When I was six years old
My father let me watch the Omen.
For the three months that followed
I was convinced I was the antichrist.
Every morning I would stand on the step stool
In front of the bathroom mirror
And scour my scalp
For the imprint of 666.
Not even the devil wanted me as his.

For years I thought I was adopted
Because my hair isn’t straight like theirs,
My skin isn’t clear like theirs.
My legs stretch like sunflower stalks
While theirs wilt
Like tulips after spring.
It turns out
Genetics is a lottery
And I did not win.

My body is 90% wishbone
And 5% muscle.
I can’t do a pushup
But god am I good at daydreaming.
I run out of breath after walking up a flight of stairs
But my spine is made out of wind chimes.

My mother once told me
I was the easiest child to take care of.
I didn’t cry, I didn’t scream.
It wasn’t until I was 15
And leaking novocain onto the kitchen floor
That my pent up music
Shattered the wine glasses.
I cleaned every bit of crystal up
And no one knew about my symphony.

I wear my secrets like shawls.
Everyone compliments the pattern,
Ask if I made them myself.
I say “a girl I know helped me.
She is the reason I am where I am today”.
They ask if they know this girl
And if she can make them one.
I say, “caged birds don’t give free birds directions”.

I lay in the bathtub
And push my head underneath.
I listen to the steady ticking
Of the bomb wired in my chest.
Its only a matter of time.
Run. Take cover.
Leave me to the ashes.
Maybe we’ll find out I am a phoenix.
Maybe we’ll find out I am just another girl.
Another swan feather kissing the river.

Maybe this will be a wakeup call.
Maybe metaphors aren’t band aids
And maybe stanzas aren’t gauze.
Or maybe god really does exist,
His home just isn’t in the clouds.
Maybe I am god.
Maybe god is home and I am finally home.

Fingers make contact with hands,
                                             we can’t stand like,
butter
flies
     on
       a
tree branch

amidst a strange wind.

Fluttering above
trees rooted in sidewalks,
out of sight.

And it feels like
the texture of our shirts
is truth,
    the cat fur,
       the bed sheets,
           our clenched teeth,
Molly whispers in our head
a meditative melody,
and we’re rollin,'
our infinite eyes
hung together
in widened silence,
enjoying a good lie.
Indigo children
with no words, just hands,
applauding the feeling,
dreading the end.
Time past,
grown up,
deflated,
we come down
to see that
sober is just
categorizing
adjectives.

She…

Is...


Constantly searching for answers. Constantly questioning surroundings…..places…things.

Always curious.

Always distracted.

Mind bobbling and rattling with ideas. Ideas that come and go. But ones that never really stick.

She desires attention.

She’s not sure what kind. Just any kind.

She reaches out to people for validation of herself without knowing. For comfort.

Beautiful.

Wandering, sparkling brown eyes. Full lips. Bright smile. Lights up her face.

Upbeat.

In small ways and big ways.

Talented.

That’s scattered in different things. Poetic in certain emotions that are expressed.

Anxious.

For everything. Anything.

Aching for change. But changing nothing.

Excitement.

She shows. She likes.

Naive.

Her eyes light up to new things. Growing more curious. Unaware of consequences.

Unknown.
To others. Herself.

Stuck.

In her mind. In her expectations. In her demons. In her betrayal. In her regret.

She.

Is……

Yearning.

For self assurance. Accomplishments.

Guidance.

I…
Want to…


Show her realization. Reality. Art.

Beauty.

In herself. In her talent. In her aspirations.

Patience.

In her skills. In her growth. With her mind. With her future.

Peace.

Within herself. With her past. With her doubts.

Show her that….


She…
Is….

A Diamond in the Rough.

That she has to fall down. To get back up.

To brush herself off. To want to keep going.

On one path at a time…with one foot at a time.

To stop running.

In her mind. With her thoughts. With her feelings. With her analysis of herself.


That it is ok…

to move slow. To take her time. To perfect her craft. With one desire at a time.

She…

Is…

A work of Art that requires time.


She….

is….

Beautiful.

most see me as if i were a dull and muddy pond
not worth looking at,
but if you actually were to look deeper
you would see that there are worlds
hidden within me

Pelvic bone to pelvic bone
We are fused together.
Some type of warped conjoined twin syndrome.
Chin to chin.
Lip to lip to lip to lip.
Our lips are touching but we are not kissing.
Cheek to cheek.
Fingertips scarping against fingertips.
There’s a theory in physics
That states
You are never really touching anything,
Only the space in between.
Sometimes I think we are the very definition of this theory.
We push closer
But we never touch.
I cannot feel your kiss pressing up against my neck.
I cannot feel your teeth tugging at the skin on my collarbone.
I cannot feel your saliva intermingling with my own.
You are sitting next to me on the couch
But I do not feel
The bend your body makes.
I do not feel the dip of cushion.
Your hand is nothing more than
An anchor keeping me grounded on Earth.
We are perpendicular lines
But it feels like we’re parallel

Harvest fires are burning
Upon the verdant hills
Pagans gather in Circles
Summoning their wills.

Leaves colored gaily
Spiral to the ground
Create a colorful carpet
As the Wheel turns round.

Smoke rises thickly
Drifts among the trees
Moon sails over head
Pleased by what she sees.

   Sprigs of oak and holly
Sheaves of corn and wheat
Signify abundance
Gathering time complete.

Hunting Lord is stalking
Deep wood, field, stream
Game harvest approaches
Stag are on the scene.

Departed pay a visit
Weaving plane to plane
Reminding that we, too
Will return again and again.