Someday I’m going to sit in the rocking chair I begged my mom to throw away because it was old and ugly and I’m going to be thankful that I’m moving. That scares me.

It comes to me like it's nothing
whether its any good or not
it just pops out like a crowning child
graphic or theatrical
no matter whether it's idiotic or repeditive
I'll still put it down
If I turn into anything I know it'll be big
I just want the attention
To make my name known so people will have to listen
Before I die I'll love a serial killer
make another person come alive
and have my name become house held.

When the gentle wind blows on your face
all the memories rush back to your brain
which gets lost in its self from the thoughts
that tries to eat it''s self alive.

There's no warning it just claims you
comes over you like a cloak of red.
Everyone thinks it's been too long
I'm pathetic
No one will ever understand and they say they do
they don't
they won't
nothing will ever change but i'll just live with my mistakes
or yours.

October 3, 2012 10:49pm

It’s a sensual process.
Watching him paint.
But today I’m his subject, and there’s no talking. He likes it completely silent when he works. He talks about his paints like they’re a person, his brushes – a fine wine, and his canvas – a beautiful lady. He’s the kind of person that has a mind so complex that after a five minute conversation with him you’d just assume he’s dumb, or extremely high.
He says he can taste color. Sometimes I think I’m dating an eight year old. Then my eyes roll over his body, and I remember why I put up with it. When my eyes get to his waist he makes a hand gesture, signaling me to look at him. He wanted this painting to be profile. He’s very persistent about keeping eye contact. He says that the muse is as much the artist as the painter. They’re both part of the process. I open my mouth to say something, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I scowl at him from behind wisps of my unruly curls. He smiles. He loves when I pout.
I’m wearing nothing but an oversized, tacky Bill Cosby sweater and a pair of his grey boxer-briefs. I’m sticky. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back. He’s been at it for an hour now. I’m uncomfortable, cranky, and tired. He says It’s ****. He says I look better when I’m all grungy.
The cat curls up in my lap. He looks up from his canvas and frowns. He walks over to where I am on the couch and shoos the cat away. He walks back over to his canvas. It’s so large, he can nearly hide behind it. That’s saying quite a bit considering his large frame that stands as a whopping six feet and two inches.
Sometimes I think he enjoys painting more than he enjoys physical intimacy with me. When I see the way he looks at them – the paint, the brushes, the canvas – the way he speaks to them – the way he touches them. I envy them. What I wouldn’t give for him to caress me so gently. To whisper so sweetly. To love me so tenderly. My heart aches.
His fingers are on the canvas. He’s smearing the paint. He pushes his hair back from his brow and gets some blue across his forehead. There’s yellow on the bridge of his nose, and green on his left cheek. If I could taste color, I’m sure he’d taste divine.
He finally drops his brush against the easel, steps away, and smiles – admiring his work.  I stand and he waves me over. I look at it. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous even. But it’s not me. The girl in the picture is radiant. She’s flawless. She’s happy. She’s what he wished he saw when he looked at me.
We’re all just somebody’s muse I guess.
I wish I were the one behind the canvas, instead of the one on it.

Demands.
Questions.
Altercations.
Frustration.
I'm
Tearing
Apart.­

My hands are gripped
From two sides
Blind eyes
Walking a blurred path
To an uncertain end
There are no cross walks
The street lights are dim
The voices in my head
Over power each other
Teach me how to look

The starting line
Was bold from afar
Not even my crossing guards
Can help me now
My legs are tired
There is no end
Others are sprinting
My goal is lost
I am not enough
Mother, do you hear my pleas?
*Teach me how to talk

I like to think that sitting in a diamond
with these women,
    spitting tongues and
spicy hot
that I can follow.
that I hear their every word
and know it's meaning, context.
I pretend there isn't a
                                      |barrier|.
Because of their sun-kissed skin,
   thick strands like a horses tail,
      burly eye protectors
                       and long eyebrows.
The way their hips snap
                 and sway
to the beat of a bachata song.
   the way they aren't afraid of the
fire that formed the minute they sprung
from the womb.
      Hot (Caliente),
               fire (fuego),
                       sacrifices and (sacrificios y)
                                   respect (respeto).
I will sit here and listen
read their quick bodies
show my teeth as they do.
Because I want to learn
of that strength.