I have been devout and without
an avid follower of me
and nowhere found
the bed without a flower
after breaking ground
I grow
to glisten though
my distance closing
gentle breath show
my distance from the sun
there have been no answers
from doubt
i bleed and am blind still
the show we share
shadows forgotten
paths run walking or grown
the power is all
to quiet moments trust
to meet in far off oceans
where watching a sense
quite like fantasy
meets poetry and motion.

Have you ever heard the story about the girl who started counting seconds between the lighting and the thunder, to see how far away the rain was?

We sat there, two weathered minds, on the wooden swing chained to your porch,
the delicate wind chimes were at war with the tumultuous thunder.
The little metal pipes singing, begging us not to speak.
The explosions in the sky shouting, demanding us to yell even if in comparison our voices were weak.

Maybe it was the tension between us, sitting so close yet so far, not a single space of skin touching, that cracked the sky with white lines.
Maybe it was the shaky thoughts in our heads that rattled the house the way it did.


I don't remember the name of the story, or how it went really.
All I know is that I was singing quietly to the rain and I realized that I stopped counting the seconds between me and you.

sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.
there is snow within me and wild winds outside my door,
and i watch from the window while my crops wither.

i silence the sun.

he stands at my gate with nimble fingers and begs to be let in,
but i have always been a grove of shadows,
and he knows there is no space for him.

sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.

but other times,
spring finds me.
it lifts me up into its gentle arms and suddenly i am a field of clovers,
lucky,
rising up.
suddenly i am baby’s breath, i am pure,
i am a blooming hyacinth.

i am warm.

i know what a change in season feels like.

and i try to be loving.
but on the days when i have gotten up
and planted my seeds,
you are still tangled in thick black weeds and roots.
on the days when i am a rose,
you are the thorns,
and on the days when i grant the sun a chance to speak,
you take his tongue.

i know your pain; i have lived it.
but i will not give up my songbirds just because you are only left with crows.

i know what a change in season feels like,
but you are always winter.
and sometimes, i am spring.

so i will flourish.
and i am sorry.

(a.m.)

I bought you a crown,
nothing special, it's cardboard,
decorated with construction paper and smeary markers;
it looks like an elementary art project, but you look like a King with it placed crookedly upon your head.

You told them to step aside,
the corners of your lips curled up,
slightly gaped teeth shone beneath your top lip,
you say "the Queen is coming through," and our hands brush as I walk by.

You are powerful, strong, confident —
the King of Sass,
the King of Humor,
the King of Charm,
the King of my heart.

I am frail, self-conscious, jealous —
the Queen of Uncertainty,
the Queen of Rosy Cheeks,
the Queen of Midnight Tears,
the Queen of Imagination...
After all, you only see me as a commoner.

I live in a society that mocks mental illness,
and with a mother that sugarcoats depression.
You're just tired,
she says as I try to overdose on Vitamin D
and my younger brother's pain pills
to be the good enough child
that she always thought she had.
But that's all I'm putting in my mouth,
I swear.
I keep the door to the pantry shut,
and I've learned to do the same with my lips,
even though that thing beneath my rib cage
that the cat scratched up too much
is fighting for a chance
to let my true feelings out.
Her parental guidance is a catalyst
to everything I told the therapist
who sits behind a desk
behind my eyes.
You're too young to love.
You're too fat to be anorexic.
You're too happy to be depressed.
No.
I am a girl,
in love with a man
that ***** every ounce of daydreams
from my body without touching a fingertip.
He leaves venom in my skin
that I mistake for affection,
and he leaves me wanting more;
wanting him to swallow me
like the New York City street rat
that no one even wants to look at,
because maybe then
I'd be able to bring him some satisfaction.
But I do not add nutrition,
I am not needed in his life.
I ask what time dinner is
because I haven't eaten breakfast,
or lunch.
I ask if I can have some more,
but I tell myself no
before the question lifts off my tongue
because I know my mother well.
I know that size 6 is average,
but who cares about a number like that
when I'm a healthy 20 pounds overweight?
I preach body positivity like a religion
tattooed into my bloodstream,
but even I don't understand the blasphemy.
And isn't it ironic
how the girl in love with the snake
is a hypocrite herself?
A hypocrite who puts on a mask
of Covergirl 110,
and blush in Feeling Pretty,
and black liner,
as if she were enhancing the trainwreck she created.
But sadness can't be cured
by the snap of my fingers,
by the pink gloss on my lips,
by the red dress in size 2,
by the galactic twinkle in his eyes,
or the parallel universes created by his smile.
So I'm sorry mom,
that it's not enough,
that I'm not enough
for you.