Consume me—

touch my throat and toenails,
and I will touch yours
if you close your eyes

then I can see behind them,
and it’s like trying to read the last words
of a letter thrown into the fire
from a lover unforgiving
and a time that needs forgetting.

But don’t forget me—

don’t let me slip from your fingertips
because I can’t see that far
and I don’t want to try

unless you can tell me I will be safe
and you can hold me in moments
unlike others,
as I linger before death
without yet grasping the concept of the life you gave me.

A knot is tied using my small intestine,
but I keep forgetting the reason
for my ultimate indigestion.
So if she will touch me any softer,
I'll let her into those inner-workings
that cloud me with thoughts of her,
but I swallow them and am left choking on copper
like a child eating pennies for an easy dollar.

She comes and goes in patterns,
keeping the shades drawn
and letting newspapers pile on the lawn
as she blows sultry smoke
from her cracked bedroom window.
And I know she's feeling low,
but I wish she would throw me a bone—
or at least something to gnaw on.

I'm choking on words caught somewhere
between my stomach and lips,
feeling bare; naked, counting the tips
that were tucked slowly into the underwear
wrapped in lace around my hips,
trying to remember the last time
that I—or she—was happy.

Dry tongues make for slow lies,
you prefer to use yours for kissing.
I can feel morsels of clam
between my nails, beneath the skin
but never touching—
that's impossible.

the time that counted your whiskers is still ticking,
and I am beginning to think you lied about being a cat
all I hear are dance beats in my shower.

it's not working any more to be red than it is to be any other color.
I'd gladly paint you
I'd gladly tell you exactly what you don't want to hear
even though it's not something I'm particularly good at
(it takes practice)
like ****** ******* with someone you don't love
or laying still.

there are people like you with ***** gym socks, who kiss their friends' older brothers,
who are always too late, who love something separate, who are small,
who forget to feed their cats,
who never say sorry,
who never say excuse me,
who never eat,
who never breathe,
who never remember.

tell those people for me:
if there is a time where no speech is readily available,
speak of something sad, or something incorrect.
ears are never ready to hear something they don't want to
they build up immunity
like blood cells,
but not really.

I must say, your skin looks nice when you lie,
we do like all the same things,
and have all the same mannerisms,
you are handsome,
I am gentile,
we are alone.
use six words.

I will gladly paint you any color,
as long as you supply the paint.

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

She felt the rocks and glass
beneath her feet.
They pinched and tugged at her skin,
pulling themselves through each layer
and burrowing in-
as if to hibernate
between her toes.
The asphalt was cold
and had a certain degree of pleasure
in its sharp, penetrating lumps.

She needed someone to hate,
or wanted someone to blame for where she was.
No, not her mother;
no, her mother did what she had to do,
and it was what she had to do
that had given her daughter that first gasping breath
which sets the course of an entire lifetime.

She stood at the corner
clenching her teeth and fists and toes,
taking turns resting one foot on the other.
Blood spotted her feet
and tickled her bones in patterns
like snowflakes:
each one different,
and like kisses:
soft.

Cars sped swiftly past,
dimming their bright lights in respect for her tired eyes.
One halted,
the door swinging ajar,
and only a pale, hairy hand presenting a one hundred dollar bill was visible,
floating ominously in the dark and grimy city air.

He washed her feet and touched her nose,
and when she woke in his bed
the pain had shifted to somewhere familiar,
somewhere that constantly ached;
empty and cold
just like a chilled beer mug.
Her ears rang when he kissed her.

Greedily, he took more.
And he touched her heart with his cold, pale fingertips
until she could no longer feel any
pain.

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

I can't smell the night air
because your lyrics are getting in the way
and I don't like them enough to listen,
but you're everywhere, it seems.
And I don't mean to be rude,
but you're being very rude.
Just thought you should know
in case you thought you weren't.

And I can't see the stars because, crazily enough,
I can't see through solid objects.
Funny how that works, isn't it?
But you must think that I can
because you sit with your back to me
like I'm Superman or something,
when really I'm less:
I'm nothing (to you).

I knocked on your door at 3 AM because I was cold,
but you let me inside for different reasons.
I was wearing my mother's jacket and perfume
and I think you thought I was her,
but my lips are fuller and my hands are harder.
I felt your smile and you felt mine,
and you told me about being gone
so we left.

I held a whirlwind of your emotions in my hand
and it was the first time I'd felt so much
without even moving.
You asked me to throw them, but I couldn't do it,
so I put them in my coat pocket and cried without telling you.
There was something you whispered to me
at half past six that is sitting in that pocket, too,
but I just can't bring myself to look for it.

And the whole time I was waiting for you to hit me;
I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn't her.
In the passion of your memories
you would grab my hand and shake it,
the weird part was that I let you, I didn't protest.

You were kind at 9 AM when I left because I was warm,
but you pushed me out the door for reasons I don't understand.
Maybe because I wasn't her,
or maybe you just needed your sleep--
but I am content with a pocket full of your emotions and memories,
and you are content being alone.

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.

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.

She is an angel, I think. At the very least, she can fly. A few times now I've glimpsed her stretching her wings in the privacy of her bedroom, naked in front of the mirror or in front of the windows. All I can see are the curves of her legs and hips though the tall keyhole, and often the feathers that cover her bare, dark skin. There is something empty about her when I see her there that I feel the need to fill, shadows pushing her closer to the crimson curtains that flutter with her movement.

I often linger by the door longer than I should and imagine her flying, a contrast to the soft sky and clouds surrounding her, the light air only lifting her farther up.

I've knows for three years that she wants to leave me. I can often sense it in the way she breathes and blinks slowly and moves about the kitchen. She eyes me as if we speak completely different languages, and sometimes I believe we actually do. I'm too this or that for her, but her image is unchanging in my mind. I will let her fly from that open window any moment she chooses. I can do nothing; I watch her life simply through a keyhole.

She seems reluctant to jump. With my mind I will her to test her wings, as a child tests the water of his grandmother's swimming pool before diving in, limbs flailing. He can swim, though the cold water is hard to breathe in at first, and he moves from side to side in chilled giddiness.

The rustling of her wings keeps me up at night, as I lay in bed half asleep, half dreaming, in a hot and clustered mind. And I keep one eye open, too, for I know in some day to come that she'll be gone when I awake.

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.

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.

The window is open
and a bird flies in with your voice
I want to keep you--
but you would **** all over my house.
Plus, I know you don't want to be here.
Birds hate it indoors.

How many songs can your wings sing?
Holding the same memory,
as if the mind floats above you
and carries you like a puppet.
What kind of holding is it?
How short are your talons clipped?

I'm sad to see your life on strings,
but you won't let me help.
You think you're flying away?

I hope to God you aren't.

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.

let them slip,
                                       drip,
                                                           ­     fall...
as if part of a melting popsicle that drops to the cement
and leaves my face strewn with salty sadness.
I drew elaborate stories in her sandbox,
I told her the secret to being an adult as a child.

there was a tarantula in Martin's shoe
when you left,
                        not your fault for not seeing,
         your eyes were too shamefully stuck on the floor.

I've stopped thinking that moment is everything;
there are so many more:

His hand in mine, comforting and sweet
but just as exciting as when our legs touched,
painting my balance beam in swirling colors,
playing dress up in my mother's wedding gown,
almost breaking my tail bone in hysterical laughter,
singing in front of hundreds with no butterflies--
                               (not even moths!)
Tasting raspberries after a month of just cantaloupe,
knowing that you'll miss me as much as I miss you.

Everyone loses someone who they never want to leave,
but I've learned to
                                        
                                               let you  go.
                                                        ­        *every single one of you.

Whisper, she said in a voice that was not real
because it did not exist
it was not true that she lied, for she was not real and neither were her truths.

there is pain in my eyes, she would feel it, and she would not fix it.
there is no cure for relentless tears which sometimes come of will,
but today stung and dried out my eyes. she can't touch them.

who is real anymore? god, i will be on your side if you agree to a few conditions.
(i will think later—now i am writing.)
keep in touch, alright, dear? she asks but there is no answer. typical.

it is okay, it is not okay, there is a choice i have to choose.
and she can do it for me, i am tired of being the one who knows.
maybe the leaves carry enough weight to fall on my shoulders,
and that is better than the load i currently carry.
(oh the beauty of alliteration.)

i don't want to know, i want to face the sun, even if it blinds me,
and i will be just like everyone else and that's how it is.
(i can't capitalize, i hate pressing the shift button.)

take into account the fact that i am not a bird, or a deer, or dead, or alive.
and at this point you will see who i really am.
i don't expect you to understand until your late thirties,
at which point you will not even remember this moment,
this moment where you read the thoughts that flow through my mind and onto here,
taking up a space that matters to nearly no one and effects none at all.

i have no choice in the matter, i can't make me into someone else or something else.
can i ask you politely to stop ******* making me feel like it's not enough?
here is fall, where the leaves shall drop and land on my shoulders,
and god help me forget the reasons i am asking for weight in the first place
and help me remember how to lie and make things okay;
because, god, what is life but one ******* lie you have told me?

Whisper, she says in a voice that is not real, make sure no one else will hear this lie.

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)

From lip to lip your secrets transfer,
sincerely, I am sorry for kissing so much.
Love is sitting somewhere behind my teeth,
cordially waiting, legs crossed and hands folded.
Your friend reached down my throat.
Respectfully, it didn't even feel good.

Thank you for the blame and pointed fingers.
Take care to clip your nails where I don't dream and
write soon of some excellent ****** endeavors, for
my best regards are long gone, along with
yours.
I miss you when we hate each other.

Wishing the best of every moment is childish,
thinking of you is even more so. But somehow we
always seem to sleep in each other's arms.

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.)

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.

It used to be that your stares held me in a captured moment,
framed and mounted on your wall,
as if my current expression would be stuck forever on my face.
Your eyes are cold, and so am I.

It used to be that your skin radiated heat like a wood stove with only the coals left burning,
I loved laying in your arms, imagining that you had laid in the sun all day.
Your fists are cold, and they are hard.

Now imagine a secret so powerful that it could carry the weight of your father--
for God knows he is a heavy soul.
I cannot hold that for you; I'm done.
My imagination is dry, and it is used up.

You slur your dreams and
pour black paint into the mouths of those you care for
until their eyes run still.
My heart is frozen in a block of ice,
but you used the icepick to hack off your toenails and then put it into the recycle.

What do you want?

It used to be that your heart blanketed the stars during the day,
holding safe the dreams that were almost close enough to touch.
My fingers yearn to grab, my eyes ache to close,
and all I can do is miss the feeling of wrapping myself inside of you like a blanket,
until my dreams took me, and you would slip away and fly.

there are some secrets that are what they say.
there are some that tuck back behind your earlobe and I am not obligated to say which ones they are,
as you are not obligated to ask.
but I will say I cannot tell myself at times, and then I have to ponder why I even know that this is even true; or how.

Look, buddy, I whisper in your ear, I don't want to hold your hand anymore. I don't want to touch you like I have, or share my apartment, okay?

you act like this is some surprise, like you never expected me to hate you eventually.
like I am totally ******* you right now.
you even have the nerve to laugh.
I know what kind of secret yours was, and I know what kind of secret mine was.

until you get serious I will not move, and when you're done I say, I'm done ******* with you and I'm done knowing you **** with me.

So this is my fault? you ask.

Now you are just being a ****. I'll give you three of five stars, okay? I say, and I let you figure me out on the corner of 7th and Mott.

Three and a half? you try, and you follow my across the street. C'mon, the *** was ******* delectable.

This is what I'm talking about, I tell you as my hair whips out from under my hat and I know my nose is red.
it is too cold to be fighting.
Nothing was ******* delectable, go shove your **** somewhere else, I'm sure you'll find it just as enjoyable. Because I'm finished.

I touch your nose gently and kiss your cheek.

I stand by my original rating. Three out of five, I say and I walk down 7th until I reach the corner.

*******! you call and I just wish people knew you were talking to me.

your secrets were exactly what they said they were, and that was boring as hell.
have I taught you nothing? keep them tucked in the right places.

you never know what you'll stumble upon.

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.

What is you or me or anyone anymore?
To have no definition-
be us opinions, facts, or fairytales-
is to be no one;
or rather to be everyone
and who says what she is
or I am (by definition)
with a glance,
for her eyes are empty and cavernous
seeking solace in something she imagines
until she is stamped
to become no one
            someone
everyone;
until she is defined by this/that;
until she is who others say;
until then, she is not she,
but rather, "she"-one question:
Is it a choice?

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

Wrap a scarf about your hairy neck,
something fur—something warm.
Drive an iceberg,
but don’t fall asleep at the wheel
(that is far too typical).

Follow the red dots lining the edge of the sky,
they will lead you to the drop-off
so you won’t be late for school
or work.
But leave time for coffee,
and always ***.

Listen to talk radio,
it will keep you in good humor
make your hair grow longer
fix your handwriting.
It is always important to listen with only one ear,
for you never know when God will speak.

Limit yourself to one meal a day.
You will shrink, sprout wings,
like the taste of beetles.
Remember the name of your grandmother, though,
it will be the password.

If your hair is long enough,
untie it and let it become a river.
It will stretch for miles
and you will never want for water,
but you might miss the stars
so watch closely, they like to play tricks.

Paint the trees blue;
they have never been that color.
And wash your hands—
the fine is hefty for changing things too much.
People become confused
and get lost when they do not recognize their own driveway.

When you arrive, present your passport,
show the whites of your eyes—
it is the only way to prove that you’re real.
You will melt and fall silent
your hands will become blue
(don’t worry, you are safe here).
No one will speak to you if you remember your ancestors.

Soon, you’ll reach the edge of the world.
Take off your shoes and drop them first.
Make your presence known
it is good to be small and silent,
that way, when you jump from the crumbling cliff of Earth
and you fly,
everyone will think you fell.

I fell asleep with your smile on my face,
tears in my eyes twinkling like the stars
that rest above me: mirror images.
What are they crying for?

My mind is spinning in circles and
I'm dizzily trying to find something to grasp--
a way that I could possibly
stop loving you.

There's no mystery in anything when I think of you,
but I'm losing that luxury and
winning nothing but a game of tug-of-war
that I knew you weren't even playing the same way I was all along.

It's not a fair fight when I'm the only one at war.

don't let her say it
she asked me nicely four times,
but I cannot listen to falsities
such as the ones that fall from her deep, full lips.
and I wait now
for the time when she realizes me,
for that is nothing here and now,
I am nothing here and now
not to her.

It's alright (this is reassurance,
which just happens to be one of my reflexes)
and I am still left wondering
why she cannot see
what I have put plainly before her eyes.

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.

'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.

I followed your footprints for nearly three miles
before I realized what I'd forgotten, and by then I was three miles away.
It was neat, clean, and all in order,
but that didn't make it any less wrong;
you know all I want to feel is right.

I keep having this feeling that you love me, but you're afraid to say it.
It's almost enough to make me free,
and I've been liberated before, but not the way I am now.
Everything's new at this point, which puts you in a different section of my life,
and my heart.
I still wish you wouldn't change who you are
just because I've changed who I am.

It's that moment of seeing something you never saw before,
or the second where you know your hand fits perfectly into his;
the way you sound when you sing,
or look when you dance,
or feel when you cry from happiness,
or eat a something you made yourself,
or clean your room,
or shower,
or fall in love.

The light coming through my window streaks the ***** floor,
but there's something in the floating dust
and the garbage on the carpet
that is infinitely
beautiful.

Will you forget for one moment who we are?
Sometimes it works better to feel when you don’t know.
Like a blind man: your sense is heightened.

And I can feel your emotions in my toes—can you do that? Can you do anything?
Over a bowl of chocolate ice cream, you decide it’s a good idea to tell me you love me.
For a while, all I can see is your nose, red and cold,
until your face comes into focus.
And I’m still not happy with you. Is that odd?
I’m sure I’m not at all what you expected.
Once I turned the lights on, you gasped.

Is it chilly now? Or am I the only one who feels a breeze?
I get it,
I ask you too many questions; I ask you too many favors.

But have I ever asked you something
that you couldn’t answer?

It touches so softly I and barely feel it. Like a tickle down my spine.
Over under, in and around, up and down.
I made a choice when I chose, and I told them, I told them I couldn’t be more than one.
But here I am, trying to be four or five, sometimes six.
I’m nearing breaking point.
And I need rain. And a walk.
Will you take me?  I’ve been meaning to ask you.
It’s a treat because I just became seven.
I’m sorry? Do I bother you?
Deal with it.
It flutters so softly, and I can’t tell where it goes.
But I know its not here and I’m reaching breaking point.
I made a choice, I told them, and somehow I’m seven.
Why can’t I just be me?

Your fingertips are on my mind,
pulling up from the roots into each strand of hair.
It’s wet,
and my hair is dark with molecules.
I can’t feel the tip
or inside of my nose.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just better that way.
If no one guesses
or hopes for anything,
then there is no reason to live anymore and there is no reason to do anything and there is no reason to be happy and there is no reason to lie and there is no reason to tell the truth.

Take your time with the touch until it is too much
and I can't feel my toes or eyelids.
It is like I have become a new person on your account.
I wish you could be this way all the time,
and I could be lost too.
I can curl and twist the way you speak into my body
and it is not painful—no, the very opposite.
Thank you, I would say if you were here to hear it,
and that's not all
stay with me, I would say.

I sleep shut in your door
and I hope your eyes are on the lock
until I wake up to the warm sun.
Is that all?
You forget sometimes that we are in love,
well we are, and keep that door locked a little longer
so I will remind you of it.
These are my favorite.
As soon as the paper lands in your front yard
we will be finished and fighting.
Your hands are warm.
That is a sign to me that I don't understand.
I wish you would take me with you sometimes
so I could hold your hand and watch.
It is like I do not exist to you when I am not home with you,
for apart we are separate and together we are the same one.
I don't want you to tell me no anymore so I wont ask anymore
and then maybe you will like me more
because I know I am good enough for you
and I am not afraid of what I think.
It may sit in my mind,
and you give it time to fester
and I think of little birds in the nest
waiting for food
but I don't know how to teach them to fly.
And I want to cry because they have no one else
until you are home.

Touch me like the morning was touched
and I will become a bird,
until I can curl in and twist away with new wings,
teach birds to fly and I am human but I will wait
until you build me up and in that one moment the separate times seem worth it.
In that one moment we are the same and I will stay I think,
and the birds will teach themselves.

The window was open and the fan was on
as long drags of cigarettes filled the bedroom.
"Sure is a pretty sunset, Louise,” Mark commented
his eyes were on the horizon.
“Yeah,” she breathed,
her eyes were on her reflection in the mirror before her,
cigarette hanging loosely from her lips.
“You didn’t even look.”
Louise fixed her hair and took another drag of nicotine.
Mark watched her reflection too,
this time she wiped eyeliner from her face.

“You’re pretty.”
He got up and touched her hair.
“Gorgeous.”

He moved down her back to her waist,
his fingertips trickling like water
from a fountain.
His lips grazed her neck
and her shoulder
and he stuck his face in her hair
and breathed in her smell
and all the while she watched her own reflection.

Disgusted, she shifted and kissed him like she knew he wanted.
She kissed him hard and *****,
like she hadn’t kissed him before.
He wiped his mouth. She felt like an animal.

“You taste like freedom,” he said
after rubbing his face in pleasure.
“****, I am free,” she cursed.
She lit another cigarette and glanced at the sunset,
then back to her waiting reflection.

Some things are just prettier than others.

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.

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?

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.

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

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.

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.

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.