Buttercup, she whispered to me,
your hair is falling out.
I began to worry, and I wanted to scream
but I stopped myself because
I had already screamed once that day,
and she always seems to tell me
Once is enough.

But my dad found out what she had been saying to me,
he told me she was lying,
but then I had no idea what to believe.
I missed the feeling of loosing hair,
and I missed the way it felt as it landed on my shoulders.

At the grocery store
while choosing between strawberry and grape jam
some twenty years later,
I glimpsed her humor in my peripheral vision
and I turned to dance with her
but faced only the peanut butter.

I have seen the sun at night
but only when I was sleeping,
and she always used to tell me
Night time is when things aren't real.*
And I believed her.

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.)

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I'm a parody to mythology,
the northern star to ***** pilgrims with no teeth.
I'm a staring contest with Clinton,
who lied through his skin about touching someone else's.
He wasn't alone the way he thought he was
I'm behind the gardenias, ******* to **** them
just to spite you. He touched inside my skin.

Eyes like raisins or melting almonds,
touch like hairy, pointed fingers,
snaps so loud that Santa's nose turns red in anger.
He can hear the voices of politicians over his music
like the roars of cars at night, when you're trying to fall asleep.
He sleeps with his round-rimmed glasses on, a bow tied around his ears for beauty.
babies' cries twang through his dreams
from the strings of a banjo, making his lips
yearn to speak, green with envy.

I could write for hours; I could write for minutes
she caresses his silky hair,
his **** hardens in class, and he leaves for cake.
He made enough moves on me, I saw them as they fumbled
limbs are too long for grace, for lies
brain is too tall for truths,
and the belt around her neck tightens in winter, like words ringing in your ears
as you walk out of the movie theatre.
It's true, now feel it.

His nose is long, his hair is skin calling through the television in 1993,
when he saw a new light like heaven opening up
but it was just a practical joke,
he's stuck on the stairway, no way up
no way down.
****
****!
****
who can he call? he left his phone at home with his eyes.
All he feels are feathers and minutes--
long, dreary minutes.
Finally a taxi comes, but he left his wallet.

Time passes more quickly than he counted on;
he's not ready to leave, he's not important yet,
not coherent, clairvoyant.
**** humans, **** the world, he doesn't deserve it's kind of behavior,
but as soon as the clock is fixed
God will let him up. He has no doubt, no dreams
just fingers shaped like leggos.
He was a comedian with serious jokes, the kind that
made you weep solid tears and ice cubes.
The wives of men would watch him and frown,
thinking of how much money to slide under their sheets
for when they grabbed their kids from the shops and left their husbands.
Too much mess.
No sunlight.
Empty corners.
Fur coats.

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?

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.

2morrow, I will go 2 a dance party.
I will drnk chocolate milk.
I will fake an orgzm,
or mbe I won't try that hard.
It's all up in da air at dis point.

I'm sure that 2day my mother died,
I felt it & I knew ILY,
IDK if my mind is R;
each breath I take is JFF
and I can't seem to con't.

Regretting the juice I spilled on your lawn
and lingering on the things I said that sounded like my mother,
I drank myself to whispers so I could stop myself from yelling.
There are books about people like me,
people like me whose whispers hurt their children,
but that's the only good reason to be forty and bitter and alone.

So alone that I forget to check the expiration date on yogurt,
so bitter that I like 100% cocoa  chocolate.
I can hear you forgiving me, as if everything I do is okay
at least, maybe until I stop chewing something that isn’t there.
You make me feel like I overreact, when you're the one who loved me;
when you're the one who left.

And when you went the door was left ajar
because it doesn't matter who sees into my house,
but it matters that I could see into your heart (******* hypocrite).

Three years makes you feel like you've had your laugh lines forever
but you didn't make me smile
and you couldn't see any difference in my eyes
when I'm obviously seeing you in such a different way.
Facing you earlier in the backyard was like looking at myself
(when I was twelve)
and it made me happy to be eating 100% cocoa
and paying for my rent in cash from my back pocket.

I’d forgotten what it was to be afraid of speaking,
to be afraid of being alone.

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?

You told me I was **** when you touched me
on my chest and stomach,
but I am sure that I wasn’t **** at all.

I have memories of you
cradling me like a lion with his cubs,
except there was nothing paternal
to your touch or words,
and I felt no safety when I was
in your bed.
Not even when you told me not to worry,
not even when I came to you
to escape my nightmares.

You didn’t seem to understand
that you simply led me into new,
scarier ones.

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?

When we used to go to the same supermarket,
I would watch you pick out fruit
and buy the same kind.
I felt close. I felt like maybe someday you would notice
and say something like,
"I've always loved you," or "I like blueberries, too."

I can imagine your face
lingering between blueberries and raspberries,
the teetering glance you gave to each price,
and even the way you opened each carton gently,
as if it were a precious music box,
and tasted the slow, sweet juice of each berry.

When we used to go to the same movies, I would sit near you,
imitate your reactions.
I only wished I could come closer,
and maybe touch your hand.
Your eyes made me wish I was on the screen.

When we slept in the same bed,
I held you tight enough to scare you.
You said let me go,
but I couldn't. I won't. I didn't.

You gave me AIDS.

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.

It never made a difference what I did or didn’t say to you.
You didn’t listen to me either way.
I could have told you the truth all along and maybe
then it would have made a difference. But I’m too lazy,
and I’m too tired, and it’s about time I gave up for once.
You gave up on me straight away and I thought I could pull you back up.
I guess I’m not always right.
I guess I’m only trapped in what boundaries you give me.

You make me so angry, but its worthless pounding on the door of a sound-proof room. I did anyway, and it only made my knuckles raw.
You hurt me. Does that mean anything to you?

      I found myself screaming.
      I found myself losing it.
      I found myself in the middle of nowhere, with no one, and nothing to say,
      wordlessly livid.
      Every thought inside if me no longer made sense.
      It felt like I’d lost control of my own life,
      all because I lost control of you.

      I was simply a flea on a tick on a dog on a hill on an island in the ocean of the world, which is barely a speck in the universe.
      I was a moment that no one heard—especially not you—
      a tree that fell silently in an empty forest,
      a lie that was told to a dreaming deaf mute,
      a ransom held for 12:03 P.M. that no one can pay, that no one even understands.
      I was a thought removed from a frontal lobe
      (“Pass the scalpel,” whispered remorsefully from behind a doctor’s mask).
      I was trapped in a memory you’d forgotten,
      and it was all I can do not to be completely erased.

Remember me! I wanted to shout, for waiting was no longer hoping. In my own sharp memory, I was surrounded by ice. It was fierce, yet completely withdrawn into the open window of your soul. All I could see was debris and packed boxes, stacked upon each other in the clotted, fatal shape of a skyscraper. The darkness of your fond shape wrapped me within myself, when I thought I was wrapped into you. You led me down a path that you knew I would be lost on, and you left me there without a word.

       I’m still stuck in this desolate world that we created,
       and as soon as you think of me, as soon as you return, I will greet you:
       “Welcome to every second in despair, every moment lost, every
       minute growing angrier; welcome to the storm is coming, to running
       from the monsters that aren’t even there, to burning fevers; welcome
       to dead but alive, to quivering and empty, to uncomfortably full,” I
       will say.

“Welcome to loneliness.”

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

On tiptoes,
I am finally feeling
the coldness and tears
falling consequently from your heated choice.
I do not credit you passion
or even courage—
simply the naïve ability
to run away
as if life is a game of tag
where you will never be "it."
But, you must see, what would be the point of playing
if the same person was always chasing?

She leaned in close to me
and She whispered, "there is no secret"
but I turned away,
and I held my hands closer than love.

She leaned in so close to me
that our noses pressed against glass,
and She held my cheekbones in the curve of Her thumb
until I was light
and pulsing
"there is no secret." She told me
again
again
still I did not believe Her.

She held me closer
until we were bone against bone, our flesh
unbuttoned and heaped on the floor.
but I turned away, bones clattering
we were just two skeletons in a closet, and I yearned for Her
"but there is no secret" she would tell me,
so I closed my eyes and wept, waiting only
for a simple answer.

“there is no secret”
She hummed to my cold, solid tears
Her thumbs held where my cheekbones had been,
eyes gleaming with my emotion,
“look at yourself.”

in a dark, cluttered room where nothing shone before,
Her fingertips glowed,
and I felt myself
covered in feelings I distantly recognized.
She unbuttoned my shell and laid it
on the floor next to my skin and bones
smiling, She said “there is no secret”
and I held Her, nose pressed against glass
nose pressed against nose
nose
nothing.

"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."

I’ve been sitting here for weeks,
and this is the first time you’ve noticed me?
Do you think I like being under this teacup?
I’m terrified; it’s dark and cold.

You’re out at your party,
and all I can think about is my wife,
all alone on the web back home just waiting for something, anything, to fly by.
It’s all a joke to you though, you sick man.
And would you believe that I climbed into a man’s suit,
got on a plane, flew all the way from Europe,
and lived with Johnny Depp for a while?
No, no you wouldn’t—
you work at NASA,
you drive a corvette,
you are dating the Aphrodite of your age
and it’s all not enough.

So let me tell you about me:
I’m not like you or him or anyone else here.
I don’t own shiny medals or have my own talk show,
I’m just looking for a chip in a cup,
some little imperfection that will set me free.

I’ve been thinking how I like
smooth jazz
poptarts
gushers
wheat thins.
I have hundreds of kids I’ve never met,
and a home in your bedroom window.

But none of that matters anymore
because I’m trapped under this ridiculous cup
and it’s dark, and I’m cold.
I’m beginning to think I should just give up.

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.

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 wind used to carry your whispers to me
gently,
lifting them from your distanced lips,
carrying them to my distanced ears.
The wind loved our delicate romance
and would do any favor
simply to hear
your next beautiful dance of words,
or to watch me smile,
heart melting,
at your whispered adoration.

But now it is restless, itchy summer
and though the wind rarely blows past
my ears,
I know your words drift slowly to me,
floating,
lingering,
whispering:
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

(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.

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

it lifts like silk from the skin:
soft and slow, extremely sensual,
and gives goosebumps
that shiver through my eyelashes.

it whispers to my senses,
gently pulling
until I am lifted from the ground
purely ecstatic; purely silver.

it is in my eyes when I see you
and under my skin when I don't
tickling me to madness--
I think I need you.

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.

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 stopped feeling anything almost a week ago,
you said that was normal for someone like me who always bites her nails
who doesn't like to shut up when people tell her to,
but I feel like you were just trying to make me feel something,
or maybe just feel better.
I still bite my nails so nothing's changed.

you eat equations as quick as you eat watermelon
and spit out the answers like seeds into neat rows and shapes,
trying to impress me because you think you can,
but I'm watching your sister and she's picking her nose
and she still looks like an angel.
you're trying too hard to get me to love you,
that's not how it works.

when I touch you I can hear your breathing;
it's disgusting.
(hold something in for once,
your thoughts, your breath, your laughter, your answers)
and when I woke up yesterday, you were silent.
I danced a little bit, until I thought you would wake up soon.
I wanted you to try and excuse your actions.

but you didn't wake up until noon and by then I was thirsty
and I was too gentle.
you told me that you felt something last night,
felt like I still loved you underneath my sarcastic skin
and you tried to prove it by touching me.
you only proved that you're gloriously stupid.

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

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 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.

Sometimes I wish I could drive for once,
instead of always watching the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand
as if it doesn't even matter that you're driving,
as if it isn't my life in your hands
or our child's in the back seat.

You're crazy and unrelenting,
you're stealing and hunting,
and it's not something I understand.

I like it when you hold me and I can know your being,
I like it when I can feel what you feel for me  
and I can empathize and be hurt and you can smile, and forget it.
But it's how we are, not who we are.
Because you let me go too soon, and all I could feel was warm.

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

'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’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.

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?

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.

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.