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.

We **** to understand each other.
your brooding silence
my mix-matched, symbolic language
the heat of your eyelashes and the weight of your smile
my fractured, silken curves and the reminiscent scent of the afternoon on our skin
the secrets hidden behind your teeth
the way your hands change with your personality
the reason my lips feel different when you smile
when I’m tired; when your eyes are slits and mine are open; when your memories are deeper than mine

We **** to get to know each other,
to feel safe when you drive fast
and to feel scared when you don’t.

We **** to feel something:
passion
love
sadness
hope
warmth

We **** to get rid of the sour taste that lingers on our tongues
simply because we don’t understand each other.

We **** because we shouldn’t.
Because no is more tempting than yes.
Because what I want
is not what I express.

We **** without speaking
Because ******* is a language,
Because the secrets hidden behind your teeth and in my smile and in my hips
are not secrets we are willing to speak.

We are alive.
We are human.
But we are alone.

what is it that bones are saying,
so trapped and silenced by their fate beneath
skin?
whose idea was skin?
let it wash off: your flesh is a figment of your imagination.
I suppose I wouldn't be soft anymore
but I wouldn't have to open my mouth
for people to hear my secrets.

bones are trees
with initials carved in
and hearts left whole
when they have really been broken.
bones have deeper thoughts than you
or the circles that spiral the trunk of a thousand year old
stump.

bones know nothing
and everything.
you don't have to tell them.
they are made of whispers, too afraid
to say anything aloud
(though they wouldn't be heard if they did).

for years we have
speculated,
wondered why the earth's bones
are so very brittle
and why ours are so very
small;
smaller than the thoughts we pretend to think
when we avoid eye contact or run out of things to say.
what lies between one and the next
is simply a breath we neglected to take
when we were waiting to hear if everything was going to be okay.

bones are wise.
without listening we cant see.
what is the point of walking around with our hands over our eyes
and looking for our beds
when we can lie down,
remember to breathe,
and rest in the gentle hand
that we've always pushed away?

words are the stones you used
to shut the water out;
dammed
and silent until broken,
like the promises lost in a whisper
and misconstrued by hopeful
ears.

where are you taking me?
I can’t travel far without my oxygen mask
and my flask of dreams, filled
to the brim
with something sour
which smells shockingly similar to
lies.

always a different color than you
think. Red:
sweet and lonely,
can be everyone’s lover.
but when it comes to
parenting, no one knows ****.
I don’t blame you.
I have too many fingers for that,
too many fingers to count the names
you’ve called me
but just enough to count the ones that have
stung.

final offer:
going once. I’m not up for twice.
the world has secrets you wouldn’t
understand, but at least
you can close your eyes,
count to ten,
and disappear.
Some of us have the luxury of death,
while others have the burden of
living.

when I'm out of words I listen to you
I know it can't always be so simple
—that's a lie:
it can.
Life is so simple.

I miss having you touch me.
When I see others kiss, I feel your lips
against mine
and I imagine that they never leave.
They're glued to me...we're glued to each other.
I want you so close to me that I no longer
feel the separation;
so close that I know you'll never leave.
I want to hold you and
sleep comfortably in your arms
the whole night through.

The thought of our future moves me forward:
words seep into thoughts
                          thoughts seep into actions
and my mine is on it's own.

I miss you so much it hurts,
but I love you so much more.

when kisses feel like melted butter
stuck to your fingers,
it’s a warning sign.
it’s easier to listen (sometimes)
if you close your eyes and pretend you’re on an airplane.

there are too many people who say “I”
when they should say “we”
and it makes the boat sink faster than it has to.
when we have to abandon ship, we will,
but for now let’s hope the winds die down
and the lighting keeps striking someone else.
now say I’m the captain
SAY IT

I wouldn't have controlled myself
but every now and then the world hands you a child and tells you “love something”
and you can’t help it:
it’s easy to cry when you can empathize.

we’ve been pretending for so long that we fight for different teams
that now it’s hard to look at each other
especially as **** as we are
in this moment
I can barely touch you (it burns)
(but not as hot as my own skin).
if we made love we would hate it.

surprises
are something I will always remember pleasantly
my brain associated them with love
and now when the phone rings
when there’s a knock at the door
when someone taps my shoulder
my heart skips a beat.
thump
could it be?
thump

I’ve died a million times before,
but somehow this time was more difficult.

Those moments are the best ones:
the awkward instances where I start to get upset,
but when I think back to them now I smile because, even if I hate it,
these are the reasons I love you.

I used to think that I would tire of your little mistakes
or the jumps in your voice
how you sing slightly out of tune,
but now I only hope to hear you hum again
and wait all day in anticipation
of your voice.

It should have been easier to say it I suppose
but it's hard to speak after such a long silence.
I know your mouth is as dry as mine
(which should make for an interesting kiss)
but I will kiss you nonetheless.
There's nothing I want more.

When I think of how one can seem so much less than the other,
it only becomes more clear how much of a hero you are.
I can't believe I was selfish enough to think I deserved you,
but I'm the lucky one.

One comes to these realizations without prompt,
generally,
and I think that is the best way.
Who needs a reminder when life itself is enough to remind me
of my love for you?

Who knows if it’s easier to breathe through your mouth
or through your nose
but lately I’ve had trouble breathing at all.
It may have something to do with the fact that I keep going underwater,
but I can’t help it. I swear I’ve grown fins a few times.
Maybe I’m just meant to swim.

There’s no right or wrong color for your hair.
A man told me last week that I had too many secrets
and since then I’ve been trying to remember what they are,
but I just can’t.

When you give me butterfly kisses
I can see an iceberg in your eyes
and I wonder if it will ever melt, or if I’ll have to do it myself.
Remember
when you told me that you were different?
I asked you why
and you said it was because of me
or at least something I’d said.
I’ve never felt so powerful in my life.

I lost the feeling in my left pinky
when you told me to stop crying
it’s not that easy.
If I want to love someone I’ll do it all the way. There’s no
“in between.”
And besides helping me to forget easily,
you’ve shown me that things I thought were possible
are impossible.

I’ve been so disconnected; I hope you can forgive me.
I am asking a lot, and
I can grasp that, but
there are so many things I still need to tell you.
My mind’s flown off with a butterfly, so
what am I left with?

Once, I asked for directions when I knew where I was going
because there’s more than one way to be right.
I guess I was trying to teach myself a lesson that I already knew.

Sometimes life isn’t about living at all,
it’s about learning and teaching and still not knowing anything.

Once there was a cow. She had a well. "Neat-o," was a word that she liked to use, and she often used it to describe things such as ball gowns and large crowds. She frequented clubs, not the sweaty kinds where European dance music is played, but the sophisticated kinds where people tie sweaters about their shoulders and don't dance unless classical music is playing, and even then the only movement is the bob of a head from side to side as violins trill past notes that human ears should be able to recognize. She didn't mind it when people used the word "****," but that was probably because she didn't understand them, being an animal and all. She helped herself to seconds at every meal and had a goose follow her around to taste her water before she drank it just in case it was poisoned. "Not to be rude," she would say, "but sometimes I wish there were less geese in the world." I don't take offense though, being human and all.

She had a pet that drank liquor heavily, and often slurred his words to the point of….this is difficult to describe. His hair fell into his eyes and he could touch his tongue to his nose in .01 seconds (if he'd been sober for at least 10 hours). He tested the water with his **** cheeks before diving in, belly first, and he never wore swim trunks (ever!), but that was simply something that ran in the family. You could always tell when he was sad because he would try to fit the cow's feet in his mouth. It was a matter of opportunity, but once the moment presented itself, he never let it pass. He liked the color red, but mostly because his blood became that color when he ate gooseberries or mint leaves. He secretly liked lamb, but he didn't want to tell anyone because all the ant-eaters and water spiders would have looked at him differently after that. He was very concerned with his image, you know. He liked to say things like "****-berries" and "I'm not done drinkin' yet," but only when the sun was down (which was not often because he lived in Alaska). He slept with a towel on his head and an egg between his legs to practice balance. He knew that one day, no matter how far away it was, he would be King of the Jungle.

Footsteps should feel like rose petals, velvet and red,
when you’re not soft enough
I can hear you approaching
wearing your father’s shoes. They used to clunk around as you walked;
they used to be too big.
Now they fit.

I know I shouldn’t hold you without arms,
but I am too in love with this
and it’s getting to my head faster than the things you say when we're falling asleep.

I’m telling you about things I felt
because you asked if they were real feelings or simply colors
and I don’t have an answer yet but it’s coming to me.
Now,
about last night
I only cried because you said you were afraid
and my heart goes out to you:
the only thing you have to fear is your mind.
I made a new color today.

I thought I would be able to tell you more
but isn’t that always the case
filed and boxed and put on a shelf because no one bothered to look close enough
or pay their bills.

I wasn’t going to say it,
but I saw a heart hiding under your bed and I think it’s mine
don’t keep it too long
don’t think I’ve forgotten it

Sometimes I think I won’t ever be enough
and that you won’t ever realize it
so, so sorry.
(Too bad you’d never experiment)

I’m always speaking but I’m never listening
all I want to do is hear your voice
clear
as a glass of water
but I keep putting a spoon in and stirring,
stirring until the water moves so fast that I get ****** in
half asleep and dreaming, forgetting the meaning
of oxygen.

I guess I was trying to show you something you couldn’t see
just like time—
there’s more of it than you think.
You watch me closely but you forget
blinks;
you forget the ripples in a pond.
Before you know it, dinner will be over
I’ll be full, and you’ll be wondering where
my appetite came from.
Didn’t you know?
I’ve been hungry for years.

and imagine God and you’ll see him or it or whatever you imagine
and it comes out as a misspelled word
                                                           and time
and you don’t have to write it down for the world to read.
but at some point it’ll start to feel normal.
but for now I think we’ll just stick to formalities.
but I am only making up for my lonely childhood
but I get jumbled up.
but I wish you were. sometimes I do.sometimes I forgetspace
but I’ve already taught you a couple lessons, so I should keep the ball rolling
but you can’t always count on people,
come back
crazy right?
do what they say
do you ever look for things in the world that just aren’t there?
especially not yourself.
fill in the blank
go eat
I am a character of course,
I can tell you yes or no,
I feel like I should apologize
I guess that means my imagination controls what God is.
I guess that’s nothing new.
I know I’m not the first to say it,
I learned once that if you close your eyes
I like to think I know people on a level that no one else does
I was only trying to touch my toes before I got too old to keep trying.
I’m odd that way
I’m programmable
I’m scared that I’ve lost my touch; it won’t feel good
I’m sorry if it’s news to you,
if you’re so hungry
it feels new,
it has been too long since i’ve written
it’s better if you just read, they told me, it’s better if you don’t say too much out loud.
it’s easier to have no power than to have all the power in the world
it’s easier when someone knows how you feel
IT’S NOT THAT EASY
like not kissing for months
look harder. they’re always there.
meet
nice
no, I know you haven’t been waiting,
some guilty pleasures are more guilty than others.
sometimes people get stuck in between two feelings
stop crying
stop yelling
take up some space
then again, I suppose that’s rather normal.
There has to be some sort of inner monologue
to
too long since I’ve pressed my pen to paper and expected it to move.
use your imagination.
waiting to come out of me.
what an odd fetish you have.
when?
whichever you would like to hear
you,

it has been too long since i’ve written
too long since I’ve pressed my pen to paper and expected it to move.
it feels new,
like not kissing for months
I’m scared that I’ve lost my touch; it won’t feel good
but at some point it’ll start to feel normal.
when?

I feel like I should apologize
no, I know you haven’t been waiting,
but I wish you were. sometimes I do.sometimes I forgetspaces
                                                    ­                                                  and time
I guess that’s nothing new.
it’s better if you just read, they told me, it’s better if you don’t say too much out loud.

sometimes people get stuck in between two feelings
and it comes out as a misspelled word
do you ever look for things in the world that just aren’t there?
look harder. they’re always there.

I can tell you yes or no,
whichever you would like to hear
I’m odd that way
I’m programmable
then again, I suppose that’s rather normal.

There has to be some sort of inner monologue
waiting to come out of me.
I am a character of course,
but I get jumbled up.
it’s easier when someone knows how you feel
and you don’t have to write it down for the world to read.
but you can’t always count on people,
especially not yourself.

some guilty pleasures are more guilty than others.
I’m sorry if it’s news to you,
I was only trying to touch my toes before I got too old to keep trying.
I learned once that if you close your eyes
and imagine God, that you’ll see him or it or whatever you imagine
crazy right?
I guess that means my imagination controls what God is.

it’s easier to have no power than to have all the power in the world
I know I’m not the first to say it,
but I’ve already taught you a couple lessons, so I should keep the ball rolling
nice
to
meet
you,
but for now I think we’ll just stick to formalities.

I like to think I know people on a level that no one else does
but I am only making up for my lonely childhood
what an odd fetish you have.

go eat
if you’re so hungry
IT’S NOT THAT EASY

stop yelling
fill in the blank
stop crying
take up some space
come back
do what they say
use your imagination.

she’s camouflaged red and brown
voices appear closer than they are
so if she closes her eyes
she can play tricks on her mind to keep from breathing too loudly.
just keep dividing – she says
just keep dividing.
(whose name is my name?)

she’s alone in the room
where it’s dark and where it’s silent
like the grave you dreamt I was in last night,
now you’re ashamed to admit it
it was going to be a secret
it was going to sound silly once I put it on paper
(it does)

she didn’t have to say the boy’s name (riley)
still, it was out before we knew your ****** orientation
and they told you “the door’s over there” but
you knew you were glued to the spot
because sometimes words feel like concrete.

she should have known it would be a mess,
she should have known that when she cleaned
she would find your ring
somewhere beneath the couch or the rug
and she would wear it quietly until you forgot it was gone
(it is too easy to be silent and too hard to speak)

she found her faith in something different
lying beneath a persimmon tree, begging to be picked up
before it rotted between the orange, cinnamon fruits
(my teeth feel soft)
but now she has to write down her secrets on a peice of paper
slip them into her pocket,
where we can all be blind to what she's done
(just keep dividing keep dividing)

she thought becoming a woman was more than being able to bleed
she thought her voice would be soft
she thought her eyes would be quiet
she thought she would feel something new (some sort of reverence)
but she’s been walking with her eyes closed
and asking for more than she needs
when all she really wants is for people to see the inside of her soul.

i said i didn’t miss you so i wouldn’t
but you made me
listen
to things you wrote, gave, made
did it say something about love? she wonders these things aloud
it’s hard to keep them in when you’ve been thinking them so long
without even noticing.
sometimes just noise is enough to change a person

I haven’t looked in the mirror, she lied
because she was self-conscious about being more beautiful
and about changing so often.

if there is enough to go around, let’s all cry.
all of us.
if you listen hard enough beneath music, there are words
and they are talking to you.
why is it so hard to do something you don’t want to it says
questions that don’t have answers

why is it so hard to do something you do want to do?

what if I just go back?
what if I never go big – just go home
sleep in a cabin
eat fish
become something greater than myself
before I become less than I was before?

I keep trying to think of new ways to touch you
sometimes you touch me back
but often you don’t seem to notice me here
I just need you to need me back.
but I’m alone in more ways than one.

listening to you again feels good.
why did I never get through to you?
why did I never get to BE with you?
I don’t care who you were, why wouldn’t you let me see? why wouldn’t you let anyone see?

you try to forget the things that plagued you
but they have a way of coming back – me, it’s because I want them to.
I like the despair of old fears, of rekindling something dead,
of sitting by a campfire in the woods alone thinking about what you should have said to your parents before you left
or what you should do when you’re in love with more than one person
because no one plans that stuff
no one plans dying.

where are the metaphors you ask
and I tell you they are in the universe, full of color
full of something that we try to understand but have too many names for

I am going to ask you one question, and you have to promise to answer.
promise.

get lost in something
and you can start to tell the difference between you and someone else
if you feel sad, that’s okay. just stop trying to hide it
just stop trying to hide
just stop hiding

who are you?
you promised.

please, no one talk about how
they frowned, how
they looked processed (like canned meat)
and lowered their voices in pitch
because that's easier than changing yourself.

I'm sure eventually they'll make me
king of something.
until then my nose will keep
growing and I'll have to find a way
to fall into God without a vessel.
spicy food?
actually keeping people's secrets?
just put something in the suggestion box.

it's this feeling -
these uneasy moments when I'm unsure
it's his smile that distracts me from the memory of yours.
why? do I choose?
do I let myself become succeptable?
your love is a wall - or is it hiding?
must I search for it?
I'm done pondering.

I just can't shake this feeling that he has something to teach me about God.

my head hurts
constantly
my eyelids are pulled back—
let me be awake.

stop the tug-of-war,
the short sentences
the silence.

the woman next door told me all I had to do was keep breathing
(I wonder what she’s on).
sometimes The Girls talk about it
in a coffee shop,
or under the pretense of a book club.
they tell lots of other stories,
but I always seem to forget them.

the pounding in the night is just the ghosts in your head;
you see, I’ve tricked myself into believing that I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.
it’s a nice lie to live by,
so it’s okay, you can let me have my blind spot—
everyone needs a little character.

even though the machine is falling from the sky,
all the parts are still working.
I saw it on TV, so it must be true (and let me tell you,
the weather we’ve been having here makes me want to curl into a ball
and sleep in my mother’s driveway)

“she’s back!”
I want to hear them scream,
“she’s back!”
but it’s a little late to remove the earplugs.
maybe I just haven’t been listening
at least everything makes more sense that way.

look, I’m tired, I’m hell-bent on distraction, and I keep  losing my train of thought.
I don’t know; just tell me what it means.
Just tell me that it means something
because I’m out of options.
the toaster won’t turn on, the kettle stopped boiling water, when I try to sing I simply croak
like I’m full of slowly hardening cement,
and the kids who opened their windows
to feel the night on their skin are leaving hand prints and initials.
what is wrong with the picture?
(it’s not candid. it’s not candid, so take it again)

why do people have to be so picky?

There are often too many things to say and not enough people to say them to.
My ears feel as if they are full to the brim with wax,
but the rest of me is empty.
I was trying to be alone—you touched my stomach
it’s surprising when things don’t scare me.

Stop apologizing for making me feel alive again
I should be sorry for talking so incessantly;
(I shouldn’t have bored you)
it just feels good to say something now and then
Your eyes are so soft,
you are soft
when your lips stretch into a grin.

There are bees and they’re buzzing—
the air feels sweeter
and I’m sorry if I stared, but my eyes couldn’t move.
I was thinking about what you said.
time moves more slowly when you feel alone and
crying is more difficult when you force yourself to do it
(so just stop thinking about “me”)
(it’s only going to help)

tell someone sorry
please let it be me.

when you ask yourself questions
the answers are more apparent than they seem.

my footprints in the snow look like camel hooves
and you always seem to think
I'm something you can capture.
it's awful being edible, but it's something I've come to terms with.

I'm sure you're thinking about what you're eating
but sometimes you need to have something else in mind
and I'm freezing.

because you don't know how
to whisper
everyone knows your cat has no claws.

look,
don't ask me about conquering obstacles
like my sarcasm;
it's not something I understand

but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is FEAR.

There were days when we would grasp our pencils
as if they were the cause of all our troubles,
when really they were the only things that were a constant.
There were moments when we looked too far forward,
and we missed things that were right in front of us,
when we pined for those we had not yet lost—
moments that made us question ourselves, our choices, our futures.

Maybe we do say the wrong things,
and maybe we think we know the answers,
but there is no space between the lines we carve ourselves
unless we fall asleep too early
or we decide to go out for food instead of writing down our futures in pen.

For some of us,
there has been time to learn how to say sorry
or to tell someone that we love them.
Others have watched and waited to hear these very words.
There have been days when we look in the mirror and we don’t see ourselves,
but at least we recognize some variation of who we are.

It is there, in these
moments which feel like they should be more meaningful,
that the secrets we are too fearful
to speak are hiding:
                We’re afraid that we’ll miss each other,
                but we’re terrified of letting go.

i positioned my hair so that it wouldn't part in the wind or when I kissed you.
it made sense at the time to be enamored of something imaginary, i caught fish between my teeth and used toothpaste to get it out, used your fingernail to spread the minty flavor.
I told you lies so that you wouldn't touch me, but it was sad and unnecessary in the end
cold, without skin, i am only something you remember
and I parted my hair so that you could touch it.

the feeling of having you back in my arms,
the feeling of having you back inside of me,
I touched your scent with kisses until you fell numb,
having a seizure of joy in your mind.
i couldn't taste any remorse, but you were always good at hiding those sorts of things, and socks.

you can't hide feelings between the sheets
so we slept in separate beds and had separate dreams.
I wasn't sure why you cried at night,
and you weren't sure why I slept with earplugs
touching, but never feeling
used books on repair
second-hand gifts
back up plans
love

the floor looked lonely
                                       you used to say things to me about the universe,
beneath my feet,
like sand, but breathing slightly less.
the water helped me
                                                     and I would ask you to be more specific
by closing one door and eliminating my
                                                                                    but you told me
                                                           that I simply sounded repetitive.
options.
words came from its lips (lightweight, empty)
like the sound of my breathing
                                                       ­                                     I'll stop talking.
when I'm afraid to make a sound.

the ocean came into my class one day
no knock
no introductions.
she told me to hold onto my desk, and I kept forgetting to breathe
but she washed over me calm and sweet.
her water felt more like my mother's touch
than my father's.

"you won't have to ask me about it when the time comes" she said
—as if I would!—
"I'm all for secrets,
as long as I know them(just tell me a little bit, please)
it's better that way, for my health and all"
she was more informal than I expected,
she told me that I'd be better off alone:
"someone like you" —as if I didn't know who I was!—
"should always keep a hand nearby.
it's easier to stay standing when you know you won't fall"

I listened for a bit to the waves
lapping up against the chalkboard—as if I could read it anyway!—
and when the bell rang the room cleared
alone, she whispered "this is better for us"
and I wasn't sure what she meant, but I nodded from my desk
"this is better than talking"
she held me close, inside of her.
her touch felt more like my own than anyone else's.

the sun makes me feel
like I need a bath—
my skin tingles and breathes beneath its rays.
I am in someone's comforting arms.
the warmth
of being
alive
is so easily forgotten.
                                             if you say something
                                    softly, "tell me a secret," then
                               I will be able to hear the scent
                                                            of your lips
                                                                  on the silent wind.

you close your eyes, not because you are afraid to look at me,
but because you must. there, in the
invisible moans that scamper out between breaths,
lies the secret I was too fearful
to speak:
                 I'm afraid to miss you,
but          I'm terrified of letting you go.

'i'm still nervous' when the phone rang
and i let things become silent so i may better understand my own breathing patterns (this will continue)

but what is it that i've convinced myself now?
that some form of being is greater?


a friend told me she was "lost
in between one feeling and another"(not much space, is there?)
and i told her i knew what that felt like(but i didn't until now)
she let her coffee get cold speaking.

ask me something, anything, and i will know how to answer
sometimes it isn't until you're honest with others
that you can be honest with yourself.

i'm not sure what there is to understand about this
(i'm only rolling credits)
i can't seem to place my focus on something tangible
(everybody cries sometimes)
you won't be able to change my mind
(just hold me)
you understand my impulses too softly
(it's better if i'm alone)
we are experimenting, but our safety goggles are getting in the way
(sorry for being so intrusive, abrupt)
we are touching, but our clothes are getting in the way
(i'm too cold)

i am asking you what is beautiful about this
what is beautiful about being here or anywhere or nowhere with you
how can two people or even one feel so much
i am asking you why it is so frightening to be lost
and why it is so hard to just lose myself

i wish i could fall asleep in your arms every night, where
i can be comfortable, and wake up
to your eyes each
morning, where

Everything is nothing when I am with you.

in the moments when whispers are heard
over screams or
seconds are slower than minutes

                                                        ­                   the dreaming becomes synchronized                                                                                  eyes are gold and light and nothing
                                                         ­                                                                 ­              remains
                                                  separat­e.

hand on my face
head to the east:  water
the flapping wings of an eagle pour through the air
what can you do with a person who refuses to be alive?

Saying things that are implied is only redundant if I am listening,
  but my ears have been filled with leaking thoughts
       and sounds reserved for when I flip the light switches down.
  loop after loop, it all becomes static
    his voice is a plant drooping from it's ***, melting down the sides
                    like lava I'm not afraid to touch.
   it is still nothing to yours:
Opening my eyes is harder than saying goodbye,
   harder than letting go for one cold, shivering moment
        even if all I need is enough breath to hold on tighter.
  the lines of your soft skin are muted whispers against mine,
              and the only visible movement dances colorfully inside of my eyelids.
     why is it so hard to
                    speak                when I am left
Alone, where thinking becomes almost excessively easy.
   it is too soon to mean it, or even let it float around
        while I cry, and wait for you to reach                        out
      and clasp it into the palm of your hand, where it will seep
   soak
           breathe in as part of your blood;
   but the feeling of not being able to convey how much I care
       is more taut than a balloon on the verge of eruption.
P**lease let me listen a little longer,
   breathe a little deeper,
   tell you things like thank you and ask you things like
                                            why?
           ­  because even I don't know sometimes.

"As long as there is room for error,"
she said,
"I am content."
her hair was that of a shih tzu,
her eyes were those of a raccoon.
when she felt something deeply, she couldn't eat.

she whispered about the color orange(turned a sickly green)
and enjoyed the repetition of vowel sounds.
one spell away from invisibility—
like shutting your eyes when the world is spinning too quickly—
and three snaps from sanity.
she held my hand before I knew her heart,
her fingers were a birds nest
but mine were chocolate and
melting fast.
"I'm feeling another person,"
she said.
"It is from my soul, and it is giving me cancer."

before dawn she got up and stretched her limbs
until they were elastic,
(longer than sausage links)
and almost reached the moon.
I was never afraid of the marks her teeth left on my furniture;
still,
it was coming out of her pocket.
her eyes were those of my dead husband
(I was almost sure she'd dug them from his very skull),
and she looked from side to side
until they rolled back in their sockets,
demonic
sensual
fiery.

"Dying is something I did in my past life,"
she told me.
"I won't be making the same mistake in this one."

A weight has been lifted from my shoulders,
placed beside me
where I can see it and laugh at the things I felt
when my eyes were closed.

No matter how much clothing I remove
it is still too difficult to see what's
underneath my skin unless
I am using your eyes as a mirror.

The women dancing on the wall have not shown me anything
and my mother seems to think they have.
somewhere out there, you are lost in a moment
a bottle of pinot noir
and a pack of cigarettes you smoked when you were young.

The air is softer than it was before,
your skin is softer than it was before,
my mind tends to paint things more beautifully than they were before.
Though we're falling from the face of the earth,
I'm not afraid of where I'll land.
Somehow, I know there will be room for me to stand in between one line
and the next—
and within that space, enough room for my heart to
expand and contract
in the steady motion of breathing

with taffy wrapped across your scull for warmth,
you look at me in secret glances
—there, beneath your heavy eyelashes—that make my heart flutter so ironically
like the soft shake of my bed when snow drops from the sky in chunks.

you are still the same pile of bones
but flushed and grown,
still the same gentle glow, but now are close enough
for me to feel your warmth,
and for me to become wrapped inside of your exhale.

even if I am only using tears to hide from the wind,
they are better than bare-***** chill, or the helplessness
of true winter
, darkness
, space.

how full can one mug be of slowly climbing steam and the gentle loss of speech?
it rises until it is at the ceiling, and it sits there
taunting my empty lips with calm silence, embarrassed touches,
accidental movements
until we are only pretending to hide behind walls that we are only pretending exist.

I do not know how many times we will need to close our eyes
or how many times you will reach for my cold fingertips,
but these things are irrelevant
(immaterial)
(unrelated)
(extraneous)
(beside the point)
and the doors that come unlocked open to cliffs,
the steps we take cause us to fall eternally, spinning into blissful
"nothingness"/"somethingness."

there is no space between the lines we carve ourselves
unless we fall asleep too early
or we decide to go out for food instead of writing down our futures in pen.

is deaf.
talk here: whisper into the part of me what still works

sometimes I feel like a clock left ticking,
there must be someone out there who knows that one day I will stop.
I'll be an hour behind, then days,
then nothing matters; I am only in your parlor for looks.

when you move you're hesitant
but you cannot break something that is already (            )
no measurable time has passed, though I have waited like a bird in a nest
for its mother.

it's too hard to admit how much I miss you
and it's too far to walk to your arms(whatever shall i do?).
but if I close my eyes for long enough, maybe I will hear

some secrets you say to me are better whispered into blind spots
and I cannot help but hope,
                                          even a sliver or a smidgen,
                                                        ­       that you will save me all of yours,
                                                          ­     like a child collecting stamps for  
                                                               a letter he will never send.

I'll promise my immobile body warmth (if you will someday do the same.)

I'm tired of the same licence plates
over and over,
all the padlocks, all the nods
from my neighbor over here.
Why must you ask me questions when I say some
people are more beautiful than others?
You are full enough
You will go home and eat at least

two more meals,
you will pet your cat and yourself and have a bowl of cereal before bed.
dreams like chocolate
silk. fingers like bear claws on trout
or salmon
from upstream with last names
coffee shops. They try to

warn you and you let them lose their cries
to the wind. They think
of their grandmothers.

When you ask me to hold your
hand I wonder if you will wash it before we eat
kiss make love
(you don't always warn me if you're

not clean)
In your chewing I hear the words
I should have said before dinner with hands
clasped, heads bent, feet flat
on the restaurant floor. The waitress
is younger than she looks, I
try not to laugh because I'm sure she's worked here for ten years
no
benefits
no
raise
no
tip over seven fifty.
Her eyes are strong from all the tears

but her words sound like
swing sets
half eaten dinners:
merciless.

Her teeth are the San Andreas Fault:
tired of opening and closing.
Tired of fake smiles, nicotine gum, chattering in the cold of other's
glares, all the nods from her next door neighbors, the same streets
with the same cars with the same licence plates. So she'll press them
down over her tongue, and curl her lips back slowly
until the day someone touches her the way she was touched
before claws
salmon
chocolate silk

before she was fat.

saturday feels like tomorrow
already?
already.

i told too many stories in one sitting
and now my fingers are moving in circles and changing
colors. (because of this, I can't make it to your birthday
party)(can you believe the excuses I am making?)
i will be speechless
already

once someone hears something they shouldn't have
we will turn off the fan to avoid further mess
and keep our eyes shut so that we don't see what
we've done.
melting like butter, quickly
when put on too much heat but always,  always tasting delicious

I will try and keep my mouth shut after this last meal.

(it's impossible to make anything from words
it's impossible to **** without *******
moan without a mouth.
I'm not happy with your body or the way
you treat mine. I've had it I'm not me anymore-
I'm an alien, an name, a slowly disappearing breath in cold winter air

gentle, slow, inconsistent
kneecaps that hold every limb suspended by a tendon
tendon: it hurts, it's new, it's an excuse
excuse the coldness of my mind
minds molded from clay, hardened, and smashed into tiny pieces that look like dead children
children holding hands to face a man with a rake and two hammers
hammers to pound the right answer into our minds and out of our teeth
teeth gripping onto fingernails
fingernails gripping onto teeth
bitten rotten, bitten ******* short, smelling of cheese, and falsities
and
****)

**I put on my shirt and go to school.

it was only meant to keep me alive.

I see how you did that
I see how you grew your fingernails long enough to wrap them around yourself
tasting cruelty on your unbrushed teeth? is it there yet?
you'll bite your lip to seem kind
: secretly let it bleed out to seem pained

you are so small
your biggest actions fit beneath my tongue better than a honey lemon
cough drop
the words said themselves,
I didn't have to put them in front of you,
you simply held out your plate and asked for more.
what more did you want?

it is too often that you hear yourself through a megaphone
mute it mute it, stop it
everything you want is hiding in your eye sockets
this moment is too microscopic you complain
it's too scary to see what's behind you
so I stand before you
mirror
hit me
look at yourself
hit me

there's nothing in my hands
nothing in my pockets
I'm not tricking you, and I never was.

you know you miss someone when you can taste them,
but you've never before
on the back of your tongue
                                                      wet bones in your mind
soft, skeletal, unreal
i'm feeling you now, somewhere between my forehead and eyes
makes for interesting dreams
and frequent days without food.

it hasn't been too bad
i've only lied a few times
maybe six or so
and thought of you hardly ever.
(i'm hoping that makes up for everything else i've been thinking about)
a six pack should hold me over until i can clock more hours
until then, i'm a cigarette ****
and a half-chewed burger: "****. i don't eat meat."

seconds accumulate the same way dust will
my breath isn't strong enough to blow it all away
that's why i asked you so many questions
should've used the rear view mirrors before they broke....oh well.

something in the air tells me you don't like me back
that your plump sides
drooling lips are really nothing but an anecdote
and everything i've forced myself to feel for you is nonsense
blended in a juicer, foamy like a latte
nonsense

*** was the beginning
when a baby became a whale,
skin like diamonds and cotton candy.
They left their son early,
drank many colors and tasted the seven wonders,
breathing slowly so as not to wake the gods.

Their potatoes turned to meat and tasted saltier than usual.
Once at the bar, they drank nicotine
with their eyelashes.
God told them, "*******!"
and they touched each other on the knee
because abstinence from *** feels like cotton mouth.

They stole their child's heart
because they needed a second chance,
but they kept the body to feel less like aliens.
They lost reality in words,
unspoken or spoken.
Their son listened through his eyes,
regretful of his age and of the times.

They began to feel their actions more softly,
taking deeper breaths and
moving in slow motion.
The thoughts made their skin heavier,
their chins began to wrinkle,
their touches became cold,
and the only way to feel warm was to

the air beneath my feet is rotting from within
felt through thick skin,
underlying feelings.
I can taste your words beneath my tongue and on my bottom lip.

I swim to float,
to fall for eternity where I can be caught
to whisper secrets and not be heard.
It works with dancing and breathing, too
feels like lightning
sounds like thunder
dances like rain.

When I come home to an empty house tomorrow,
I will smell of him
and of his mother,
but I will wash it away with Downy
while I drink until I am thirsty.
The cat’s gone out for coffee,
leaving me to wonder where I’ve hidden all my mouse traps.

Sometimes there are reasons,
but mostly there are not.

i can feel my feet swelling already
thats how you know when it will be too heavy
or when you will not be strong enough
there are no dots to be connected,
and i want to speak but i know i am the only one who would listen.
my stomach keeps asking me to pull out the drawer
and spill milk, but it's empty so what good would that do me?

the air from my ears is sweet like honey
steam forms your body in my mind, where's my apology?
where's my money?
i can't ask, that defeats the purpose, and all i ever seem to be doing is pulling on yarn hoping to find something at the other end
i'm only unraveling

i need sleep
and a movie
and time to plan my future without worrying what a bald man who wears shorts in the snow will think
or a shiny man who doesn't cover his knees
or a grey man who thinks he can treat me as if we are sexually intimate.
tell me if i'm being oversensitive, okay?

Well, I'm not.

the boots could stand without a body
or lips to kiss
her essence was in them full like water
she would shout and not be heard through all the smoke
now it is clear, but she is silent

there's always too much to figure out or trust or not trust
when you're seventeen and gorgeous and sorry
but he should be sorry, not me,
he never looked at my **** like they would fit into his hand
or into my eyes like they were oceans/moons/something surreal
milk tastes better with chocolate syrup
until you get older: you like bitterness in your hot mug
and in your eyes

roll up the bible like a pillow in your lover's bed
you are your lover
i am my lover
we are lonesome
scared of touching feeling lying asking knowing scared of being scared

now i'm tired of not feeling things that need to be felt
I see it in so many crevices like bookshelves
and cd cases
hiding behind some sort of transparent anger
and now it's about him again and his thick fingers and immature, un-trusting ways.

i keep trying to make things about you,
but maybe I need to stop looking with my glasses on.
there are no secrets, only words that mean nothing.
I collect them in tiny jars and cabinets.

he held my hand like he deserved it
and i'll hold yours like I want it
if anything in the world made sense then i would stop trying to figure it out
but i'm here listening to my parents yell at my brother for sleeping
and listening to my brother say **** and **** and ******* and words that only sound good in the daylight

if I wasn't alone on this couch,
things would make less sense.
but we are
and I am
with **** yous seeping through the walls to remind me i'm at home

when he touches you is it like gold?
eyes like prying words
scalpel,
tweezers.

******* look at me when we're talking,
like the soft skin of my back
and the orange marks you drew with a gun
back when we thought it was safe.
everything was safe.
cigarettes were safe.
it doesn't make sense.

they take longer drags than they should,
but their fingers are longer.
it makes sense.

you play this instrument
so that you can tell me the things you can't express with words.
you cannot make a sound yet
you have no feelings.
it's mixy
it's a     w    or
d.

you'll just have to trust me on this one.
no matter how tired you are.

Sometimes we look at each other.
Sometimes we tell each other secrets,
and you keep mine, and I keep yours.
Sometimes we change our appearance to please someone,
and it just disappoints someone else.

the baby next to me is teething
and screaming
and I can't seem to make him notice me.
I can never make him notice me, no matter who he is.

I'm going darker.
Why?
Just a little bit.
Why?
I just want to.
Her eyes are assessing me
and making me change colours.

the cats are pawsitively exhausted
the cats are hoping for sun
and dancing in the rain
o joy!
the music is playing indoors
so they cannot even hear it.
It makes you wonder what it takes to be happy.
Sometimes I don't know.

Sometimes we touch,
but never completely.
Sometimes I call you and you don't answer,
sometimes you do.
Sometimes we share,
but it isn't often.