Sometimes I think
I could really like
Someone,
but then 2 to 3 weeks
go by,
and as I get to know who
Someone is,
I remember Someone
isn't You,
and my heart is
so chock-full of
like for You
there ain't no room
for Someone,
for someone else.

I sat hard-pressed against
the plastic seat on the Metro,
green line to Branch Ave,
feeling the heat
of all the dozens of bodies that surrounded me,
5:30 PM and everyone
making headway for home after a
long, hot work day.
The swampy humidity
clung to my arms like sticky tack.
I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my
blazer
and listened to some 90s
R & B on my iPod as I
c
o
u
n
t
e
d
d
o
w
n
the exits till I could
free               myself      from
the suffocating crowd.
It was no day that was even remotely extraordinary,
no life-changing series of events,
no incredible people I had met;
nope, just commuting back to the SE quadrant of
town as I had
every day that summer.
I looked up and took
a snapshot with my mind;
I remember exactly
how that sliver of time
felt to me,
how it looked,
smelledsoundedtasted
as I realized my days in D.C. had begun to feel
like the norm,
that I had grown accustomed to the
claustrophobic train cabins,
the repetitive street names,
and
10% sales tax.
So suddenly there was this
catastrophic
timeturning
momentous magnanimous monumental magic
of the most mundanely minuscule moment,
as ordinary crawled up my veins
and absorbed me in it.
Somehow
squeezed.in.between
the rush-hour,
the annoyance, impatience, and near-suffocation
felt like
home.

And somehow I have
slipped into a state where
my dreams were realities and
my realities will be my dreams...

There's something so
delicious
about getting caught
in a summer storm,
the chilled water droplets
penetrating the outer layers
of clothing,
soaking the overheated body
with unexpected
refreshment.

I heard all the squeals
and screams,
cries toward the sky
to close its open mouth,
to stop spitting down
on them
as they ran,
ducking cars,
looking for a rooftop
makeshift
umbrella.

I chortled
not so discreetly,
extending my arms
side to side
to catch the droplets
on my bare skin.

The rain felt so ****
as it slid down
my forehead,
slipping
slowly
across my lips,
sneaking down below,
into the crew cut
of my shirt.

Two blocks away from home,
most of the runners had run by,
the rest huddling below
the entrance to various shops
and bars,
I walked by, paying the stares no mind,
sporting a purported
half-crazed look,
while I truly exuded
exuberance,
ebullience,
liveliness.

The pouring
turned to
pittering, pattering,
gentle kisses from the
beads,
letting up just as I
approached my door,
like the universe knew,
and it let me
dance home
in the rain
before the sky shut its
wide-toothed grin,
and the storm was gone.

My life constitutes of
a dichotic shift as I
drift
between
a state of self-assuredness
and self loathing.

When I am assured
I am sure
that my eyes are a
golden brown,
my smile whitened and straightened
with perfectly painted lips.
My eyelashes curl upward
as I give you my most intriguing smirk,
inducing you into giving me
those copies for free
and saying "Ay girl"
as I cross the street.
My jeans hug my hourglass figure
like a girl from a video,
and the compliments find themselves
going my way.
My brain swells with
knowledge and an almost-eery insight
as I predict your admiration
and find myself compensating as to
not appear
ostentatious.
I hold myself with the highest regard and
refuse to let a man
make me feel inferior,
to judge me by my exterior because
I am superior to that
treatment.
My wit is quick and
you can bet I'll put a
Slick Rick in his
place if he is even fit to
keep up with my pace.

But then again
I look at him and see
him frowning at my
symmetrical, but overly round
face,
thinking that there might
be other ladies in this place
with a smaller frame,
with a flat stomach and
a tame sense of style,
not a fedora or Timberland boots or a beanie,
not someone who cackles when
she laughs
and talks even more loudly and
obnoxiously than she chuckles.
I'm not smooth enough to
keep your attention as
my obsession with Harry Potter accidentally
gets disclosed,
as I feel my skin-diseased cheeks
bleeding through their concealer and bronzer mask.
A law school degree sounds boring and
braggy as I grasp
at straws, at my only backup source of comfort,
as I attempt to woo you with my brain because
you clearly aren't into a size ten.
You glance out of the sides
of your eyes as you buy me a drink,
or you tell me you aren't
ready for a relationship
even though we've been
sleeping together for a year;
"it's just not you, it's me"
is what I finagle
as a girl named Hailey
posts a picture of you with
your arm around her size two
waist and top-heavey Double D's.
I let down all of my walls and
you forget my birthday,
and I stay devastated over you long
enough for you to
forget my name.

I'm two-in-one;
I'm confidently lacking in confidence and
disapprovingly disapprove of
anyone's opinion of me
but my
own.

I love the sound
of fresh papers
as they come
crinkling and
crackling out of
the package,

the aroma
of citrus and earth,
sweet smelling grass,

the sensation
of stickiness,
dulled spikes
of fresh stems,

the sight
of red orange flames
lapping up
crisp white paper,
of translucent
gray smoke
whisping
out of the small
opening of a pipe's mouthpiece,

the taste
of wisdom, sage, and ash,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my lungs
and brain
full of poetic fumes;

I love to break
you
down,
roll you up,
set you ablaze,
and
inhale
you,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my heart
and brain
full of poetic fumes.

I love to
get
high
off you;

I don't want
to
ever
get
clean.

Let's
roll
another.

I'm on a strict diet of
red wine and smoke
as I train for a marathon
of loneliness, self-discovery, and
moving on.

Letting you go was crushing,
and I still fight the
urge at least once a day
to unblock your number
just so I can say hello.

Nearly everything takes me back to you,
whether it's a sunset I know you'd cherish
or a poem I know you'd
want to analyze with me.
You live in the tree's green leaves
and in the smiles of strangers.
I feel you next to me as I
toss and turn in my bed,
and I smell you in the candles
that are supposed to soothe me.

It seems cruel that you can't be around,
and my heart often
threatens my head for *******
a good thing up.
But the good I had with you
was bad for me,
and I know I need to let myself
be broken so that I can
one day be full again.

I'm on a strict diet of
red wine and smoke
as I replace the love I have for you
with love I'm finding of and
for myself.

Gazing down
on sleepy towns,
transparent sky,
high above

Down below are the workers,
the daughters,
the smokers,
the bank robbers

On I soar,
hearing the jet engine roar,
and thousands of feet beneath,
the partiers are still drowning in
deep sleep

Flying by
as lovers exchange a kiss,
a lonely man cries,
a doctor mending a broken wrist

Downward gazing,
burnouts blazing,
artists creating,
blooming vegetation,
streets full of
imagination, fascination,
devastation,  miscalculations,
faces, races, places, nations;

Peering down from the heavens;
the view is
amazing.

Sometimes after I've
Had a drink or two,
Or a few more,
I convince myself that I can
Find what I want
In the superficial distractions,
Building my ego in faked conversations,
Pretending to be the careless girl
I've never really been able to be,
But pass me one more beer
So I can text every other
Y-chromosome in my phone
And pretend the meaningless
Exchange of dialogue
Even minimally replaces the gross
Urge I repress
To send you the stifled sonnets
That lay dormant at the pit of
My suppression.

It was a Saturday night somewhere where'bouts
December the 10th of 2012;
okay, fine, I can't recall the exact date, but that's not
the point
of this;
it's so much less bout the whens and whys and so much more
bout the whats, the what the **** it was.
And it was so good.
It was just a December night
in my windowless bedroom,
and I know it was a Saturday
for sure
because Daddy was picking me
up
at 9 o'clock on the ******* dot
because that Sunday was game day,
and we needed to get to Indy in time
to swallow down some Medium Rare burgers
before kickoff.
Anyway, so yeah,
Saturday night in my cave of a bedroom,
the only light that broke the darkness's
arrogant foreground
was the iridescent glow of the four
lavender and ocean scented candles I had placed
on the shelf by my desk,
seemingly casual enough,
but nothing I ever do is actually casual,
and it never was casual with you,
as much as I may have pretended.
It was all calculated, all culminated, all animated and anticipated,
*******, yeah, I laid out the whole set up
with the candles and the music and the glow,
like a perfectly **** setting.
But it turned out after it all that it wasn't that
sexiness I thought I wanted
that hit me so hard in the gut.
It was us, sitting there on my bed
side-by-side,
bodies close enough that we were almost touching,
like I could feel the body heat from your
perfectly built arms,
but I didn't actually feel the silkiness
that was your caramel skin
against my ivory.
Nope. No touching, for once
it really wasn't about that,
not even in the slightest.
We just sat and gabbed and laughed and
cried and squealed and
joked and concluded and pondered
and on and on
and
on
it went,
our bodies every so often readjusting
their positions on my white comforter with the black
flowers,
and I really just knew you in those moments
and you I
and it was like there was no clock
no time
no morning early rising committed plans
to the outside world,
because that realm ceased to exist as
you laughed in baritone
and told me funny stories about football and your friends
and then tragedies
about a mom that never loved you right
and a dad you never knew except for
the drugs and
his lack of
presence.
And there I went telling
you about when I got kicked off the team
and the one time
I got beat up
and other secrets I never knew I would
tell anyone and somehow
on it went as we were spiraling into
the abyss full of
everything we have ever needed, wanted, desired,
fears no longer fearful
and hurt set loose;
somehow I frantically reached for my phone
realizing that we just
made an entire night of conversating
and falling into something
that could be that word I won't
use because I ain't entirely sure,
but ****, my Dad was 20 minutes away,
you couldn't stay,
and I think I just
yeah,
I'll say it,
cuz I really think that night
I fell
in love.

It’s 5:04 AM, as I lie awake going on hour number two.
I dreamt of you,
As I often do.

I always awake with a jolt,
The tangibility of your simulated self
Jarring,
My senses overstimulated as if we had touched for real.

When I ponder on you, on memories of us
In my conscious mind,
I have a difficult time stringing together
The details of you,
Years apart having left your image
Grainy and unfocused, although effervescent.

Yet when my eyes close,
You make your way clear into focus,
Every detail of your physical and spiritual form so vivid
As if I’m really experiencing you,
As if you’re dreaming of me too,
And we’ve actually escaped to another reality
Where nothing has changed or faded.

Is this where we now reside?
The current version of us is no longer compatible with the software of reality,
Our data kept in the cloud
Where dreams are stored.

It isn’t real in the realness of reality,
But it’s so vivid, more lucid than a lucid dream,
That I can’t shake the feeling that I’m experiencing the real you
In the only form I’m now able to download.

Melodies come whisping out
of my speaker,
engulfing my mind with a haze
almost as thick
as the one I just
inhaled, clouding my brain
with all the thoughts I push away
in my attempts to live my
individual,
unlonely life
when the depth of my soul hankers
for the carnation blooming
at the deepest depths
of your confused persona,
and the moment I find my heart
scrambling free,
reaching for its life in the midst
of gathering strength to likely break
another, you come around
one more moment,
and the springs I loaded beneath
my quivering ankles,
they unlock and unload,
melting me right back into your
rhythm and blues,
and I inhale that curiosity,
snorting and convulsing,
shivering hard against my uncontrollable
goose-bumped arms
as I fall back into your chorus
and verse three
repeats the reprise
of the
first verse
I ever heard.

Sometimes I find
myself
hard-pressed
to separate
dreams from reality,
living deep in the
fantasy world,
I lose myself,
too dark to see,
blinded by the
pitch black,
I try to feel my way out,
but even once I emerge,
you are the light,
and I again
become consumed,
swallowed whole by
the brightness,
you are the light, and it's
impossible to deny
how easy it is
for my soul to vacate
my body and fly to you,
like Icarus flying toward
the sun.

Grandma Clarice,
or Chub as I prefer to call her,
is tough as nails.

All 90 pounds of her on her
not-even-five-feet-tall-frame,
she always told the funniest jokes,
and her laugh was one of
those laughs
that just
              reverberated so warm against your
                       eardrums,
contagious like the
common cold,
you couldn't help but catch it.

Chub always made the best pies,
any kind your gluttonous mind could
imagine:
cherry, blueberry, apple, peach, lemon chiffon, anything creamed;
don't get me wrong,
my mama inherited the gene,
her peach pie my absolute favorite
in the summertime,
but still,
mama learned from the master, and Chub was
the master indeed.

Chub was witty,
she was poised,
she was so many things that I
don't even feel like I ever really have figured out
what all she was, she is.
But I can't deny the
memories I have of Chub
smiling
as I played Christmas tunes on the piano,
looking collected and cool as she
whipped up another perfect meal,
her voice inquisitive as she
asked me about school,
the teacher in her proud yet astute.

Chub can't remember anymore,
but I remember for her,
the laughter, the
impeccable odors wafting from her all-white kitchen,
the late night games of Rummikub,
that tough-as-nails Chub who will always
exist in my
memories.

And still,
in the complete silence,
the universe
whispers your
name
and I
stretch out my fingertips,
searching for
you in the
overwhelming

darkness.

Of the two lamps in the room,
my glassy eyes can only tolerate the dimmed glow
of the lower light from the right,
my face basking in the slowly rotating,
barely blowing air from the fan above me.
My face feels flushed,
but not from the semi-sticky early summer heat,
but from the fact that
every time I come back to this room,
I'm reminded of why I left.

The lawyer in me could generate a list,
pros longer than any construction of cons,
yet your name will always reverberate
in the unforgotten corners of my subconscious.

You never loved me like I did you,
and even my romanticized version of you never
saw me the way I
still feel the ghost of you.

I can still feel the crisp fall air from your balcony
and recall the albums and conversations that
complete the track list
of my unrequited love story.

Sometimes it was real,
sometimes it's real,
sometimes it's a dream,
sometimes it's a memory.

And this is the essence of you and me;
it's more questions than answers,
smoke and mirrors and
smoking to make things clearer.

I've never been the same
since you,
but I also don't know how I can ever
get over someone I never really had.

You were mine in microcosms
that were macro extraterrestrial galactic;

was it real?
were we real or
was it all [science] fiction?

I enjoy the way the pink spring breeze
grazes my rouged cheeks.
Though a little chilly,
a thrift store sweatshirt squeezes
back against my body,
shielding overwhelming brisk.

Jermaine's voice trickles between my eardrums,
but I pause a moment,
words of howdy, hello,
"Oh," I breathe, "yes, I couldn't
remain inside another minute!"
The hey's and hello's,
those are the chords of C, of G,
and, strange though,
how sometimes I prefer a flat or sharp.

Some chords though harsh at first taste,
they stew on the tongue,
relinquish sweet, succulent juice at last;
sweet reward,
satisfying relief.

I feel the grin stretch, slink
across my canvas,
the reverberations of a cackle,
boisterously beating against
my far-from-hollowed chest,
for full it feels,
full it is,
filled with filling full
of warmth, light, fulfilling fulfillment.

There is merely of tiny moments
a collection,
most prized,
as if I had begun many moons ago,
knowing did I do before I knew,
gathering each grain to
make a beach,
each blade of green,
making a lawn of bluegrass,
with a sprinkle of a flower or two;
deep within self,
collecting,
gathering
to now feel stillness,
& admire that treasure.

I gaze intently ahead,
streaks of magenta, a citrusy jaune,
(yellow of course),
juicy orange,
dripping into a soft
periwinkle,
reminding me of play dates,
chocolate chip cookies,
only the special, secret recipe
on special occasions,
today, could you be one,
every day, an occasion
to taste the secret recipe,
soft chocolatey, dangerously delicious,
melting into my tongue?
This sunset,
tranquil spring night,
oh how it tastes,
smells of the endless possibilities,
special occasions.

So wise, rich with knowledge,
how the recent past has left
me
saged with experience,
yet energy & zest,
of youthfulness,
I sigh outwards,
hard;
breathe in the wonder.

Family, friends, lovers,
neighbors, coworkers, classmates,
father, mother,
sister, brother;
the world uncoils, unfolds
like watching from the outside,
yet exploding within,
I burst outward.

My mind, oh does it race,
faster I am sure than
any body could carry.
It bends, twists,
molds, sinks, festers,
bubbles,
boom, pop, trickle,
it goes.

Creating art,
that is all we do.

I hear that sweet voice,
a melody of its own,
whispering secrets of past pain
and future plans;
I hold them all dearly, as
dearly can exist.

Strum my emotions,
pluck my thoughts,
slide down my dreams,
pick my desires,
bellow my fears,
harmonize my anguish,
release the echoing,
play the notes found
in the deepest chorus,
the sounds I can make
from the beating of my own heart,
the rhythm of heavy breathing,
giving birth to a story.

Still I am writing it,
but of course,
black pen smudges against
my tiny fingertips;
Mother always did tease,
for how I hold my utensil for
words, well, "That's just like me,"
she would giggle right now,
if she were to see,
that giggle just like the one
someone loves
coming from me.

A pen to a blank page,
again I go,
in due time the world will know,
and back to me will It boomerang.

Where there was once a sense of
apprehension,
the way this slow, meticulous wind smells,
tastes,
feels as it strokes my face,
all I may now ponder
is a simple, tasty desire;

The journey, how delightful it is.

There are tunes to play, sing;
oh how there are jigs to dance.

Mouths that can open wide & scream loud, but not shrill,
toward the heavens.

Smells to create with fresh baked goods,
peaches to burst open with teeth
hungry for its, their juices.

Flowers yet to bloom,
more in the tender April 'noons ahead.

Steps to stomp on a run in new kicks.
A soft pair of lips to kiss.

Jokes to be told.
Laughs to be shared.

Lines to cross.
Fast pulses to feel.

Claps of thunder to steal the blue sky.
Silent tears to slip down cheeks
worn from years.

Philosophies to analyze.
Friends to meet, greet, make, take; bonds to create.

Games to play.
Long, strung out giggles
from little ones,
innocence so pure & poetic.

Dreams to make realities.
Loves to have, but loves too to lose.

CIties to visit.
Language to speak, share,
stutter, misunderstand,
exchange,
accomplishing dialogues,
communicating in hushed
whispers,
sweet nothings nuzzled,
brushed
against my ear.

I've got some living to do;
living with me, but also
living with you.

The breath in my chest
Scraped against my esophagus
As the preacher read his
Introductory scripture and a
Mourning loved one doubled over
In grief and despair as she
Struggled to bid adieu;

The hairs on the back of my neck
Stood horizontally and
Perpendicular to my concrete floor
As I heard the sweetest soul I know
Choke on her sobs on the
Other end of the receiver,
As she struggled to understand
The onset of pain and finality
She was forced to swallow;

My stomach hollowed and
Acidic anger bubbled and carved out my insides
When I read my best friend's texts,
A series of words
That seemed too cruel to be true,
A riffraff of  interrogatories and
Unsettled punctuation,
Summarizing the momentary suspension
Of her resiliency
As she processed the
Breaking of her heart;

And now I lay motionless
On my mattress,
Hot tears masquerading behind my
Tightened eyelids as I writhe in
Empathy,
Alone in my incapability
To end the pains and the woes of
Those around me,
As my body thus must then grieve
For me.

It was a Sunday afternoon when I
went for an impromptu drive,
keeping my foot on the gas and snaking
among the one-ways and the
downtown traffic as I
made my way to the river.
I put the heat on
ever so slightly just so
I'd be warm enough to roll
the windows down and feel that
fresh spring air on my face.
I wore my retro hat backwards,
and my Raybans covered my eyes,
my cool demeanor and slouchy posture
in sync with the steady rhythm of the
90s hip hop booming through my
speakers.
I watched the sun as it made love to
the river's chop, and
I snuck a glance at the stolen kisses
the green grass shared with the
tall trees on the shoreline.
Beautiful yellow and purple buds
splattered the bushes like
Impressionism,
thick dabs of color that all blended
into a beautifully disorganized
vision of the season of
rebirth.
I sprouted wings and flew outside
my body as I inhaled
pollens and flower nectar,
as my skin reddened under the
bright sunlight,
my self got lost in the time and space
continuum that swallowed me
like ground swallowed up the last
traces of snow, replacing my ground
with the warmth and
rebirth that spring always brings
after a long winter.

Sultry sentiments slithering
through my mind,
dripping beads of wisdom,
splashing into my pond
of curiosity;

Plant the seeds,
my water bodies
make it grow,
my body fading slowly
from focus,
for in this moment
I'm not on the ground,
my shell overtaken
by a gust of wind,
sweeping away the sound
of doubt,
of matters of only earthly concern;

Whimsical daze,
my eyes rolling to the back of my head,
ecstasy manifested
in forms unexpected
for the irony lay
dormant with the rest
of the realizations,
the creation of
elation, salvation, transformation
encapsulated in
my thoughts.

I left, and nothing was the same;
I came back, and everything was the same.

I've changed, but you haven't;
this thing between us hasn't changed,
or has it?

You remain transfixed on the games,
and even after months of silence,
you expect me to play;
and I get a thrill off of saying no,
which admittedly is my own way of playing back.

I don't know whether I love you or hate you more,
but homecoming also means coming home to that dichotomy,
to resisting urges and old patterns,
to hoping you've finally figured out where I'm at,
that your path has met mine,
that you've changed with time.

These roads feel the same but also
like they belong to a life I no longer know;
new tracks on new albums make the soundtrack for the drive,
and you attempt to wedge yourself amongst lyrics of redemption
and desire.

I need you to let me go
but want you to come with me;
I need to live the new life I've built
but am haunted by past fantasies;

when I come home,
it can't be to you,
and when I leave,
I'm leaving you too.

It absolutely amazes me,
the dichotomy of how
you can make me feel so special and
unique
and simultaneously
leave me feeling so desperate and
cheap.

You are the best and the worst,
the source of my greatest joy and
deepest sorrow,
and I am sick in my desire to
not feel these extremes;
I am sick in my desire to
not
feel
anything.

It's time
to get off
this ride.

When the poetry flows through you,
it waits for no perfect moment,
there is no convenience mustered
to await your finding
paper and a pen.

When the words come,
you just know,
you feel the syllables rising from
the tips of your toes,
exploding out of your fingers,
propelling you into an
unsuspected state of
delirium as your mouth
silently forms the shapes
you spit onto your notebook,
brave hands twisting and
turning purple letters
round themselves,
brain melting and oozing
out into similes and metaphors,
pictures popping from
stories told and
secrets disclosed until
in one final swoop
the moment passes,
your work is done and
the pride and fear and
vulnerability and anxiety
you just birthed
stares back at you,
its ambiguous smirk
leaving you breathless.

When glass shatters,
all you can do is
pick up the pieces.

When we shatter,
all we can do is
pick up the pieces.

Things remain broken
only if we choose not to
fix them.

The way that you look at me
Takes my breath away
It feels extraterrestrial
From another dimension
As if I’m living another being’s life.

The way that you look at me
Lights me up like kerosine
While simultaneously freezing my body into goosebumps.

The way that you look at me
Make me look at myself differently;

I love me more in loving you
I love me more in you loving me.

To the one who has my heart,

I love you.
I love you as deeply as the deepest trench,
As vastly as the expanse of the universe,
As greatly as the highest mountain.
I love you so much
I have been consumed by it,
I have been swallowed by its tidal waves,
I have been dried up by its arid air,
I have been devoured by its rabid hunger.

I love you.

But I'm realizing,
I love me more,
And me loves me back;
I breathe life into myself,
I inflate and empower and embolden me;
I am neither consumed nor weakened;
I am on top of my own mountain tops,
Cooled down by my own streams,
Tackling the corners of the universe.

Sincerely,
Yours truly,
I will always love you,
But I choose me.

Playing by all the rules,
or so it seems,
the out-law fears
nothing and no one
as she
places her backwards cap
atop her
full head of fine hair,
sunshades
hiding her wide
toffee-colored
eyes.

Chewing ******* a piece of
wintergreen gum
like a first baseman
and some chaw,
she grips the steering wheel
as a heavy clap of
bass
emits a thundering chorus
out her rolled-down windows
into the half-empty street.

Brow furrowed,
the out-law ponders her next move,
bobbing and weaving through
one-way roads;
the destination she knows,
but the route is more
a riddle
yet to be solved.

The light air
and brilliant rays of sun
that sneak behind
puffy white clouds,
the out-law senses
some promise
from the
universe.

Lungs still filled
with
smoky wisdom,
she reflects intricately
on the life
lived by she
in the past few months,
gaining insight
into her own
optimistically
curious
soul.

She slurps
her Diet Coke
thirstily
as her cottony mouth
forms words and phrases
she one day
wishes to utter.

Time and space,
they are dear friends of the
out-law,
so drive she does
down that
long
windy
road,
twisting and turning
on the beacon of self-discovery
and hope.
And
love.

The out-law
watches the sky,
fascinated
by the rich colors
the sun paints
as it falls into a state
of serenity,
and
the out-law feels so serene.

Leaving comfortability
and safety behind,
the out-law relishes
in the excitement of the unknown,
getting high off
the fumes
of the uncertainty
that looms.

On she drives.

Alone.
Sitting
           silence
thoughts
   sift
      drift
         swim
            sink
THINK.

Here she waits
     thoughts muddled
emotions jumbled
self
   honesty
      to self
   myself
herself
yourself
    all perspectives
tell me
Why?

What is real?
wants
needs
desires
truth & lies
but
   be
      REAL

FEEL

live
   cry
      laugh
sing & dance
scream
      lungs filled
Let go,
      freedom
and
fear
but real, feel,

it’s okay.

Today.

What is the crisis
a quarter of the way
through life?

Existentially existing in the moment,
I'm constantly inside of myself
while also out.
Conundrum of being up while
I'm also down,
freedom within a blockade.
Oxymoronic hodgepodge of
tantalizing confusion,
tastes sweet on my brain
and thoughts ponder bitter on
my tongue.

Half and whole,
part and full,
questions answered with questions,
seeing things through in simultaneous
interrogatories.
Top here, bottom there,
rights are right,
and lefts aren't wrong.
Phone, texts and emails,
vibrating inside my skull
as I laugh and I cry,
as I seek to find.

Orange to yellow to green to brown,
seasons coming and going
inside my soul,
and I constantly blossom
and refreeze.
Everywhere feels like nowhere,
nowhere my somewhere as
I await a somewhere that's
everywhere.

Losing myself as I find it too,
letting some parts sail away
at sea,
and too there comes new
horizons,
as I surf, skating on the
foam, on the water's edges.
Wading into one crisis,
I'm swallowed by a
wave,
until I burst through the sea and the
salt;

and then the next wave
comes...
for life, it seems,
is salty and sweet,
one tide coming in to sweep itself away
in place of another.

Loving you is the smell of the rain
Fresh. Life sustaining.
Sweet droplets dripping on petals
Blooming in spring.

Loving you is breath catching in my chest
Overwhelmed and afraid
Because it’s so good I fret
The concept of ever having to spend
A day of this life without you in it.

Loving you is the depth of
The sea
So vast that even its
Contemplation is greater than is
Humanly conceivable,
The feeling of warm salt water on
Tanned skin,
Sounds of
Crashing waves,
loving you is a perfect summer day.

Loving you is a rocket to outer space
Lost in the cosmos
I’m living amongst the constellations
Draped against
The Milky Way;
Loving you,
Being loved by you,
Looms larger than this world.

Loving you is the most
Beautiful terrifying expansive
Life-altering mind-blowing unimaginable
Gift
That I never would’ve dreamed of finding
Let alone deserving.

Loving you is absolute magic;
Because you are absolutely magical.

Puffy white clouds
whisping by,
thousands
and
thousands
of
feet
above my hometown,
I gaze
out the
rectangular
viewing screen
hungrily,
choking back tears,
revisiting the
farewells;
on the beacon of
adventure,
riding the aircraft
away from
what was,
only to return
anew,
fully in bloom.

Tap tap tap*
goes her hand as she
rattles her box of cigs,
packing 'em in before
she hungrily rips off the
cellophane.
Her eyes lustfully stare
at the untouched pack
as she contemplates how it will
taste to put one in her mouth.
Although the Surgeon General
has adequately warned her otherwise,
she slides her fingers around
her chosen poison,
eagerly putting it to her lips.
The lighter clicks, and flames
quickly lap up the tobacco and its
chemical casing.
She inhales, and the raggedy breath
reverberates in her chest,
a sick pleasentness seeping into her veins.
Nothing has ever
felt better, as blood rushes
to her head and her muscles relax.
She lights up one after another
until the pack is gone,
and the cycle begins again;
an inner debate where her head
tells her to leave the addiction behind,
but her heart and body, starting to feel
lonely and withdrawn, insist on another
pack to dull the creeping emptiness.
So back to the corner store she goes,
as he waits behind the counter,
ready to give her another taste of feigned and
unhealthy comfort,
for it's better than being alone,
sober,
and without him.

Will I ever be enough?
Or is it that I’m too much?
Either way, I’m always something,
Something that makes me
Unworthy of love
Or of loyalty
Or of sticking around.

Will I ever be accepted?
Or is it that I’m unacceptable?
I’ve got flaws,
But don’t we all?
Are my flaws all you see?
Is that the entirety of what makes me
Me?
Is that all I’m meant to be?

I never trust people
Because every time I flirt
With the idea,
I’m left here,
Asking myself again,
Am I too much and also
Somehow never enough?

People always leave,
And even when they stay,
They put conditions on the way
I’m supposed to be
In order to be worthy of that.

Does anyone see me?
Am I outwardly projecting,
Externally expressing
Who I am inside?
Can anyone hear me?
Am I talking to myself?
Is anyone listening?

Does anyone love me?
Can anyone love me
When I don’t even love myself?

And why don’t I?
If we’re all flawed,
Why are my flaws the only
Thing I see?
Why can’t I accept the totality
Of what it means to be me?
Where do I even begin?

My soul feels overwhelmed
With an intangible feeling
Of desperately wanting to love
And to be loved
And to make the world around me
Feel the way I feel.

It’s a love/hate thing that I have
With my interior;
I feel so inferior
Because I can’t control the constant
Stream.of.emotions;
I can’t be logical once my heart is involved.

I feel the 60% water that makes up
The human body;
Constantly drowning in a sea of
Feelings, my tide too strong
And ocean too deep.

I ask myself nearly every day
If there is anyway that I could just
Be someone else,
Just for a minute.
Couldn’t I just be someone who feels less,
Who is accepted more,
Who isn’t so alienated and complicated?
Can’t I just shrink away,
Lose a little bit of it,
Whatever it is?

I don’t know who I even want to be.
I just know,
Being me might be too much,
Even for me.

It's 11:30 PM,
and the steaming hot water
singes my back
as I talk myself out of
throwing my half consumed
bottle of beer
against the
shower wall.
My stomach feels hollow,
my throat feels clogged,
repressed screams,
traveling
from
my
insides
up.

Anger is an emotion
I rarely feel,
but as the hauntingly true song lyrics
blared out of my laptop and
reverberated against the glass door,
I was barely able to contain
the wrath,
tears of vexation slipping down
my cheeks,
dropping to my chin as I
heaved in
a sharp breath.

I'm tired.
Tired of giving.
Tired of waiting.
Tired of having faith.
Tired of loving.
Tired of losing myself.

Are we supposed to give
and never take?
Wait and keep faith?
Love without feeling
loved back?
Let our dreams, needs,
hopes, wishes...
let our souls go off track?

Empathy is my middle name,
but when will someone empathize with
me?
When will I get
what I want;
be provided with
what I need?
When will the love I relinquish
rebound back to me?

I want give and take;
I want reassurance and faith;
the mate to my soul,
the 50 to my 50;

I want you,
your heart,
your faith,
your soul,
your empathy;

I want you
like you have me.

And in letting you go,
I have been struck with perhaps
the greatest melancholy
in that I have started to forget
the sound of your voice

How long does it take
for the urge to fade?

I still
search for shelter in your
words and phrases

but there is nothing more written
on those pages.

If a picture is worth
a thousand words,
is a memory worth
a million?

I am rich in words.

The raindrops felt refreshing
As they splattered gently
Down my arms
That loosely gripped
My half-busted umbrella.
My shoes splished and
Splashed,
Not even bothering to
Avoid
The puddles,
Ruby red of my moccasins
Dyeing the skin on my feet
As the liquid
Soaked in.
The rainwater felt cool,
But my flannel hugged me tightly,
Breaking up the
Onset of goosebumps.
The trees and grassy lawns
Illuminated a bright green,
Lapping up the raindrops
Thirstily into their wide mouths.
With no guide,
My dampened feet lead their
Own way
Down streets and roads,
Diagonals, bobbing and
Weaving
Through the city limits.
No fear, stomach dropping,
For I knew
I would find my way.
Peaceful afternoon,
Rain dancing down from
The cloud-filled sky;
I wandered deep into a
Blissful promenade.

Cloud of nothingness
Smoke of emptiness
Haze of hollowness
Fog of desertedness
Smog of blankness
Vapor of vacuousness;

Chronic Apathy.

Saturday night sets in
as a $1 Roy Hamilton's Greatest Hits record
emits soft vocals and
mellow horns
from my speakers.
The intermittent
crackling and popping
scratches against my insides
as I strain to think of
anything and everything
but you.
The warm melodies are reminiscent
of the warm summer nights when
we first began to share time
and hidden parts of ourselves,
drifting into a rhythm that
swung me one-two-three,
waltzing into a haze of unexpected
love.
Little did I know the romantic waltz
would drastically switch tempo,
up and pounding,
beating behind my eyes and against my skull
as I heard the sounds of you
scurrying toward the
nearest exit, tangoing away from me,
and snatching my heart along
with you.
And in came the sound of blues,
slow, sultry, and so full of a longing
for he who lead me
in a dance I had thought
would never end.

I love the feeling
when a song
comes on
and suddenly
you find yourself
lost deep in a
memory you
forgot to
actively remember
until now.

The soundtrack to
the summer of '09
when I would
drive 6 hours with the
windows down,
the wind and
the bass from the speakers
in my Honda Civic
creating harmony
in G major,
the hot
sun beating against my
sweat-speckled skin.

And a couple notes
strung along my
eardrum as I
reappear in tears after
you told me you'd
leave me if I
refused to give you what
you wanted,
a melody mixed with
my pathetic, incurable
obsession with pleasing you
and some serious self-loathing.

And then I hear a tune
that sounds reminiscent
of the soft ripple from the
waves the river made
as I smoked a J and
wrote about my days
away from home,
desperately seeking to figure
out who I really am
when I'm completely alone.

Songs that remind me
of sunsets and
old jokes and
the sand between my toes;
rhythms of
bare feet pittering and splashing
in sprinkler water on squishy,
damp grass,
of  French phrases and crunchy baguettes
that I chewed on
in Dijon,
of day parties with plastic
cups and ping pong *****
where we used college courses
and boy drama and
undefeated seasons as
reasons to binge on
cheap ***** and beer.

I hear a bridge,
and I cross the river
where I tread water
for 4 years as I waited
for you to meet me
halfway,
and I drowned
in your lies and mind control.

Chorus of Christmas mornings
with homemade cookies,
joyful jamboree
of after-school
dance sessions in my parents' kitchen,
prom night poses
and people we still
laugh at.

First kisses reverberating
in headphones
and mouths belting
names of forgotten friends.

The soundtrack to my life,
a collection of good time
genres and painful
classics,
number one hits and
one hit wonders I
cherish equally,
my taste as vast as
the memories
contained in the
music.

I can't say for sure at what age you
suddenly start to really
take the world in,
but I have these
specific memories of being
an angsty fourteen-year-old
running laps around the reservoir
at swim practice.

I was so young,
but old enough that I really thought
I knew what love was,
and maybe I did,
maybe I knew love in a certain kinda way,
a certain kinda love I'm too old
to understand now.

I ran laps.
I remember noticing my breathing,
the one-two-three huff-huff-huff
rhythmically circulating oxygen as I
went numb from the waist down.
I remember thinking about this
boy that I loved in
some way or another.
I remember noticing the water's
gentle splashing,
the way the high, hot sun reflected off its splishing.
I remember the sound of runners
passing me by,
the sight of those I passed doubled over
from a "cramp" or maybe just
laziness.
I remember the way my coach yelled and yelled,
pushed and pushed.
I remember feeling and thinking so
many
different
thoughts,
noticing so
many
different
things.

I remember the first time that
I just took in so much
I had to go home and write some
love poems,
spilling my guts onto college-ruled paper
in some various-colored
gel pen.

I can't say for sure at what age you
suddenly start to really
take the world in;
I can't say for sure at what age a poet
suddenly becomes a
poet;
but I have these
specific memories of the first time
I took the world in,
and I decided to write
about it.

And into the wee hours of the
morning,
struggling to slip into slumber
before the onset of dawn,
I wonder if you meant it
when you said you still
think of me
all the time.
Are you thinking of me now?
Is your body frozen,
back flat against your mattress,
eyes glued to the ceiling;
are you laying motionless
with a brain wide awake?
Oh, how I imagine
our bodies trapped in parallel framing,
equally restless with
parallel thoughts
interwoven in the space between us.

There's something I really like
about driving at night.

There is a certain peacefulness
in the sound the tires on my Honda make
as they rub against the highway
at a steady 9 over the limit,
no traffic to hold me back.

I keep my windows partly cracked
even though my heat is on
because it's the only way I can be
warm but not too hot and
cool but not too cold.

I turn my music up as
loud as it can possibly go,
my mind swimming in the
lyrical metaphors
comparing love to water bodies
and getting lost in the waves.

I ripple down the road
as I drive past the river,
the stars twinkling across the
vast expanse of black.

Sometimes I have a destination in mind,
and other times I don't.
Sometimes I drive because I'm sad
and other times because I'm angry,
regardless I am sometimes crying, screaming,
and or heavily breathing.
I am always pondering,
I am always processing,
I am always gaining perspective,
and, by the end,
I am always at peace,
at least until that time I need to
take another twilight drive down by the Ohio.

We met in the summertime,
which I recall because the AC in his apartment
was mediocre at best,
and fans were splayed throughout the
white-walled space as we attempted to
keep cool.

His roommate introduced me,
as he sat with no shirt on,
perched on a wooden chair,
staring intently at a deck of cards.

I think the first thing I noticed was the dazzle of
his smile,
but I can't pretend my eyes didn't veer
to the perfect V that was on display
just above his basketball shorts.

His skin glowed a perfect shade of honey and
cinnamon
in the dim lighting
that emitted from the sole lamp in the corner
of the living room.

I became submerged in a blur of
card games and laughter
and an eerily similar taste in music,
so much so that I forgot it was not he
who I had come to see.

I have forgotten what
it feels like to be
loved.
It is so odd and
most definitely sad,
as I still know so
substantially what it
feels like to
love.
My existence is so
unrequited,
for even when you
again shared your
body with me,
even though two years
time had passed since
our last dance,
the wall you built remained intact.
I searched every surface
in hopes of finding a crack
in the stone that,
with some effort,
could finally help me to
topple the blockade.
But your love,
or what I have (probably pathetically)
convinced myself
exists on the other side,
it is as well-protected and
well-hidden as ever.
So I soldier on,
fighting my losing battle,
feeling love for you,
the love from which
I am doomed to be destroyed,
shot down, blood staining the
ground
beneath me,
no shield of your love
with which my body,
my heart,
could remain intact.

The rain exploded from the sky,
water soaking the trees,
reds, oranges, and yellows
bleeding from beneath the leaves,
branches bending and swaying,
puppet-like under the great strength
of the storm.

I sat in silence for half an hour,
maybe longer,
mesmerized by the catastrophic dance,
the matinée performance unfolding outside
my living room window.
A brutal ballet,
trunks of trees moving ever so slightly
as the wind did its best to
pirouette and sweep the landscape
up in its rhythmic mastery.
Claps of thunder, whistle of wind,
a chorus climbing to its crescendo,
as I remained planted to my seat
when, at last, the raindrop feet
dulled to a stop,
only an occasional pitter patter
as the dancers made
their way off stage.

I remember the exact way
his hands looked as
they covered up my attempts
at sparking a flame,
blocking the fan's
breeze.
They were cupped softly around
the faint streaks of
orange yellow and red,
and his honeyed skin glowed
so deliciously against the
flickering light as it enveloped the
cigar.
I felt his fingers brush mine,
and I choked on my own breath as
the charge washed over
me.
The flame was fully lit,
and his brown eyes reflected with
fire,
burning through me, igniting
me from the inside
out.
The warmth of his laugh
scorching my eardrums,
I listened to his
stories and ideas as
my body began boiling in
his rhetoric.
His presence struck me like
a match,
his aura drew me in like
a moth to a flame,
and when he helped me light
that cigar,
I think he set me on fire,
too.

Sometimes I worry
that I will always be
alone.

Oh, hey,
aren't I
cliche?
24-years-young
and talking
like an old maid.

But you know what,
**** whoever
decided that just
because you're young,
loneliness isn't a concern,
and just because you
have time ahead of you
doesn't mean
living without love isn't
painful.

Every man,
if you can even call them that,
that peaks my interest
finds a reason to say,
it's not you, it's me,
but at this point,
as I watch everyone around me
settle down and
find someone,
I can't help but wonder if
it's not them, it's me.

I try to think about
what I look like on paper.
I am the first to
admit my flaws.
I'm not the skinniest,
I'm not the funniest,
I'm not the coolest,
I talk too much,
I involve myself too often
and too deeply
in others,
I am overly sensitive,
I have never been popular,
and I'm sure
I could name at least
50 other things someone would
find less-than-favorable.
But then I try to remember that
I am ambitious,
I am bright,
I am kind,
I am empathetic,
I am family-oriented;
I have a lot of hobbies,
I can always hold a conversation,
and I've been told
I'm pretty
at least on an
occasion or two.

I'm not all good,
but I'm not all bad.
And I think, as
cheesy as it sounds,
that everyone is entitled to
love.
So I can't help but wonder
what I'm putting into the
universe,
what I'm lacking,
what more I need to do
before someone can love me;
****, even just staying
interested for more than
a couple weeks,
even that would suffice.

This isn't some self-deprecating,
some depressing
ode of a sad single girl.
It's just a series of words
to question
why
and where
and how
and when
I will find love,
why I'm
still lacking,
who I'm waiting for.

What
explanation
is there for
this loneliness,
for these years I've spent
love-less,
for even the years prior
where the "love" I felt
was so wrong
and destructive?

Is it me?

Or

*Is it them?

We had that
drive you crazy
butterflies flyin' in my stomach
make you wanna pull your hair out
**** I threw and broke my phone
your arms gettin' goosebumps
why can't I stop thinking about him
******* I hate you
I can't get enough
you're number one on my speed dial
texting me all day long
your family is my family and vice versa
stop looking through my phone
I could ****** you
why didn't you call me back
writing you love poems
writing you hate poems
gut wrenching, heart wrenching
I can't stop smiling
you're the only one who understands me
I would take a bullet for you
confusing
terrible
beautiful
commanding
consuming
kinda love.