I’m not sure what I’m doing.
I’m learning how to be an adult make decisions be responsible
how to trust myself
how to know myself
(there are so many questions I’ve never asked myself)

those who open their hearts to me,
and with whom I am also free,
hold a special part of my soul.

what opens my heart?
feeling grounded,
receptive,
and important.
I love feeling as if I’ll suddenly float away
because I love being gently pulled back down to earth.

sharing my heartbeat
and other intimate parts of myself

breath

it means I’m floating again
into a small corner of the sky where I get trapped in utter bliss
with slow, deep inhales
exhales
and the sweetest of tears.

breathing that same breath
again and again
because it is always right at the center of Me.

how do I share any of this with another person?
I suppose I’m trying to share myself now. Because this isn’t beautiful, it’s just honest
a series of answered questions
that I’ve been meaning to ask.

when I was 16 I thought love was a dark corner
I thought she was someone else,
and her words dripped down the walls
until they were all I heard,
all I breathed in through my nostrils
lips pursed
trying to keep my secrets from pouring out.
but I let them (too soon)
and I limped about the house for days
like I was embarrassed to have stubbed my toe

she said it had gone on too far (of course it ******* had)
but when you believe your darkness is alive in someone else’s words
you feel almost nauseated
the taste of bile stuck to your tongue the morning after being sick
why did we like it?

she came to see me sing
and 12 others sat in silence, thinking but not knowing
the thickness of the air
are they breathing it as deeply as we are?
can they taste what was said between us?
I used her words
she said they belonged to someone else
I wish they had.

of what?
of small meaningful noises
given like Christmas gifts that you can't open in front of your parents
creation of murmuring hearts
skipping odd beats,
of reasons to speak the words you hold gently between your fingertips
like the last dripping slice of a clementine (don't let the juice get on the floor)
(don't make a mess)

sometimes I'm sick of my own imagination,
lately it fails me.
no fanciful futures,
only feet stuck in the mud
and I'm too lazy to just untie my shoes and walk away

the riff is deepening
darkening
(that's not bad - it's expansive)
I'll just keep expanding until I explode
and then I'll start again
and again
until someday
i just stop.

whatever space you occupy, be smaller
the world is shrinking
the only thing expanding is the universe.

Sometimes people surprise me
they leave
they become stuck inside their small minds and forget
that purpose is blowing out the candles before you fall asleep
and meticulously checking off each day on the calendar hanging in the kitchen

and that's okay - everyone forgets to eat.
but no one forgets how tasty their own secrets are
secrets that get stuck in the throat
and are forced out by men with slicked back hair and skewed ideas about gender roles.

I'm smaller now.
it's not enough.

I still don't know
if I made the right choice.

Do you ever wish you could leave and never come back
just disappear for a while and be separate
think
feel

every time I peel back a layer it regrows
every time you pick up the newspaper I see though your bathrobe
not everything is intentional.

Words have changed with time
I haven’t
beneath the blankets is the same body with the same fingernails
beneath the skin is the same heart pumping the same blood.

I need someone to notice the tears in my eyes
the way he always did
or understand the reason I can’t shut my mouth
is because I never truly have anything to say
and I’m waiting for someone to notice
that I need a real conversation to keep me going.

There’s something familiar about the past and future molding together
as if one is the same as the other
and it’s the worst part that’s kept under lock and key, but still
Kept

I miss when I could lay down and feel something deeper than myself
without questions
without needing to find the right person to listen
where did all the metaphors go?
when we spoke in tongues we understood
and we listened because it felt good, but it never mattered if we didn’t hear.
You would light a match and it would excite me
and now I have to wait until I’m alone
to feel what I really feel
to peak through the blinds and voice my questions.

I still have old fears
things like that don’t just disappear.

I can hear the water dripping
From a memory into the faucet where the basin of my tears has been sitting,
Waiting for you to drink them up
Flavorless, but full of nutrition.

This isn’t the same as it was. Your words
are music,
but the emptiness they are made of is more than lightening could shatter,
more than any question I could answer.

I don’t know where all my courage came from.
One moment we were lovers, the next
Betrayed
and forgotten on the front steps
(chilled concrete, running from shadows, knowing the world is evil)

With you, I became some sort of second voice
one that was heard
one that was imaginary—I am now seeing
more colors than I have ever seen before
and it is ugly.
They are blending together, becoming murky.

I wish I could step backwards,
but somehow I am propelled constantly towards something inside of me—
forward!onward!—
and it feels lighter, simpler
than the heavy words I read (the ones that spilled from your seemingly empty mind and onto the page)

I have not felt that way in a long time.