hands
relics and rebels
count time in small cuts and hangnails
know more than their wearer
see clearer the pinprick of life
the pain emanating, stinging
and with grace
cautiously teaching

I always find myself
alone in my room reading
craigslist missed connections

it's better than books

it's an endless list
of lost, lonely, and lusting people

there are the one's who just want to
find that one smile again

there are the one's who made mistakes,
full of heartbreaking apologies

there are the one's who are posting
to the wrong page, they want something else

my favorites though
are the one's who aren't calling
for a lost and fleeting love,
or for anything
they encourage, praise, adore
the faceless stranger

these rare and beautiful people
selfless enough to take on
the loneliness of hundreds,
nameless
and thankless

my eyes hurt
and
   my head hurts
and
   my doubt
   my contempt
   my spite
              hurts.

a vow
I made a vow
to myself

that I
would
take
my
mind
back

that I
once again
would try to make
music on the
wrong kind of keys

that I
once again
would desperately
with clumsy ignorance
capture in vain
small pieces of
ephemeral beauty
in my trembling hands

that I
once again
would fail to
find words
to carry a thought
to definition
a foggy memory
into focus

that I
once again
would find
that I can hide
comfortably
in phrases

that beauty
is audible
in silence

In my desperation
for a story that I could tell

I found myself divided into three

the girl out of time
the girl who never slept
the girl made of symbols


one is for the past
when I could see what others could not
and others could not see me

I saw light shadows earth and air
and found my place among them

but assumption and apathy
ignorance and monotony
lured me into false independance

and I simply disappeared
faded to a wisp of self
faded to transparency


one is for the present
when time and dread and overthought
drove me to restless places

I stole my being from moments of calm
and tore it limb from limb

by day I fell ill with stillness of mind
through self-inflicted turmoil and disorder
I found my comfort in the lull of night

I was accustomed to dawn
and the correspondence of birds
insomnia thrived before softly lit grace


one is for the future
when I've found patience and comprehension
long lost in angst and exhaustion

presence and mind in translation
I will live by the stories under my skin

I will become ink, I will become words
I will become the doctrine by which I am governed
I will belong to ideas

I will become a story
I will be forever speaking
however silent

there are no good mirrors
mirrors are full
of morality and preconceived notions

mirrors induce nausea
mirrors take what is true
and turn it around

and around
and around
and around

the more mirrors
the merry-go-round

the kids who get their heads stuck
spinning in time
with turnaround mirrors

there are no good mirrors
leave them behind
with the roundabout children
breaking turnaway faces
to wear the new ones
they've taken
newly born to turn-of-phrase places
all made of glass

all walking a thread
hauling D-I-Y lies
every give-it-up day

there are no good mirrors
only bad-for-you windows

I sometimes feel that I'm shouting
in the ears of all the wrong people
the deaf, I suppose

that I've

floated paper boats down a stream
that led into a storm drain
just out of my sight

entered a crowded room
only to find a hall of mirrors

sent a chain letter
that got lost in the mail
the day after I sent it

raised my hand to speak
and the teacher called on
the motivational poster in the back

entered a contest
and all the judges called in sick

wrote a message in a bottle
threw it in the ocean
and found it again on a different beach

went to a party
where not even the host
bothered to show up

made the mistake of expecting
to be heard and seen and recognized
for things I've only half accomplished

I heard a man speak today
he showed pictures of beautiful nothings
arrows and seat cushions
things that are invisible
unless you are present and minding

we take our autonomy for granted
how often in a day are you
entirely aware of your existence?
how often are you truly conscious?

I'm terrified that most people spend their
every waking moment
on autopilot
in a daze

answering questions
standing in line
repeating their lines

-hello, how are you-
-I'm good, how are you-
-I'm good, thanks-
-alright, have a nice day!-

in school, children are taught
how to read, how to speak, how to stand,
sit write play argue listen share repeat
and in turn, to
hate disobey stagnate ignore want
to give up

no one teaches children
no one teaches anyone
how to notice anymore

those photos brought me back
brought me to the realization
that recently, I have forgotten to notice

I must remember to look more closely.

you know those times
when there is a rapidly expanding
cloud of nothing
and you're stuck in it?
yeah, those times when you know
that your fingertips
are so close to reaching inspiration
that you can feel
that addictive electricity
jumping into your bones

but too far to make a circuit


I ask of my pills of delusion
give me light
give me time
give me color
give me god
give me the darkness behind my eyelids
so that I may see everything that isn't there
and that was never mine to know

the drought is over
this is the rain
I am the dust

I need to live
in a box with a lid

a box because
without walls I might see the world around me
and wonder
a box because
without  walls you might look in
and I would have to look back

with a lid because
without one I would suffer through
sunlight
and opportunity
with a lid because
without one I might climb out
and never come back

I need to live in
in a box with a lid

because I need the time
that solitude provides

but mostly I'm afraid
of someday

you can't possibly know
what you're doing
to me

I'm tripping and falling
over false hopes
and promises

I'm so close
to giving up
sinking to the bottom
staying on the floor
to putting my arms at my sides
and letting myself lean
and step off my
sewing thread tightrope

and all you'd have to do
to bring me back
is say hello.

you know,
I tried my best to believe you

"I like you"

well I like you too, *******
so don't **** this up.
again.

"I could get used to this"

really cute, man.

you said that the last time, too.
do you say that to every girl
that you accidentally ****?

but see,
here's the problem.

you're trying,
I see that
but you're not at all doing enough
to win my trust back

if you want this,
if you really want this,
you better show it
like a ******* macy's thanksgiving float

because I will not believe you
'til you get on your knees
and beg, crying
for me to return your affection

because I like you

and this could end so,
so badly

but then there's you.
there's you
and your smile
yeah, the one that pulls
at every muscle, tendon and bone in my body

there's the way that you
so longingly wrap your arms around my waist,
and through the brush of your hands, say silently:
"I can't believe you're this close,
I can't believe that you're here"

the look on your face
when you realize that you've said
something you didn't mean to tell me.
that look of fear that I'll think worse of you.

that time you picked me up
and spun in a circle
kissing my neck
then floated away
saying goodbye

you make this so ******* difficult
you,
are a *******

a stupid
beautiful
*******

4 AM
I'm wide awake
it'sthecoffee it'sthepanic it'sthework
It's the insomnia.

I'm not in bed because
I'm avoiding lying awake
avoiding the realization of cold feet
avoiding permeating questions
ofgodofdeathofohmygodI'lldiealone
of why...

I am alone
and the city sleeps in spite of me
of me...
theremustbetheremustbe
another of me

we'll not sleep together
andwe'llramblewithoutpausesforhoursandhours
to each other, until we fall
to quietly
to   slowly
to     sleep

this morning
I was a good girl

6:20 AM

I got out of bed early
to make myself pretty
I painted my flaws
and I drew eyes on my face

this morning
I was a good girl

6:45 AM

I took my pill cocktail
2 to make me happy
1 to make me healthy
and 2 to subdue the headache

this morning
I was a good girl

7:00 AM

I did't ask questions
I found my shoes
and I left the house

...      
          (I walked for twenty minutes to find you)
you say that he'll hurt me
          (I'm an idiot, how could I do this)
like he did before
          (you were shouting and I was walking for both of us)
when I thought that I was wanted
          (I held you up by the shoulders
          I smelled ***** and you stumbled)
and he wanted, but not me
          (you stopped and cried, I had to make you keep walking)
I haven't decided what all this is yet
          (you say he'll hurt me, but
          seeing you hate me hurts more
          than anything he can say)
you could be right
you say that he'll hurt me
          (I let you smoke a cigarette
          I made you go to bed)
this could happen again
          (I dread the moment
          you walk out of your room
           tomorrow morning)
I could want him
he could want, but not me
          (I love you and I hear you and
          I won't let him hurt me)
I could be the body that holds the space
for the girl that outshines me
but I love you and I hear you
and I won't let him hurt me
          (please oh please don't wake up still angry)

my middle name is Mae
             I 'd lost it for a while

wondering
             "what's your middle name?"

as from a stranger
             "what's your middle name?"

"Mae."
             m  a  e   like the month
             but with an "e"

an "e" because
            I wear it for my
            great grandmother
            who shrugged off the
            "y" in the 30's

(I think)
            I'd lost it for a while
            I took it off
            I let it float away
            it felt a little tired

I needed it to be
            what it used to

But I'll wear it today
            an old dress
            from a distant summer
            a middle name

I'll keep it near
            hold it sacred
            lest I forget

those who wore it before me

I hold time
at the tips of my fingers
it twists and pulls
spinning away
all sinew and seconds
I reach
I grasp
it just slips away faster
it is solid and I am not
it passes through me
leaves me drowsy,
and regretting

thoughts, collecting
creating
birthing children of doubt;

they cry, they scream
and thoughts, though parents
disappear
and leave me with orphans
picking their feet and noses
smiling tirelessly

they have scared away sleep
and eyes wide open
I wait
for the children of doubt
to die like their parents
to dissipate and
leave
me
be

and I am better
I haven't been this happy
since I was too young

but there's a blank in the sentence
that makes up my mind

I thought "happy"
was the one that fit best
but maybe not

at a loss and with empty words

maybe I'm not meant
to find meaning this young

I am a child
I am barefoot
and I am wandering

I remember taking my time.
I remember patience.
I remember when meaning was something I assigned, not something I looked for.
I remember when my hair was gold and my eyes were blue and the smile on my face reflected truth.
I remember not needing.
I remember before I had to.
I remember when numbers, were numbers.
I remember when thoughts didn't have a page length.
I remember seeing what is, what was, before I was told to see this way, not that way.
I remember before all I could say about understanding was "I remember."
I remember understanding.
I remember not wishing I were somewhere else.

like liars
like spiders
like terrible habits

I'll come back
and I'll slip
silently
into terrible
likeness

nothing, only
I will be
ghosted
in opposite
I am a mirror
reflecting transparency

careful, taking
touching, I am
unnoticed, I will leave
footprints, imprints
tempers adjusted
and retinas
burned, branded
with blank spaces
empty, a vacancy

I am a mirror
I am invisible
I am taking everything that you ever loved

I'm thinking out of order
last things first,
the middle at the end.
help me stay alive
my eyes are open wide
images are blurred,
ideas, they collide

I'm hoping
that somehow
out of this
I can write out my
indecision and my crippling over-inspiration
beauty and detail
are leaves
shivering and sidling
up to me in the wind
trembling, and swiftly
only just out of my grasp
when i reach out to muse
upon their frail lace,
veins of understanding
an intricacy for which I am greedy

distractions are taking me
on paths I never desired
to walk
they're dark
and unfeeling
though endearing,
engulfing, whispering, promising

I find wonder
in nothings
diction is taking me
I am kidnapped
the ransom is specificity

I'm falling further
into impermanence
reaching for reality

the truth is held only by those
who bare no impressions
and leave none
behind

the fog lifts
and the heavens rise
from around our ankles
and takes with them
no one

Last summer, on my birthday, I received a card in the mail. Every year my grandma sends me some silly birthday card, I'm used to it. Last year, I turned 18. On the inside of the card along with the sentimental gilded text, was an explanation. My grandpa had picked out this card for me 12 years before, and for whatever reason, it never got sent. My grandpa died when I was 8. Now, 10 years later, I have one last card, sent from both grammi and grampi. I forgot to say "I love you," I forgot to say "goodbye." I can never go back.

I love you.

Goodbye.

I wish there had been more, maybe an "it's okay, you forgot." An "of course I heard you, I'm here." An "I love you."

An
"I'll come back and meet my other granddaughter."

A story.

Something.

I have a card, and a transformer stopwatch (long broken), a tiny box (that used to hold a wooden beetle with moving legs, but no longer), and a memory of a smile.

I lost the pocket knife.

I forgot his voice.

I miss the pens in his shirt pocket. I miss playing pickup sticks. I miss him playing the piano, and letting me ruin it, pressing the keys. I miss him reading me stories. Over and over, as many times as I wanted.

I miss the absent look he got when he was thinking about something else entirely.

I miss when he forgot about veterans day.

I remember him, dying, stuck in a bed, drinking water through a sponge (it was one of the most terrifying things I've ever had to watch). He never lost his mind, or his memory, he lost his body first.
The last thing he said to me was "you be a good girl."
The last thing I said was "I will" (and I hid behind my mothers back, while she said "We love you").

Sorry Grandpa,
I'm not perfect.
And that's probably not
what you meant

He knew he would never see me again.
I had no idea. (Why was that the last thing he said?)

He was a composer.
Two weeks before he died (that's also the first time I cried for him), someone arranged to have a symphony play his music for the first time in concert. They drove my grandpa to the concert hall in an ambulance. That's a gift no one will ever live up to. I wish I'd gone.

He was one of the most amazing people I've ever known,
and I didn't even realize it until after he was gone.

I'd give almost anything to have a conversation with you.

Goodbye.

I love you.

Goodbye.

I love you.

Goodbye.

I love you.

I wish you were still here.

Two Christmases ago, my grandma started crying while we were singing silent night, because Chuck wasn't there to sing bass. We were missing only one part, and no one could replace it.

I wonder if there are recordings of him talking, just talking somewhere.
I'd like to hear them.

I wish I could have sung with my grandpa, Christmas carols, anything.

Goodbye.

I love you.

if I could write beautifully
I could weave words into your hair
like flowers
I could make you summer
out of spaces and letters
I could be an alchemist.

it's 1:03
in the morning
and i'm so cold
my skin
looks like lace
i'm frozen
numb at the fingertips,
nails blue.
i'm reduced
to this: splinters
and a shuddering
ribcage

this is a different kind of starving

I might be
    the lines under my eyes
    racing each other down my face
    and dreaming of being beautiful

I might be
    an ant stuck in paint
    suffocated, confused,
    hopelessly devoted,
    but ultimately wrong

I might be
    moths in a stairwell
    predisposed to believe that a flickering
    wall lamp is the one and only sun
    then repeatedly flying into it

The whole point of running in circles is giving up.

a while ago,
I stopped picking up pennies
on the ground
with the thought in mind
that it would be kinder
to leave them
for someone in more need
of luck than me.
and just a day ago,
I saw a penny that I hadn't
picked up.
on the ground,
ten feet from where it had been
a week before;
in the middle of a major walkway,
it sat neglected, dejected,
scratched and worn.
it's the pennies that need pennies.

all i want
really, all i want
is someone to tell me i'm beautiful
who will hold me and
remind me that I matter
who will take me somewhere new
and say "see?"
who will accept me
though i'm not at my best
who will wake me up in the morning
and kiss my forehead
because it's saturday
and i've found
that all i want
really, all i want
is far too much

there are days when time is too much
when mornings are aeons and evenings are millennia
watch fingers mindlessly forage for cigarettes
hands shaking watch them pull up socks
fix hat
push stay hairs out of face
mind runs wild
and hands like spiders
and then it's tomorrow
there are days when time is too much
when mornings are moments and evenings are wisps smoke
passing through consciousness and into the night

my life
has been colored,
painted, drawn. erased,
torn and thrown away,
lost and then found.
I like it that way.

I no longer write poems
I write lists
I write thoughts
I write myself with symbols
that we are conditioned
to recognize
as something meaningful; beautiful

nothing I make
is pretty, nice, beautiful anymore
I just make a picture
and hope there's something of me in it
then I wait until someone says it means something
I stopped making decisions; from now on, only conclusions

I found a leaf
I drew on it
for an hour I was inspired to make something beautiful
I made it for you
I was afraid and I kept it
first I pinned it to my desk
then it fell, because it was fall
I lost it. When I found it in my laundry pile,
it was broken, and torn.
I can't help but thinking;
maybe that's why I'm confused.
I can't tell, maybe I'm hurt
maybe I'm a leaf.

inspiration:
a collection of thoughts/papers/dreams.
with missing letters/words

I stay up for hours
filling in the blanks

I need __.  

circle one: (you/help/coffee/a cigarette/sleep)

this is why I shouldn't be here:
I'm not ready for this
I'm like a cup of tea
my ideas are steeping
they aren't ready to be drunk
by the unrelenting eyes of others

when I find myself doing what
I was sure 4 months ago
is what I love (creating manipulating and destroying)
I can only think about being somewhere else
thinking about something else entirely

I thought I'd love this place
and I do
or maybe I love the idea of being here
I love the idea that this is what I could be doing
this isn't what I'm doing
I can't be here
1) because I'm not
2) because I'm scared of what would happen if I were

I sincerely believe that I should wake up now