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.

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,

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's a mirror in the doorway that tells me I can look no further.
I am not experienced, like you.
I don't know how to defy this.
I don't think gravity is on my side;
nor luck or love.
I wonder why, sometimes.

It feels like summer in winter
if I think of you with my eyes closed.
And there's something kicking at the edge of my mind,
like a skeleton tired of being locked away
and tired of trying to read in the dark.
The bulb is burnt out.
I can't see anymore than you can,
but at least you have the key to the closet.

I meant to be this and that
and all the things you used to get mad at me for being.
I'm not sure why you're so simple,
so feeble.
When I used to admire your heart I would sit on my knees
so that when my feet went numb I could feel the pin-***** of waking up.

Now you've been sleeping for years,
and I know, at this point, that I'm not Prince Charming.
You've told me nearly a million times.
Or at least your lips have,
as they mouth the words of your death,
like a diabetic child ******* on a forbidden lollipop.
I still can't seem to miss you.

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.

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.

They lied to me through the gaps where their teeth had been,
and clutched at my purse with their eyes
until I was unclothed and wise,
causing fate to follow behind me as I walked blindly on.

There is no measurement of time in a moment when you feel something,
and I held that moment for as long as I could,
cradling what I thought was different in me.
I stretched until I could see it going around the corner,
and I called to you, trying desperately to get your attention.
But this is fatal,
and only what I don't do will spread quickly enough to get to my lungs.

I don't feel what I used to,
like maybe I can make myself change in the same way that the hand moves over the face of a clock.
I'm just reminiscing over created and discovered memories.
Maybe I found them on my way to the third floor,
I cradle them as if they were yours and hope to god you're an idiot when I know you're not.

It doesn't make sense to be in any body but mine,
thinking anyone else's thoughts,
or feeling anyone else's emotions.
It doesn’t make sense for me to feel sorry
or for me to wish I could handle these things better, like I always seem to.
It doesn’t make sense to be what you think I am,
but that’s why it was fun.

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.

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?

The bruise on your left knee is yellowing
and I watch it when you're speaking.
Your breath is straight from the oven,
your teeth clattering like a rattling spoon
as you feed me your words,
hard and fast--my stomach so full I can hardly take more.

You talk at me like I'm a chalkboard
and I should be able to create your words at the same pace that you can;
you stop feeling my gaze on your knee
and you try to tickle me with your eyes,
as if this simple movement will make your words softer.
As if I will stop feeling something if you stop too.

You tuck your eyelashes low, like that counts as an apology,
and you face me like you're strong.
You're always like something.
And you have fingernails like a girl's, and you are one,
and you have fists like an ex-lover
and eyes like the city,
but the city is ugly in the light;
you're only beautiful when the sky dims to night.

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.

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.

She held her fists between her lips
and chewed them
as if they were caramels
or beef jerky (she loved meat).
Stopping only to taste her own fear,
she became an enemy of herself
and dreaded the taste of her hands.

She kept her eyes averted
or crossed because she was crazy,
and chuckled silently
behind her eyebrows.
Maybe she was keeping up an image
to show that she was afraid of change,
or maybe she wasn't.

She kept her mind
under her tongue
and pressed down on her thoughts
until they were altered.
She let her ideas mix with her spit
and swallowed them until she was full,
or until her mind was empty.

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 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.

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.

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.

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)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 float like a rock
and sink in clean air.
The scent of me alone
is enough to make any head turn.

I can promise you nothing
because I claim the title "starving artist,"
and every time I bleed,
I do it for the sake of humanity.

I live on a crucifix created by Picasso
and crawl to work on my knees.
The Pink Floyd blaring through my headphones
is louder than the sound of my heartbeat.

I cry when I see art that doesn't make sense
and I feel sad even if I do understand it.
I don't use razors to shave
and yearn each moment for rainy days.

I am nothing to no one,
I am not real or imaginary--
simply a popped balloon at a six-year-old's birthday party.
But let's not cry over spilled paint.

I can't ******* tell if you're squinting or not.
I am, and I can't even see any better.
When I have trouble breathing it helps to close my eyes,
I imagine the stars, and I imagine death.
The sun is beautiful when asleep.

I keep trying to hold your hand and you don't get it.
I thought we already established that we're in love.
I guess if I had any courage I would have less trouble speaking.
But I can't sleep when you're breathing so loudly.
My mind is more alive when I'm gone.

Consciousness is a dry topic to those whose concern is ego,
but neither one of us knows what either one of those means.
So stop pretending like you do and be admittedly in the dark.
I keep finding it pointless to talk.
I see more with the back of my head than with my hands.

Everything's a mystery at this point.
I'm getting so huge that I can't see my feet.
I guess you could say it's a problem,
I see it more as a pathway.
Each pound is a streetlight that goes dark on my walk home.

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.

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.

No swing, no ding
no kool-aid mix for my *****,
my car's stuck in a ditch
I'm off to Norway
for my holiday
to see a band play
and visit my grandma on her birthday
where we hired a magician
but she didn't like it because she's a mathematician
and a *****
she hates dudes
she'll make calculations just to be rude
and spit in your food when you're not done eating
she's always repeating
different sayings
or her high school day-dreams
and whispering things you can't make out.

Forget it, I dread it
the day is looming
like the shadow of a blooming
sunflower,
I've lost my power
and my will
and the money to pay my bills
all because of the chill
you sent down my spine
that one time
when I said it was okay
but it wasn't.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

You were the only one who held my stares,
your eyes were moons
invisibly courting me, sleeping next to me,
whispering to me gently as soft as you were.
I was not soft,
but angry and calloused and alone.

I cradled you each night as if you were ice cream,
or pills
or anything to take the pain away.
You were warm and solid and alive,
but I wasted it;
went out buying lemons and mouse traps
until I could figure out what I really needed.

All you had to do was sit with me,
watch me,
play with me,
nap with me,
to teach me how to live.

But it wasn't until you were gone
that I knew I was in love.

simple reminders:
beach towels,
mustaches,
grilled vegetables
beetles,
time.

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.

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.

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.

not what you think but a little smaller.
you forgot to paint your t-shirt
with any colors.
it's something to marvel at in the day
and to dread in the night,
and fill with the lush scent
of your iron perfume, like manufactured lilacs.

you dance for something temporary
and lift yourself from dreamlessness
to be touched by a crude ex-lover
because he slipped thirty-five dollars
beneath your door.
and you don't know what to do,
so you try only to love him again
and learn to accept his dry humor.

but coffee is to dark,
and juice is too light
and your relationship is too formal
and his touch is too soft
and your moans are too loud
and your *** is too slow
and your eyes are too dry
and your lips hurt
and your toes cramp
and you think about your mother
and you forget to breathe.

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

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.

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.

*** 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

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 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.