Who am I?
I am the dark.
I am frantic hands grasping for the light switch
I am the inescapable dreams sewn into your pillow
I am the shine of stars through leaves above
I am the sound of water trickling over riverbed stones
I am it all

Who are you,
to call to me
in all that I am?

Are you, also
one of
everything?

I don’t know how I’m going to die
but I don’t mind.
If it was sent in a letter
it’d be left unopened, and marked
return to sender.

I don’t need to know the way
the twists and turns coming ahead
the fraying and tearing of fabric
being fed into the loom

I will know only what is in front of me
and trust the enjoyment I have is enough.

Lean on the day in your hands
because it is the only one like it you will ever get to see.

Returning
is like donning an old, familiar cloak
Heavy, and somehow still warm
though it hasn’t been worn,
despite its wear,
in ages.

The years under my eyes
slip off my shoulders, like
rolling drops of rain
As decades of a different kind
settle in my mind,
Feeling like wisdom might
though it could just as well be
simple vanity.

I imagine myself to be
different,
Not arrogant enough to envision
what I ought to be,
But merely something better, at least
than what the mirror sees.

I avoid looking at my reflection.
I hold my breath
like plunging under water
when I turn to face the miles remaining
that I must tread
a second time.

The ice, that ice-
It chills me to the bone
As I sink under,
it freezes my lungs
and paralyzes the breath inside them-

And yet, I pull the coat around me tighter,
smelling of mothballs from the back of the closet
digging my nails into the fur fabric
I force my eyes to open.

Beyond the darkness I imagined,
there is, of course, still light:
From between my lashes, I glimpse myself
and find I am still, no longer trembling-
And though I am not beautiful,
and even this curious look
somehow exposes every piece of me
which lacks perfection
And I remember what it used to be
And

I take a breath,
I let the surface of the water calm.
I reach deep inside for comfort,
and meet the small voice
who trusts I can return there again.
Maybe I will be wiser the second time around.

With a clear mind,
the words flow in:

I hear a cadence like a beating drum
from my own heartbeat in my ears
disrupting the silence, or
adding to it, I can’t tell

the images, the feelings
like sand across my skin
like music in the distance, you can’t hear the lyrics
but you can tell you know the song.

Like visions in a hazy prophecy
my mind spins the whims my dreams whisper to me
and I close my eyes, and weave-
and here flows this
poem,
or maybe it’s just the quiet breeze
and all this is my mere imagining.

I want to be proud of myself and focus on what's next
But I keep coming back around to you,
Like I've stepped over an ice cream cone dropped on the ground
And I can't keep myself from glancing back to watch it melt.

Over time,
I will become more accustomed to my footsteps
Not being echoed by other mirrored sets
And watching my shadow grow long in the evening alone.

And yet I keep turning back
Because there is something fascinating about the slow death
Of what once brought smiles,
Being fed to the ants and the hot sun.

I'm moving on, even if I keep glancing back to you
Because I know I'm not coming back
And with every step I take, it hurts a little less
And I'm comforted in knowing you will soon be out of view.

The mind is so startlingly manipulative,
it is as if every time I reconsider
my considering
I must hold a seance in my own head:
To whom am I speaking now?
Are you angry, are you sad?
Why do you haunt this home so?
Do you not know
if you only let go,
you just might leave the door open
for someone kind to move in?

I held the mirror up to myself
and what did I see,
but mirrors upon mirrors upon mirrors
a thousand arms of kali suffocating and tearing
I see and see and cannot see behind the veil
layers of reflections
they speak to me,  and out of my mouth comes others' voices
I cannot hear a thing
I must be must be must be must be
something else
what, I do not know
in the eyes of those who aren't watching

I need the phantoms to see
what I cannot:
me.
I forget
I can see myself
without my eyes.

You have my whole heart
I can’t believe I found all the pieces
broken off over the years
to give to you.
Don’t make me regret it,
my love.

Everyone is their own narrator, and by necessity, write themselves as the hero in their own story. But every story requires a villain. You cannot control what your role will be in them all. But you can control what is written in yours.

I am certainly an enemy to many. I have been a bad friend, I have said hurtful words, and I have done harmful things. But I have to hope that I have, and continue to, become a better, more worthy hero. If I didn’t - there would be no point in continuing to read, would there?

I am neither here nor there, in
Limbo, my next step postponed
Stranded halfway across the river
I lean down to taste the water
It is full of salt.

Forty days and forty nights
But there is no sign of rain
Or what comes after.

I wonder if I am meant to wait for the ferryman
Or if, when the tide releases me
The path I will walk
Will lead me to Hades on my own.

I am neither here nor there, in
Limbo, my next step postponed
Stranded halfway across the river
I lean down to taste the water
It is full of salt.

Forty nights and forty days
But there is no sign of rain
Or what comes after.

I wonder if I am meant to wait for the ferryman
Or if, when the tide releases me
I’ll walk to Hades myself
Led, trapped
This path the only left open before me.

If you knew me well,
You would already know:
Every word has been written
In each moment with you alone.

Sand is running through my fingertips
Course on my skin, grating
As I watch it pass by, I feel it land heavy on my feet
Already buried under the weight of what I've missed.
And what I'm missing
As I'm trapped to my knees
In all my wishes and old dreams
They seem so naive
But you know what happens to the best-laid plans.

If left alone
when unhealed
when the wounds still ferment beneath the skin
it will boil in your blood,
flood your veins
and you will suffocate
in the aloneness

But if surrounded
once you’ve healed
once you’ve scraped out the infected tissue
And the scabs cover you, growing what is new
if you are surrounded
by infection, invasive vines and flowers
with thorns in their touch
sweet scents
tinged bitter in the air
the air you breathe
you will become poisoned
and drown also

But if you heal
And escape the grasp of uncaring hands
Oh, how you can bloom

Being hurt by someone who doesn’t mean it
is easy to forgive
But being hurt by someone who refuses to say only
“I’m sorry”
is the hardest thing to forgive
Because you will still feel like it’s your fault.

It isn’t.
I promise.

Sincerity is an abandoned relic
We are plagued by its scarcity,
today we cringe and shy away
from the bright light
of genuine authenticity

The shine of our own reflection
is too bright, we close our eyes
to the truth we see
in the eyes looking back
from the face in the mirror

We judge by our own standards
while judged by any but our own
We look past the tint in our own vision
unable to distinguish the vastness of colors
visible in unfurling new conversations:

We live for ourselves, selfishly
consumed by narcissistic perceptions
Perfecting our reputation, under other’s eyes
like a butterfly perfectly pinned under the glass

Yet why not live for ourselves,
but truly, as if
we were the only one left to judge in the world?
If we were freed from
this fear of sincerity-
wouldn’t you be happier, then?
Wouldn’t you
just become
you?

There is something missing you can't replace,
something you weren't prepared to erase:
your dream is too embedded,
stitched into your pillow -

like a midnight snack,
he preys on your insomnia
finding this the most delicious
and swallows it up with your tears

he stares at the stars
from the other side of the bed
meets your eyes, and you see instead
your own. staring back at your own reflection,
you turn over, and go back to sleep.
It's all you can do,
and only hope you do not dream.

The aches of grief never fade, do they?
There is so much more to lose than
your eyes, or the wrinkles from your smiles
So many what-ifs, and dreams, and half-thoughts
Plans and routes on maps before we
picked out all the stops
Colors of sunsets unseen
Days yet to be
That are forever changed by the past,
set in stone.
It is cold to the touch.
The face of a tombstone, the whirls of marble-
is it beautiful?

No, the pangs of grief and lost love,
They come like the aches before a rain
From little reminders or long conversations
that dig a little deeper
Unsettling the sediment, flashes of light as
flickers of memories pass in the mind’s eye
of what could’ve been.

But the stone warms under your touch,
heated by the sun
It does not remain mere soulless bone:

Though the past cannot be changed,
the future is free to be shaped
by your hand.

Days and desires are left untouched, but perhaps
just yet to be seen
If you were only to open your eyes
and look past the tears.

I feel
powerful.

Not in the way that one does
holding a gun, or once onstage
but in that quiet, receptive way
the way that even still water holds itself
knowing there comes a moment
when it will pour over, reaching across
all the vast land the eye can see.

I am
powerful
in my own becoming,
not yet changed
but in the very transformation, I find
peace uninterrupted.

Is this
acceptance?
What a strong,
kind, quiet, thing.

Foreign to my tongue, it settles in my bones
it seeps into my blood

how could anyone withstand this horrible,
tumultuous, conflicting, way of life
without this calm?

I see now
the ripples I once thought waves
lapping quietly against my knees as I move on,
wading deeper into the sea.

I often remember, and remember fondly
how the fog rose off the surface of the water
in great tall fingers reaching for the sky-
when it was almost still night, the sun making barely a shadow
and the cool kiss of dew on my skin
from the humid air
as even the breeze had not yet awoken.

I remember how the boats and oars
looked so vibrant in their color
as that gray shroud of morning sleepiness
laid a drowsy shade over the greens and blues
with a gentle hand.

They were red and yellow
and as we glided quietly towards the sunlight,
sparkles rippling alongside the waterbugs
and I thought to myself
this all I would ever hope for.

Don't forget the coffee you left brewing as you rush out the door,
don't forget to glance at the sunrise driving down the highway
don't miss the smell of the tulips and
bright marigolds outside your door;
fall will come before you know it
and frost will cover the ground

I'll drink it when I get there,
I'll take a picture and look at it later
I'll light a candle and
paint a picture
tomorrow,
this weekend,
when I have time.

Don't postpone your life in the pursuit of a dream,
as sweet as it may be
that could be ended tomorrow.

Something as simple as
a coffee,
a stranger's smile,
a moment to breathe amidst the colors of the sunset
as it dances beautifully
just for you.

Enjoy today,
for just what it is,
so you may always have something to wake up for.

A picture is worth a thousand words
But only if you can read between the lines
There is meaning in the shadows, but one you must choose to find
A picture disrespected by descriptors
As if it only holds what you can see
But if you could read between the lines
Maybe you could find me.

Your gut may know before your mind
the people who you hide behind
may be the ones who step aside
and let you take the bullet.

But it may not discern the tides
hidden under darkened skies
to predict the waiting lies
as they stab you in the back.

Healing from the scars, like stripes
reflecting in your tired eyes
try to wear them all with pride
and know at least you've learned.

Now you know the warning signs,
the personas people hide behind
manipulating, toxic, and blind
you won't be fooled again.

I want to see it all, to hear it all
to take my own suffering raw,
to drink it straight
the blood of life
to rend the marrow from the bone with my teeth
to claw roots from the earth, digging in the sand
hunting down every drop the world can give me
every memory
every moment of time which ripples the surface of the water, of the ocean we swim in
inseparable yet separated
joined in the wave, alone in our own
breath, our own heart
beating beating beating
experiencing
feeling it all
apart and still a part
of everything.

Screaming
I let the noise take shape
Forming something out of nothing
In a mindless run, a sprint
A stream of consciousness, of thoughts, of dreams, of pain
Endless and rushing
Until I am spent and empty

Like a reservoir when the dam has been opened
I pour everything I've had left
Until I have space to breathe
And silence to think
So I wait as it fills again, slowly
And the dam will open again.

Life ebbs and flows,
But the tides last longer than an evening
The patterns are more than the months of the moon

Seasons of joy, and light, and warmth
And seasons of darkness, and dreary half-wishes
That maybe it would snow just a little bit more
To swallow up your house with you still inside it

Some seem to be in eternal summer, and only rarely
Or only on television
Experience the cold of a deep snow.

Some live in the deepest forests, at the highest altitudes
Battling the swift winds coming off of great waters
So sharp it seems to cut your face when you face it.

But for most
There are seasons,
Years or months or days
Between changes.

Even in the deepest winter
There is a morning sun;
Even under the most pleasant open sky
Clouds pass through,
At least now and then.

So take the joy when you have it
And bear the cold when it comes

Know the seasons will change with time:
Even the deepest ice can't freeze the sun.

I have decided to stop hating myself
because other people have told me I should.

I have done wrong, and wronged others
while trying to do right.

This does not fix the mistakes
but if I keep trying, it will fix me.

Sentimental
A sentinel
Colored pictures would show him
Old, and gray
Weathered by winds and storms he couldn't name
Memories, weather-beaten
They fall the same
On his creased, stone face
Rivulets of rain dug in
Sweat stained
The outcropping set to collapse
A thousand years from now
He remembers when his placard stood
Not so close to the edge
And how many has he seen
Plummet, where the rocks do
He will follow one day
And no one will place his face,
Or remember
The monument to the sentinel
Stood by the river
An oceanside ringer,
Immediately recognizable
Yet once its gone
No one will know his name.

She knew,
and yet didn't know, in that instant
that something in her had died

She knew.
But didn't know,
yet
how much had gone.

She fled from herself,
from her own injuries
unable to see the trail of blood she left behind
unable to feel it still bleeding out

bleeding out her heart, her soul
her mind -
she was losing her mind
losing her mind
in circles
running in circles
she was running in circles
running, running, running

she knew,
and yet didn't know
in that moment
it was already over
it was already too late

What if,
with the softness of the velvet belly of a falling flower petal
landing gently on a cracked windowsill
love is what is brushing your hair back from your cheek
and even
giggles
in the dark,
smiling at you even when you can't see it?

They say there are meanings to the different colors
The ones she sends are red.
Because she loves with her whole heart,
with nothing left to spend.

It comes with no expectations
No subscript between the lines.
Genuine and honest,
simple love:
vulnerable and kind.

A twinge of regret is always present
as we pass the paths that should have -
could have - been,
and see the keychains
from places we've never seen,
on other passenger's bags, and
jealous, we tear our tickets
and wish we had listed
a different destination,
wonder what it would have taken
as others do the same
from their seats.

Since we first spoke, we spoke of our own end.
We know to treasure that which will be lost
for in the shortness of its life, we find its meaning:
and yet, we are shocked by it.
We mourn. Because we are filled with pain.
We wish for more time,
when we knew all along
it was the lack of time that made it so important,
after all.
After all there had been
there is nothing but what was -
and doesn't that make it more beautiful?

It doesn't stop being horrible, no.
I cannot ease your suffering in this moment
I wish you could see how short this pain will last,
how little time all of this will take to pass, but
I can only turn the lights on for you, and wait -
I will sit with you, and wait
for you to open your eyes.

And you will rise, as even I did:
We will continue to walk this path together.

Spirit is present even when I don't feel it
I am present even when I can't feel anything.
The food I cook still tastes good
Even if I can't taste it.
The words I read contain great stories
No matter how much the lines are blurred by tears.
The sunset is still beautiful
Despite its evasion in every photo
And the sunrise is even more beautiful still.

Oh do you know how it feels
To be the tree that falls in a wood
With no one to hear it?

Was it even there to begin with?

Solivagant,
a lonely
vapor
a single molecule of water
rising up into the sky

It wanders, to-and-fro
pushed around by
winds and whims and woes, and
prays to find another soul
and yet it continues rising.

Hopeless, the movement
repetitive, the verses
just remnants, pieces
of thoughts that are
broken and
fractured
they can't be seen by fuller eyes.

It shouts into the void
no lips, no tongue, no teeth with which
to make a sound, it
reaches out and
has no hands with which
to grasp.

And yet, still it rises
and time and time again
it comes to find
its purpose is revealed in
the end.

Sometimes, as I walk
I pick up a piece of the earth
to carry it with me
mere dirt, and yet
I hold it so
carefully
as if it could break if I dropped it.

I measure its weight in the palm of my hand
and wonder if anubis would find my soul this light
and let it crumble between my fingers
and watch it stain my skin.

I wonder if, in my life
I have left any mark
as significant as that.

Take a break
but only if you've earned it.
Be kind to yourself,
but do not fall into the trap
of overdoing it.

Self-care
is only caring
until it isn't for the better good

Self-care
is no longer caring
if it hurts you more than it should.

So, go ahead, and take a break
take a day to go slow, and wait-
wait for the emotions to cease
until you breathe with ease
and know with certainty
you will be okay.

Then get up and don't let yourself be late
for that meeting, or coffee, or dinner date
because you deserve a life of love, not hate-
so continue living,
and if you're tired,
take a nap.

Like the ticking of a time bomb
Waiting for the payoff
The gift, or the stone
Gold or indigo
Weighing the scales
In your head, in your heart
The decision is already made.
Risking hope, waiting days
In time, your debts will be paid.

I want the
kiss me in the elevator,
carry in the groceries for me
kind of love.

I want the
I’ll start the dishes
while you’re still making our dinner
kind of love.

I want the
“this just reminded me of you”
“this was cool- what do you think?”
kind of love.

I want the
I’m crying curled up in bed, for really no reason
and you make me hot chocolate
kind of love.

Love by any other name
than what can’t be explained in
even a thousand words
isn’t.

Because while you’re not here,
or not here yet
I can buy myself flowers, and write myself notes
I can be happy alone, watching romcoms
and reading long novels on the beach,
baking sweets I bring to the neighbors
and trying new things just for the sake of it

I am building the life I’ll share with you
when you get here.

But only you:
I’ll save your seat,
because not just anyone will get to see
the amazing performance, adventure,
experience of a lifetime
of me.

Halloween is the one time of the year
all the ghouls and demons and ***** creatures
can come out to play.

No one glances at the
bulging eyes or wild horns
as the kids play
among former beings of the night.

In the early dusk evenings
among cracking leaves
sounding like flames licking neighborhood streets,
I see peace in the flickering eyes of a
children's jack o' lantern,
not startled by
the ghost I am
as I slip by.

Ease my mind,
Keep me safe
Be the home I can fly from
Knowing I can return
To you.

Why does hope
Sometimes feel like barbs in my heart?
Is that the doubt creeping in
Or the poison of my dreams
Slowly, finally
Starting the process of my own death?

The gravel is quiet under my kicking feet,
Pebbles glance off my toes, just above the ground
I'd imagine it's loud in the silence
But I have headphones in with nothing playing
Listening to the idea of sound:
I like it a little muffled, so only whispers come through.
It's just enough;
Enough of what, I couldn't explain.

The wind nips at my cheeks, reminding me of a puppy
Playful even as it scratches my ears.
I wish I could warm up with
A drink, or a cigarette
But I don't do that anymore,
Even if it's the only thing I know could keep me warm
Sitting on this bench, with no one coming.

I'm warm enough.

Sometimes, in the corner of my eye
There is that glimmer
Threads of the Fate's tapestry
They weave their glistening strands
With gnarled knuckles, worn hands
Between clouds and in the dappling light under leaves.

I see the crimson red of fall
So barely visible, the golden spider's web
Brightening into the stark white of snow
And on and on and on -

Between time,
Between lives,
Isn't there beauty in the mystery of our futures
Known to fate
And only yet to be spun?

Fighting the good fight
Is not easy, which seems self-explanatory
But there's a reason it is a "fight":
It takes great effort to spin reality
From the thread of your dreams.

Walking the narrow road
You must have faith in the summit.
The path is strewn with sharp sticks and rocks
You will not reach it unharmed.

Limping, hurting, you may even lose your way
The trees seem to grow taller once the sun has set
But if you are moving uphill,
Against the struggle, and the pain,
You are moving in the right direction.

Just because you are doing good
Doesn't mean it will feel easy.
Even the best works require struggle.

In fact,
It is the worst path that is the most enjoyable
The downhill gives the wide sweeping view,
With easy steps worn by many other passerby
Generations who were tempted to leave the narrow path:

Keep fighting the good fight.
Though you will struggle in the dark
Have faith in the last sunrise
You will watch crest over the summit.

So much of life is avoiding the loss of time, because to pay attention to it is to notice when it is gone, to notice that the beautiful moment you’re in is at the same time relentlessly slipping away like waves washing away from the shore, and to see this loss happen right before your eyes is the most painful thing one can allow themselves to see.
And yet, to avoid the reality, to look away, is to miss all the wonderful details, to do a disservice to creation itself: it is to dismiss the reason for having eyes to see at all, to see every bit of beauty for the time it is here.

When we learned about redshift, years ago
A classroom full of bored teenagers waiting to graduate
I found comfort in the idea that
Nothing mattered
Every decision in my future laid so small in the palms of the universe.

A lifetime seems so bare
Featherweight
Against the stark backdrop of stars constantly shifting
As the world we know expands
Without stopping
Unending
Beyond our perception.

Some thought it morbid. Others, a source of fear -
In an ever-expanding sea, who would notice if they drowned?
In such a vast forest, who would hear the tree fall?

Instead, I thought:
I alone can make the tree grow, and whether it falls or not,
No one and nothing will interfere, no one need remember,
But me.

Relax. The Universe is expanding.

They, on her shoulders
The child, and the older
Manipulative and scheming, plotting to point out
Every flaw in the artistry
Every wasted second, every fear

She wishes to give every
Benefit of the doubt, assuage every tear
Every anxiety to be released,
Anger and angst held back

But she protects the child
And sometimes, she's wrong
These overprotective anxieties can cause harm
But every time she's persuaded
It only took time, for the voices on her shoulders
Are the only ones who do not lie.

Remembering
you have a home, when you truly feel
you're all alone, is the hardest one to keep -
it slips away
like a father's voice, a mother's face,
a train ticket blowing away
you chase with haste.

Have trust, have faith, they all say,
those who have never had to keep pace
with the malicious apathetic whims of the wind,
as it sweeps away every dream within -

Alone, you run, missing every turn
the gps has gone out and the maps have been burned
all alone, you seem to be, rushing past deserts, empty of trees
and somehow every step you take
leads you along the path He made.