Silent
Still
Dark

The faraway, rhythmic jiggle of a dog’s collar
The arrival of a soft breeze and the pull of its departure
The deep pink roses standing out like secret beacons in the corners

Stop and smell
Nose damp
Free rose water
Grin

You could skip if you wanted to, and sometimes you do
You could sprint like a child
The exhilaration of running on carpet indoors
No elements to stop you
And you’re outside, even better

Dirt
Grass
Tiny wildflowers
A stick
No moss

Put it in a jar and label it
Dickinson Square Park
Then

It was hot today.
I sweat putrid droplets of misery.
Everyone around me could smell it -
   apathy, fear, and disgust;
   otherness.
I wish that I didn’t have to speak at all.

It rained,
   but I wasn’t washed clean.
I went to the bathroom.
I couldn’t stay there,
   so I tried blotting them off with a paper
   towel.
They stubbornly clung to my surface like oil.

I joined the others.
We went back to the crowd.
I waited for the music to wash over me, but I felt nothing.

I felt fake,
   so I stopped trying to be
   anything.
Now, I feel like I am
   nothing.

love me, love me, please just love me...
i promise that i will love you in return! (this is true)
i can find unique beauty in everyone and everything

i'm not asking you to fill this ragged hole within me. it's been patched up before
you don't have to do anything really (am i lying?) but your love is enough (is it?)

i'm sorry, maybe i'm just making excuses
maybe i'm just needy- but this love, this love is genuine i swear
my love is always different; everyone[thing] is different
(does that make it the same?)

scratch that
i can't expect this from anyone but myself, or maybe mom and dad  (why am i cringing)
...that ship is still at sea

you're just so beautiful to me (or do i need to be told that i am?)

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?