Be still my heart
The world has just begun
To see the stars
For what they really are.

Everyone whispers about Death
The passing over
The moving on.
Everyone talks quietly and in murmurs
About The Great Beyond
As if death can hear you
And wishes to remain anonymous.

But Death is final moments and
Taking your last breath.
Dying is the ugly part.

Dying is getting smaller
Just lying there in bed.
It's frailty and exhaustion.
And a growing sense of dread.

Dying is holding a hand that has no strength left to squeeze.
Talking to someone who can't hear you.
Listening to their breath wheeze.
It's waking in the idle night
And learning to dose morphine.

Death is very simple.
You close you eyes and die
But dying is counting your ribs
having bones for arms and legs
Making hard decisions
And trying to say goodbye.

Dying is praying when you've never believed in God
Hoping it will be over soon
So life can start to move on.
It's a constant feeling of guilt and remorse
Of thinking shellfish thoughts.
It's waiting
And waiting
And waiting
Until suddenly you're not.

No one talks about dying.
Just the end result.

Don't make it awkward
Don't make it awkward
Just don't make it awkward.
My mantra
I ponder my texts
Analyze the details
bang my head against the wall
If you're not awkward
he wont be.
right?
right?
****
...
...
it's awkward.
You're over analyzing
Too much thinking
Stop thinking
thwap
Head hits the desk.
I'm awkward.
Everything's normal
One night of choosing to not
won't ruin a friendship
right?
right?
It's not awkward.
Why won't he text me.
Don't be such a girl.
I am a girl.
****.
I'm an awkward girl.

Boston, land of the Big Dig,
home of tight knit groups who call each other family with no blood relation.
Winter teaches you how to shovel your car out of snow banks with red raw hands and a pizza box. Teaches you balance as you slip and skid your way down city sidewalks laced with ice, black like onyx.
Girls with ******* and short dresses shiver on the T, their puffy white breaths begging for warmth while their counterparts stand snuggled in down jackets zipped up to their nose. Spring brings rain and the snow becomes muddy slush splashing against your car that can never really be clean. But then the flowers come and you forget about the cold as the humidity sinks in like a fat man into his favorite recliner.
The swamp is ever noticeable in Summer as everyone walks in knee high mud, trudging slowly to the Boston Pops.
Fall is perfect. Crisp colors and the sweet smell of apples and pumpkins last for months as cheeks turn rosy and hands find safe harbor in pockets.  
Boston land of men and women not boys and girls
Home of seasons at spectrums end and the only place that will always be home.

Screeching tires, blinding lights, smashing glass.
The whole ordeal took maybe 5 minutes.
Drivers slow down to peek and observe
Then speed down the road.
But, when you’re laying there in the glass and noise.
It’s not the same.
The paramedics came.
Remain calm.
Breathe.
Don’t close your eyes.
Stay with us.8
Breathe.
The only thing I can think about is my license.
Two Words

***** Donor.

They’re missing from my ID.
I didn’t check the box.

***** Donor.

The paramedics are talking.
Mumbling.
They’re underwater.
That’s not good.

I want to be an ***** donor* I say.
They pause.
One moment.
Dave looks at me.
His name is embroidered on his uniform.
Is uniform the right word?

I want to be an ***** donor.
I say again.

It won’t come to that
Dave assures me.
His smile is weak.

***** Donor.

Write it down I say
Firm.
Dave shrugs and takes out his clipboard.
I watch him write
***** Donor.

I sigh, relieved.
Anything else?
Dave asks.
He looks at his partner
He’s covered in blood.
My blood.
That’s not good.

***** Donor.

Yes. I tell Dave.
He gets his pencil ready.
He smiles.
It’s half sincere.
He’s worried.
Last will and testament smile.
I want to be an
***** Donor.
Got that.
Dave says.
The lights are blinding.
I smell and taste metal.
That’s not good.
What to say?
Everything. I want to say everything.
I think of my mom
Clutched hands
White knuckles
Sitting, pacing, crying
The waiting room
Green and white, calming colors
She is red
Her face from lack of sleep
From crying
Stark against the calm walls.
I think of my mother and breathe.

Take everything you can.
Take my body
I don’t need it anymore.
Take it and tell my mother the
Good
It will do.
Take my feet
And tell my mother
About every mile they will walk.
Tell her they will dance in homes
To silly music
and skip through fields
And trudge through mud.
They will scale mountains
And swim through oceans.
They will burn on hot asphalt
And curl up in Satin sheets.
Take my feet.

Take my hands
And tell my mother
About every handshake
Every high five
Every hand they hold.
Tell her they will be covered in paint
And chocolate and dirt and clay.
My fingers will run through hair
And sand and silk.
They will give hugs and caresses
And love to show they understand.
Take my hands.

Take my eyes
And tell my mother
About everything they will see.
Tell her they will see
Sunrises and sunsets
Mountains, oceans, and airports.
They will sparkle with laughter
And shine with tears.
Tell her that someone will
Fall in love with them
And they will grow
Old and wise.
Take my eyes.

Take my ears
And tell my mother
About all what they will hear.
Tell her they will rock out at concerts
And hear lullabies sung for children.
They will find magic in the spoken word and will hear love and hate.
Tell her about every heart beat,
Sigh of content, and bolt of laughter
They will hear.
Take my ears.

Take my nose
And tell my mother
About everything it will smell.
Tell her it will catch wisps of
Perfume and Cologne
Mingling with coffee and bread
From a Paris café.
It will crinkle at the smell of skunks
But open wide at the smell of rose.
Take my nose.

Take my lips
And tell my mother
About every sweet kiss.
Tell her they will whisper
I love you
And really mean it.
They will stretch with laughter
purse with disdain
and never make a duck face.
They will speak slowly savoring
Every syllable of sound
And tumble fast over flirty quips
Take my lips.

Take my lungs
And tell my mother
About every breath of air they get.
Tell her they will feel crisp autumn winds
And heavy humid summer breezes.
They will heave and pant in laughter
And in despair.
They will catch and gasp and get the hiccups.
They will bellow leaving
No song unsung.
Take my lungs.

Take my heart.
Please take my heart
And tell my mother
About every single beat.
Tell her when it moves fast
Or slow.
Tell her it will be consumed
With passion
And blaze with ecstasy.
Tell her it will grow
And grow
And grow
And grow
Tell her it will never forget her.
Tell her it will give someone
A new start.
Please, take my heart.
Please take my heart.
Take my kidneys, liver, spleen, stomach, and appendix.
Whatever you need take it from me.

***** Donor.

I want to be an ***** donor
Because I want to live.

Have you ever known a guy to write poetry?
She asks.
Yes.
Sweet poems and lyrics
Sonnets and Ballads
Epics and Limericks.
Words that bite into your skin like teeth.
I've know men that command words
Not speak them.
Words that dance upon the wind
But settle into your soul
Like stone.
I've known men
Not boys
Trying to grasp at words that fail.
Trying to impress the girls
with shy smiles and round cheeks.
Tonight I do not read poetry by a man.
I read words written on paper
Crossed out
And written in again
Never considering the heartbeat they create.
The way they feel when they hit upon your chest and burst.
Yes I've met a guy who writes poetry.
Just not tonight.

Good byes are the hardest.
Not see you laters
or catch ya next time
Real good byes.
High school good byes
College
Moving
Weddings
Death.
They're hard.
Not because you'll never see that person again.
Although that is rough.
Knowing they won't be there
To share the joke
Give a knowing smile
Bring up that embarrassing moment
from high school
when you wet your pants in gym
Again.
They're hard.
Because how do you relive every moment
Of your time together
In two words.
That's what good-byes are
Collapsing relationships
Into two words.
Good-Bye

I write poetry says the boy
I write emotion says the teen
I write because I know no other way says the man.
Words are not expression
are not context.
They are music spoken rather than sung and they way they catch on your teeth
and in your ear
that is where meaning comes from.