to
love me again
later.

the flesh peels apart
find your name carved
into the bone
find me in pieces
on the floor

her hand is on your chest,
small and wanting. your
heart beats beneath it -
slow and steady. you can't
feel hers, but it's running
like a wild animal. right now,
right here, it beats for you
and only you. but yours
is steady. the heart of a man
in a moment of certainty,
or the heart of the man
whose heart beats for
no one at all. she doesn't
know which, and neither
do you. you feel her small
hand on your chest, you
feel her desperation but
the question hangs in
the air between the both
of you -


                         he loves me
                                                                       he loves me not

drop the ashes
from your cigarette
on my grave -
your white lighter
hangs out of your jeans
pocket, drag a hand
through your messy
black hair -
you are the embodiment
of every poetic cliche.
all anger and angst
and lost love and
all the women who
fall at your feet
and fall at the phone
desperate for you
to call them again the
morning after.
I wanted to be the
only girl you ever
loved, really loved-
and maybe I was.
but old habits are
hard to break, and
**** if I didn't try
to break you of your
cigarettes, **** if
I didn't try to get you
a haircut, new jeans.
throw away that lighter.
for awhile I had the
privilege of kissing
your mouth when it
didn't taste like
smoke, and **** if you
didn't wear those jeans
for awhile. but my
mother was always right -
you can't change the broken
boys anymore than you can
save them, and they
certainly don't save
you.

I was always the girl
to leave before she's left -
but when I left us, you
locked the door behind
me, and it's a different
kind of ache to realize
I had to leave you
behind just as much
as I had to watch you go.

the lull, the longing,
the ache  just before sleep
and just before wake -
the quiet, rhythmic
shushing, the weight,
the heaviness.
it's too dark, but
it's too bright, too
much, not enough,
too warm, too cold.
always too something.
never quite enough.
it's the swell of the sky
just before the rain,
the stillness and the hush
around midnight just
before it snows. it's
the creeping feeling
of change, of danger,
of letting go, of giving
up - it's how the winds
change, it's the stack
of papers blowing
away in the sudden
gust. it's the boys
who promise to
never hurt you while
they're untying their shoes,
unbuttoning their pants.
it's how they sneak out
after you've fallen asleep,
the cancer in the way
they kiss your forehead
just before they go.
it's your father holding
your small hands, and
your father's weight
after he buckles under
too many beers. it's how
no matter how many times
your he disappoints you,
you'll always call him daddy
when he finally comes around.
it's your father being the first
man to break all the promises
he made you and it's your aching
little girl's heart believing
him too many times. it's your
mother telling you to be better,
but never showing
you how to be better.
it's the way your mother tells you
to be safe but never teaches
you how to say no,
how to tell the boys when
enough is enough -
how fingertips creeping up too far,
how hands slipping down too low
should never feel like a debt to be paid.
she doesn't tell you how that sudden
vacancy in your mind is a warning
sign, how it's a quiet no,
and that maybe will never be a quiet yes.
it's the teachers telling
you that boys will be boys,
telling you that girls are mean
and to get over it and handle
it among yourselves because
there's no referees in real life.
it's lies that sound like promises
and words like forever and love
and ipromiseillneverleaveyou
hitting your heart like a brick.
it's empty beds and empty
houses and empty cupboards
and ghost towns in your chest
and abandoned homes in your
head and it's the way ghosts
never leave the places that
harmed them the most. it's
how falling asleep every night
feels like the battle and waking
up every morning feels like
the war and it's the way that
no matter how many times
you fight, nothing's ever won.