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.

save breath for later
lungs in a tupperware
container
ziplock baggies full
of sounds
the ones, the words
I'm too tired to make

hang my eyelids
on the clothesline
to dry, leave the weight
behind

pull all my teeth
plant them in the ground
grow some new ones
place them in my mouth
and let them fall out
that's not how to smile

I wait
I wonder why
the life
       blood
has stopped
flowing from my
hands

I am a sapling in winter
stunted
frozen
brittle

I miss this
the photosynthesis

the static whisper
between paper
and finger

smudges
scorches

come spring
come forth

and I am a tree

you are a pause

you are the second
before the air raid
an anticipation so loud it's deafening

you are the stillness, the static,
pins and needles between lightening
and thunder. 1. . . 2 . . . 3. . .

you are the heartbeat, last blink
separating bullet and flesh
crescent cuts bleed from empty hands

you are red lights. stop
knuckles white through a
raindropped windshield

you are elevators
early morning coffee stains
shifting eyes. look away.

you are the dead air
on a faraway radio station
bent antenna. turn the dial. silence

you are the needle
on that half broken phonograph
sidling arthritically away, back to sleep

you are the skip a beat
nervous lip bitten hesitation, envelope stamped
staring into the letter box. just let go

you are punctuation. . .

you are the hyphen
splitting words in two
leaving lonely nothings on different pages

you are 0:00

you are the force that
draws our eyes together
if only for an instant

the professor
name's John, I think
every day a goatee
a ponytail
and an honest smile
brings me flowers
sometimes.
pays in nickels
sometimes.
"have an easy day"
he says to me

man in the same brown
suit, mismatching
every day
coffee, hunched over
with something under
his arm
sometimes.
never seen him speak
just a scowl
and a solemn shuffle

the owner
of the bar next door
I think.
out for a cigarette
every 30 minutes or so
or move his car
he gets our mail
sometimes.
glasses on his forehead
never on his face
always a fleeting
noncommittal smile
pacing past the door
sly eyes.

there's the guy
stuck in the 70s.
every day
bell bottoms
a black bowl cut
it's a wig
I think.
a leather jacket
sometimes.
walks like he owns
the sidewalk
he doesn't.

the old man
the half-blind one
orders the same thing
always.
with his walker
his hands searching
haven't seen him
in a while

the big guy from
the burger place
across the street
no, not the famous one
the other place.
took his suggestion
got a burger
wasn't very good
but he's always so
cheery, gotta be nice

the one guy
blue shorts guy
stops by during his
run, to check
the selection.  back
an hour later in
pants and
a jacket now.
never buys a thing
wearing those blue shorts

the woman with
oddly spaced teeth
and hair
the short witchy kind
lots of shawls
and oversized tote bags
and cargo-capri's.
complained of
an allergic reaction
once
to god knows what.
keeps coming back though

a mother and son
mother, tired.
ten year old
private school boy
asks for too much
and too many questions
"did you make this?"
"are you really 20?"
"do you go to school?"
he asks so many questions
"yes, yes, no."
"why not?"
"well…"
mom saves me
distracts him away

the poor skinny one
the homeless man.
ill-fitting clothes
always.
women's
sometimes.
begging, cigarettes and money
has a tic, says
"hello! hi! hello!"
every few seconds
he's very persistent.
and very polite.
gracefully insane, I'd say

you didn't tell me
about off-color lights
or storm drains so deep
that echoes can't find me

you didn't tell me how the summer
is warm to touch
but would scald my feet one day

you didn't tell me how the ocean
would show me the curve of the earth
would show me the tides
but then sweep me away
when I'm not looking
and lose me to the undertow

you didn't tell me that this
is all I have
and all I can ever know
but it means nothing

you didn't tell me to cover my ears
if life got too loud

you didn't tell me how to land on my feet
or stand back up
or how not to fall

you didn't tell me I had to wait
for better things to come
or that they usually don't

you didn't tell me that something
that's one thing
could be another thing altogether

you didn't tell me that closing my eyes
won't make it stop
or go away

you didn't tell me that I won't ever have a voice
or that you never did

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

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

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.

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

I hear a truck backing up in the distance
that droning, desolate
isolated
a sound so repetitive it's invisible
in-audible
sorry
diction is failing me
I might be drunk
I miss you
I miss you so much
and you're not even gone
well, I guess you're not here
but you aren't even gone

I found a photo of you
I'm packing
I finally started packing
three days before I move
I found a photo of you
from a while ago
before you left that note in my sketchbook
I need to leave a note in your sketchbook
you should probably know how I feel
you should probably know that even though
I may be distant and confusing and quiet but too loud
all I really need you to know
is that I want you
I want you
like I want summer to stay with me forever
I want you
and you think I don't know what I want

anyway, I found a photo
of you
smiling
and *******
why isn't this easier?
smiling
you don't have to say anything
just smile
please
please please
just be with me
a little bit longer
don't leave
just stay in bed
just look at me
like you're still sleeping
(and you are, I'm sure)
and smile
so I know

so I know
finally
for just a little bit longer

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.

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 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.

are you gonna leave me hanging?
that's not a question I can ask
but I'm hanging
you tied fishing line to all my bones
and now I'm ******* hanging
you pull the strings now

and hours later
you walked me home
I wasn't that drunk
but I guess I am holding myself up
with my palms right now
so I don't fall flat on my face

and here I lose
the comfort of metaphor
(well, the stanza before)

I only do it
(get stupid beautiful wish-worthy drunk)
so these questions
these nagging doubts
these nightmares
will stop

but you don't
you keep showing up
everywhere
so they don't

and I wonder why
with a question mark
why I keep wishing
why I keep playing this
semblance of life in my mind
over and over and over:
where you want me
where you can't live without me

hopeless
I'm hopeless
because I hope
endlessly that you
will never let go of me

because for three years
I couldn't let go of you
I can't let go of you

I know that's wrong
that my words are toxic
that recognition would ruin everything
and still
I can't quit wanting
can't quit smoking
can't quit drinking
can't quit you

but don't leave
please don't leave
don't let me scare you
cos I'm scared too

you showed up
right at the wrong time
really, the exact moment

I forgive you
I salute you
for taking the liberty of asking
when I was too weak to

we could be happy
but then again we can't be
I know this is hard
I know how this feels
(you did it to me)

this is torture
for both of us
I promise

I know this is tough
I understand your reluctance
but I also know
that you can see
what you're doing to me
so if you're gonna **** up my life
the least you can do is be in it

you wrote to me
"are you single?"

"sorry for being so blunt"

when I was little, back when things were as they appeared to be, I had a favorite music box.
there were three on the antique vanity in the master bedroom. there was the silver one, decorated with stars. sounded tinny and abrasive. it had a lid that made the music stop. and feet I remember it had three little feet. there was the wooden one. a fancy box with a fancy building painted over the lid. it opened on hinges to reveal all the tiny metal gears moving behind a pane of glass, making music with sharp metal parts. then there was the black jewelry box, with a red velvet inside. the mechanism was old and slow, would sometimes drift off before the key unwound. this one was my favorite. it played the saddest song I'd ever heard. sometimes though, it wouldn't play unless I moved the parts myself, but that never stopped me. it was the saddest song I'd ever heard, and I would listen to it over and over and over until one day it stopped making any sound at all. when I got a little older, I fixed it, took it apart and found what made it stop. and it still shudders and falters, slowly and fades away, like it can't remember how to play.
it's still the saddest song I've ever heard.
it stays the same.
it plays the same.
it fails the same.
it ties me down.
I need it now.

"so I'm single"

"I'm fine all is well"

"it wasn't fair to her"

can't get the tune out of my head now.
I miss it starting, slowing, resonating, stopping.
a drop of DW-40
a careful nudge
it speaks of me
that my idea of consistency
solidarity
is an unreliable music box.
never know when it'll play
but when it does, it plays the same.

"what are you doing tonight?"

"still in a relationship then?"

"man, I'm an *******"

*I need a melancholy music box tune
the saddest song I've ever heard
tie me down
hold me
and I can hold on too
otherwise I might float away
or fall to the floor.
everything was so good.
and now I can't be sure that I won't do something stupid
that I won't pull the the block from the bottom of the tower
I need the saddest song I've ever heard
to keep separate
what I want
what makes sense
and what is good.

you gave me "I love you"
and I told you to put it on the table
with the rest of the gifts

it's not that I don't want it
I just have to push a few of my doubts
out of the way to make room
I just have to deserve it

I would thank you
but I was told not to do that
I'm sorry I had nothing to give
I never do
that's why I'm confused

you gave me "I love you"
I guess now it's mine
if only I could understand.
and when I do
I can return it to you

this is the one time it's okay
to regift to the same person

I am a temporary installation

                                 they--
                                 don't know who
                                 don't know what

will someday take me down
                              
                             ­    and disassemble me
                                 and put me away
                                 under the ground

make room for the new ones

I am a self-constructed
statue

bear the label
"human being"

just that.

sometimes, when I'm in a crowded place
and the voices just get too loud
I just wanna leave. in that moment of
panic
I wanna walk away
just turnaround walkaway
and never come back
go find a rock somewhere
in front of the ocean
and I wanna just sit there and smoke like
six cigarettes

but I never do
I just let my eyes cloud over
and cringe at the peak
of every over-rehearsed laugh

sometimes it gets so bad
I grind my teeth til my bones hurt
like, on the inside

like when my dad told me today
"you know, you should try making more eye contact with people"
and I nearly lost it
I swear my teeth are still humming
and I try to tell him why without crying
and he doesn't understand
and he keeps trying to catch my eye

don't try to help me
and for god's sake don't
please don't
try to ******* fix me

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

if i wrote for you
a million metaphors
i think still
we'd have a miscommunication
because this is gonna take
a lot more than ideas
a lot more than time

i was so **** tired
an hour and a half ago
i didn't have dinner
correction: i don't have dinner

what am i?
if i were okay i'd be asleep
god, why does hunger
have to hurt so bad

the space between
my shoulder blades
is burning up
my neglect for basic human needs
stays lodged in my throat
head pounding
teeth clenched
trying to hold on to
what i have left of exhaustion

please
sleep

you asked: "we're doing
something for Valentine's Day,
right?" I blinked. "uh, sure."

sorry about that.
I've just never really not
been single before.

surprise. up until
now, 'til you, I'd pegged myself
as "undateable."

I thank you for not
seeing what I see in me--
but what do you see?

I don't like what life has made me
but I like what you have made me

I don't like to believe that anyone can change me
but I like what you have made me

I don't like that I'm blind and lazy
but I like what you have made me

I wish our lives weren't so far apart
so vastly different
you're a tough one
I learned to read people
before I learned to read books
and your face is a foreign language

I wish you weren't so, I don't know,
somewhere else
you'll disappear, vanish for days
you stay with me but leave so early
that my eyes are still adjusting to morning
as you step out the door

I wish that you would talk to me
that you would tell me who you are
because I don't know who you are
not at all, I just know
that if I did, I would like you
and so I like you

I wish when I was with you
when we're drinking
I could just shut the **** up
just for a minute
I might hear you wondering in silent volumes
like I know you do

you're like that one thing
that I have so close I can feel a pulse
but that I just can't hold on to
and I'm afraid, so scared I can't sleep
that I won't be able to hold on to you

and what if I can't hold on?
what if I was wrong?
what if you're just like them?
the other ones
the parade of dead-weight wastes
deflated infatuations
that tie me to the ground
and turn my eyes down

but this wasn't a sad poem
I'm sorry. let me tell you
I don't like how much being takes out of me
but I like what you have made me

I saw a girl today
on the bus today
she was beautiful
in a  broken-a-little-bit-too-young
kind of way

her face a beacon
a mast rising above a restless sea

she was beautiful
musta been about 16
I saw for a second
fleeting, the child she coulda been

a cheap haircut
ill-fitting jeans
but she was beautiful
a story worth telling

and I couldn't tell her
no, not a single word

I know that I belong to the ocean

that I belong to the gray
to the ankle deep foam
to the barnacles that cut tiny feet
as they scurry, searching for tide pools
to the miles and miles of sand and stones
and plastic memories of boat parties
to the age old trees washed up like whales
as dead as whales
to the treacherous rocks
jutting out, the bones of the earth
that are islands when the moon says so
to the things that live just out of sight
to the pebbles and shells in hands and pockets
to the cold that bites in the crashing waves
the mist of watery knives, cutting at my face
the seaweed pulling me down
the riptide stealing me out to sea

to the ocean, the ocean
alive beyond the sum of it's parts

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

"just don't break his heart"
they say

that's not going to be a problem,
I think

"I won't, I'll try not to"

but I won't
I'll never be the girl
who wrenches you in two

because even if I tried
even if I wanted to
(and I really don't want to)
I would be the one to break
I'd shatter on impact
I'm just not strong enough
to break your heart
the glue I used to patch myself up
the first, second, and last time
doesn't stay too well
I worked quickly
so he one, two, and three wouldn't see

I don't want any trouble
it's no one's fault but mine
for throwing fragile things
at walls dressed as men

I don't want anyone to think
to know that they broke me
so if you want me to go
I'll go without a fuss
although I might steal
some duct tape on the way out

I'd rather be taped-up-heart broken and lonely
than knowing I am the one
holding you back

the skinny beggar man
stands across the street
his hands open for lack of words
his knees and words falter-- stutter
next to him
a middle-aged lady
impatiently presses the crosswalk button
every day that I'm here
I see him. greeting
pleading, thanking
leaving, head hanging
and repeating
just for loose change
today he is wearing a shirt that
in big gothic letters
reads "royalty"
and I smile.
he is.
he is the king of frantic hellos
he is the king of pointy, unkempt hair
he is the king of politely harassing
he is the king of asking for what you can spare
he is the king of your reluctance, your refusal
he is the king of disappointed gestures
he is the king of gracefully moving on
he is the king of Piedmont Avenue

it's a brown paper bag poetry kind of day --
one of those with multitudes of foggy fleeting
passive agressive hypotheticals

and I realize, that all I have to share
are half-assed transcriptions
of an intangible boredom
only born of a self-inflicted state of stagnation

this isn't a poem.
but my guess is that you're
indifferent anyway

my guess is that the words are
flowing through you
passing right through
no time to sink in

no, people like me
thoughts like mine
they're so tired
used up -- old news
no, we don't stick

you'll forget soon enough
what it is that brought you here
to this place
of tired hypotheticals

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 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

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

you know, it's mornings like these...
lonely mothers on a bus
a man whose expression says less than I do
forlorn looks, contagious
passing from face to face
on air so thick like syrup
leaving impatient hands and eyes
sticky with fatigue

and comfort I take
for granted with ease
but on mornings like these...

out a window
I pick a fight
with an absent god
he stares back

and wary feet carry me here
I've never seen a place like this
so many people, their minds
somewhere else or maybe sleeping
they don't want to be here
who think of nothing but
what they don't have
and where they aren't

I pass my own eyes
a symptom of stillness--
the disease that kills itself
on mornings like these...

this is a place dead and thriving
a city hope-barron, bustling
blank, blank faces
float on a restless breeze

moving, always moving
but going nowhere

this ghost town abandoned
yes, but no one ever left

I'm lost hungry and broke
I'm eating a 3 dollar sandwich
on the front steps of a bank
and chain smoking
I missed my bus
it's raining
passively
on my hands

I need a lot of things these days
and I have a lot of doubts
but nothing's changing
and nothing's getting better

I dropped out of school
I'm regretting a lot of things these days
but not that

pay my rent
keep my shoes tied
remember to eat and bathe
when I can

misplace and forget
nausea
exhaustion

I choke down my sanity
with a glass of water
every morning
the pills, the dependance
that's what makes me nauseous
and the cigarettes, the coffee, the whiskey
those too
like I said, the dependance

I'm not alone
and I'm not lonely
but my hands are cold
and my bed is colder

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 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)

I can feel my patience
fading away
frustration with cold
and loud
and hot
and waiting
and hunger
I started tapping my
feet and fingers again
unrest for the weary
doubts and happiness
equally fleeting
disproportionately
resonating
through caverns
vast to hold
worlds
I have not maintained
patience falls ill
patience dies
patience waits for no one

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

she's the woman who
looks like summer
in another country

unheard lines
words
resting on her lips

hands that
carried too many scripts
never to read

only see

she's an actress

although here she never speaks

shoe fell out of a
stroller
I pause
I take a minute
"ma'am, I think you lost
a shoe"    pick it up
hand it back
"thank you"
continue walking

missed the bus
again
by a minute

unstoppable.
our being
is unstoppable.
being like when
you look up from life
from your absorption
just until a blink--
you look up and find
another looking back
and being is the split second
where every potential
exists at once
between you
and locked
in the gaze of two strangers.

I woke up at 5 am
couldn't fall back asleep

I keep thinking I wish
I woke up
before the sun
I could do so many things

I like my time alone.

but I did nothing.
I got the time I wanted
and I ------- threw it away
like my -------- life
you know the one I
didn't want
the one that everyone else
wanted for me
the one  that everyone
else wants.

I'm a pathological pushover.

I wish I had wasted my time better.

you were a fair distraction
I kept you close
I knew you'd stay and
wait for me to reach to you
and I thought I was an empty promise
I thought I was cruel

I kept you closer
I stayed my distance
we were so different

I said yes
and still empty

but now…

now the little things
the things that swim in
and through all my moments
blinding me daydream
by daydream

you might save me
just by being
I'm afraid of this
of falling too far

I can't stop
your eyelids
the tiny gap in your teeth
your stepping stone vertebrae
your immaculate jawline

you
are a whisper from the top of a well
faintly echoing
all the way down
to me

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.

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.

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.

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 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