my mother has taught me ten things;
1. *** is a sin. pleasure is a sin. cursing is a sin.
2. happiness and selfishness are equals
3. drugs are only bad when you are a teenager, but it is okay to sulk about them if they are a part of your damaged past.
4. the mirror you stare into each day should be looked at with disgust and agony.
5. when looking into another human's eyes be wary of swimming in the colorful veins and muscles of each iris. you will get too attached and become broken.
6. love is to be given, not taken, nor accepted. every compliment is undeserved and every wound is earned.
7. let a man take your life and crush it into powder the jet-rockets up to your brain. let him dissolve into your bloodstream and control every muscle movement.
8. a mother has the right to every possession that you call your own. she brought you into this world through unholy actions, and she may take you out the same way.
9. the world breaks you body down into soil that will be dug up and replaced with busy sidewalks. you are impermanent.
10. you will never be complete on your own; you must always lay your heavy head on someone else's shoulder instead of learning to balance it between your own.

my father is a blind man.
heavy drooping lids with even heavier dripping blood.

i am his failure that was only good at one thing.
swimming past the others.

and maybe i'm not the perfect daughter;
maybe you weren't expecting the *** or drugs or parties or ****** language,
but ******* for acting like it meant i was dead.

you do not own me.
you will not write my eulogy when i finally succeed after failed attempts.
you will not say how i had a beautiful heart and YOUR sense of humor.
i will write my own goodbye letter.
and yes, maybe every i love you feels like a swallowed, searing coal.
and yes, maybe my signature at the bottom of the loos-leaf sheet of blood-stained paper will remind you to acknowledge your two other children, and stop saying that i am your favorite.
i am not your favorite.
you should be willing to stay for a favorite.

so leave me the **** alone
to bleed in peace.

You’re my entire universe. I see you in every single star. Every single planet.

2. I don’t need you but I want you so much that I can barely breathe.

3. Please stop smoking cigarettes.

4. Come to bed.

5. I wasn’t afraid of dying until I met you.

6. You’re mine. If I could tattoo tastes, I’d get your coffee soaked lips stained onto my tongue. I don’t care how much it would hurt. I want to swallow you down with everything I touch.

7. You’re a wildfire.

8. I feel you in my fingertips.

9. I can’t get enough of you. Even when you’re here, pressed up against me, intertwined with me, so close that I feel the blood flowing through your veins, I’m still finding ways to get you closer.

10. I’d sit through some horrible french film without subtitles for a few hours if it meant getting to accidentally brush my knee against yours.

It’s Whatever

Multitasking is impossible, did you know that?
Especially when you’re focused on one thing,
And not really worrying about the other.

When you love someone you give them your heart, did you know that?
Then they carry it around with them,
And if they love you in kind, they’ll hold it close and keep it warm.

I gave you my heart, did you know that?
I gave before you were focused on another,
And you shifted your focus a dozen times since then, yet never once onto mine.

It sits in the crook of your arm, did you know that?
Like an afterthought in what little space is left, while you press another into your breast,
And mine bounces around as you step.

It gets cold here, did you know that?
Sometimes the wind is chilling,
Yet that little warmth you spare is enough to live on.

Sometimes my heart falls off, did you know that?
It tumbles off your arm, into the dust and the rocks you might even step on it,
Yet before long you pick it up, brush off the shards

Dragging each bit

Rending its flesh,

Leaving tiny, almost invisible bleeding slashes,

Not because you don’t care,

You just don’t take the time to notice.

Then you set it back in the crook of your arm.

…

Tiny cuts add up to a grievous wound, but you already know that.
And it’s too cold out here to heal.

you take a girl.
average weight, average height, average smile, average tone of voice.
you give her a pen.

you give her a pen and tell her she is golden.
that she can do anything she puts her mind to and that she is a shooting star and you tell her to collect all of those scratch-and-sniff stickers that her teachers put on her tests.
you give her hope and love and anything else good that you can think of.

you tell her she can fly.

you buy her a cape, and when she climbs to the roof and jumps off, only to sprain her ankle, you kiss her.


but she will still have bad days.

this tornado was made of light..
it was breaking apart all the darkness.. in this shaded world
with orange skies, tornadoes of light color the black and orange
and bring forth shine..
but light is not always a sign of goodness and hope..

this dark world would seeing the end of itself..

my mind is filled with shadows and weakness and
he is sleeping in his bed 6 miles away.

walking distance; running distance.

every pore of my scarred skin is filled with missing him and alcohol.
every dent in my flesh was raised by werewolves;
they only turned red at night.
my eyes only flow oceans at the hours I feel emotionless.

my mother puts crayons and coloring books in the backpacks of her children.
says that when they are angry, they should write down what they feel in the color that fits best.
now when I go to school it is all Ticonderoga #2

happy  gray
sad  gray
angry  gray
scared  gray

The pavement glistens with it’s new top coat of shiny rain and she is driving back to school; back to too much noise and too many faces. I don’t want to go. I would give anything not to go. It happens then. I hear the impact first: metal pushing and crunching upon and into itself. The windshield gets closer and closer and in this moment it reminds me of a first kiss, but glass is inexperienced and uses too much tongue. I think I hear her say something. I am praying that she says something. She asks me if I’m okay. I feel dead and cold, and underaged corpse in the passengers’ seat. I say nothing. I hear her get out of the car to check on the woman who is screaming in the driver’s seat of her smashed vehicle. I feel warmth down my face that I assume are unwelcome tears, and open my frightened eyes to red. Red. And all I can think is ‘why have I not cried blood before?’ I open my mouth to say something, but end up tasting death. I blink my eyes more times than I need to. The windshield is cracked. She comes back to the car and keeps saying my name; a question. “Miranda? Miranda? Miranda?” the words I’m sorry cannot escape my mouth fast enough. The panic in her voice is undeniable. “Miranda? I’m calling the police sweetie, okay?” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be sorry, it’s going to be okay.” “I’m so sorry Allison.” I can hear blood rushing from my head like Niagra Falls and I cup my hands to catch it. There is so much of it and it is burning my fingertips and all I can say is “I’m sorry.” I’m trying not to think of god right now, but I can’t help it. I will never capitalize that word again. I can hear her ask me questions that I forget as soon as they reach the beating drums of my ears, but I am guessing I answer them. She talked to 9-1-1 for days, months. I kept crying. I kept saying “I’m sorry.” When I closed my eyes everything happened backwards. Eve put the apple back on the branch. The tree shrank back into the ground. god said let there be light… and there was darkness. The pool of blood in my teacup hands grew more and more full when my door opened. I remember trying to get out on my own; I remember trying to run away. The officer told me to settle down and to not move and that everything would be just fine and that they were going to put me on a gurney and asked if my neck or back hurt or if I was seeing spots and what my address was and when my birthday was and other things and other things and other things. I dropped the blood and it flowed over my pants and my insides were on the outside and I couldn’t breathe. They placed my shaking skeleton into their ambulance. I had never felt so dead in my life. I went into shock. I only breathed when they reminded me to. I felt sick to my stomach; I felt drunk. The old man sitting in the back of the ambulance kept telling me to breathe. Kept telling me that everything would be fine. “I’m sorry.” “Sweetheart just try to steady your breathing. We’ll be at the hospital soon.” “I’m sorry.” “What’s your name sweetie?” “I’m sorry.” My head is feeling lighter and lighter and I can hear my heart slow in my ears. I see him writing on a clipboard and I hope he is writing Sorry, I’m. I want to be defined by my mistakes. Every speed bump we hit feels like Hurricane Katrina. He tells me to let him know if anything hurts. I want to tell him my heart hurts; that when we arrive at the hospital my mother will most likely be 10 minutes late, and my father will not be there at all. I want to tell him to not let them pray for me. I want to tell him that I’ve bled before, but not this much, and that the day before when I whispered to the heavens that I would give anything to take my last breath, that I didn’t mean it. That the intersection of Western Row and Kings Island Drive would become my gravestone.

The rest is blurred from 3 shots of morphine and the effects of shock. I still shake when my mom doesn’t stop far away enough from the cars in front of us. I still feel trapped when my car door won’t open. I am still sorry.

https://play.google.com/music/m/Tyxfxgv67h2wk46xo7f72kke2se

i have a problem with jealousy.
for example, when lucifer was ****** and body-slammed to hell
i was ****** it wasn't me.
i was made to be a demon groupie instead of the lord of the underworld.
so i'm sorry i get ******* when you hang out with your friends
instead of talking to me on the phone.
it's just that it gets so ******* hot down here and there's no AC.

i just miss the air from my wings sometimes.

Please do not spit on your words with a sugar-laced tongue.

I hope you're furious. I hope there is foam flowing out of your mouth like Niagara Falls, and I hope that god doesn't open the gates for you.
I hope you don't expect me to love you like a daughter is supposed to.

her.. only her.

she pulls at my insides while you whisper i love you
behind the backs of your dearest friends.
she knows that you never hid your affections for her from anyone.
not even me.
and she sits in my skull,
begging for me to break in and release her broken bones
from behind my weary eyes.
because until she feels at peace, until she has been released from
the captivity of my cranium, she will never stop.
not until he stops loving you.
it should be me. you know that miranda. this is all a facade so that he feels
better about you not being 100% most days.

i ask if you still think about her.
you say yes, but not as much as i think of you.

and i know then it is the end.
she takes the swords of her tongue and
shoots them through the ashes of my nervous system.
**** yourself.
he would have never loved you had i not left.

a continuous loop of negativity and hatred slipping its' way
through my veins and arteries. almost as bad as heroine; twice as deadly as heroine.

you tell me it's all in my head;
that if i would just breathe that i could get through this.
in
but you don't understand the pain that runs as hot as lava
down my throat when i take that first breath of oxygen.
out
how when she screams it echoes through my head
while shooting pain sneaks its' slithering poison into my dreams.
the medication will never erase her.
they will never get rid of this swallowing pit of loneliness or
the fact that you will never love me in the same way you did her.

her.. only her.

Transcendentalist conceit. My choice of delivery. Arbitrary? Perhaps, but fun. And it gave me an excuse to stall for quality. But apparently it became a stream of consciousness somewhere along the line. It also seems to be coming along in a sort of  meta(physical) fashion. Metacognition. All (the) techniques I like.
I like you.
Parallel inspiration, a sublime way to, again, stall, also to make it interesting. But the comparison is difficult to find. Hidden in the æther, as it was.
What are you?
A tree?
Nature?
Air,
earth,
water,
fire,
or spirit?
Life?
Death?
All,
or even nothing?
No.
So far into this frozen in time facsimile of my mind, of me, yet still you know not what I think of you as, what I contrast you with. What I
Compare
you to. What I
Expect
you to
Live Up To.
Anxiety?
How many poems will I write before this ones done? ultimately one, yet many. Am I stalling even now? A tease of sorts. I am quite good at that. The conceit. What is it?
Do you want it?
A hundred thousand parallel rush through my mind only to be pushed off the line. A note written by my current and intended audience printed "I love you".
I underline you and return to sender.
Inspiration! flooding my mind!
Are you sharp enough to have discerned the parallel yet? hopefully. But if you think you are, you're wrong. There is no parallel. Moreover, a parallel poorly defines a line. what we really need is a co-linear expression. In truth, the conceit is pretty conceited.
I compare you to you.
My grand conceit.
When you I see,  see I you.
I see the candid truth that you duplicitous lie. I see your beauty alongside your failure to recognize and believe.
I see you.
And I love what I see.

drinking
is bad for you, he says
I told him that my
numbness
was worse than any shot of liquor  
it's getting difficult to wake up
again
and I wish I could be a
better
friend
and I feel so bad for the people
who hurt like I do
your
hurting
and I don't know what to say
because I'm
not
sure that it will be okay
this poem doesn't mean anything
and I hope that means something

let me hold your hand

life isn’t that hard, he says
sometimes you just have to get in the car without putting your seatbelt on
sometimes you have to get in the wreck
you have to lose five huggies of blood to know what you’re made of

I tell him I don’t have the muscle for that type of therapy

he tells me I’m a fixer upper
the good kind that looks beautiful before she curls her hair and puts mascara on
the kind that doesn’t know how to walk in a straight line because there are too many possibilities
that always looks drunk when she’s driving because her heart doesn’t have a gps

I tell him to leave me alone

he says that when he saw me on that fateful sunday morning he knew I would be his only religion
I’m someone he can have faith in
someone he can believe

I haven’t drank in almost four months
he’s proud of me
he says he loves me, and I believe him

girls in high school wear infinity scarves
and expect their love to last as long.
their hearts are hidden under
mounds of dyed wool, and I'm sitting in
U.S. History learning about slavery.

this is what I know.

we are all slaves to our own hearts.
we pick fields of lust
and try to sew it into love.
we wear combat boots because we feel threatened
by our own bodies.
like we are at war in our flesh, and need the extra protection;
the leather safety net with laces.

we walk down those black, salt-licked stairs
with our heads down because we have trust issues,
but when we trip we never forgive our clumsiness.
we swallow bitter tears like sugar after medicine,
and we pump hate through our tumblr blogs like gasoline.

we pay for affection with skin.
we accept the words *****, ****, *****, ugly, MAN, as nicknames.
a wave to the opposite gender is now thirst.
we need to grow up; put down the sippy cup.

this is high school.
cut your hair. dye it purple, and then regret it automatically. dye it black,
and then spend five months and $597.00 getting it back to your natural color.
mismatch your socks. eat almonds when you feel like you should starve your insides.
paint your nails, mess them up, and paint them again;
paint your soul the same way.
we are moving at the speed of light.

slow down your mind.
you are in high school.

you are still growing love in fields, you just need to find the right soil.

when I wake up in the morning I want
your sheets to be tangled between our legs.
I want your arm to be swung lazily around my bare back and
I want your warm breath on my skin. when I wake up I
want you to love me. I want
the forests of your chest and the city streets of your
fingertips.

I want your smile to sneak around your lips and pull me in
close
because my fidgeting body of morning awoke the landmines of your pores. I want
that first yawn and
the sound of you
stretching your lungs. I want

to feel your eyes on me as I get dressed, as I brush my hair.
I want to see you t-shirt tug across your arms and
land on your torso. I want to curl up
beside you and drink coffee as I trace the
constellations of freckles on your forearms.

I want you to kiss me.

I am what I am. I am a hormonal ***** who doesn’t really understand why ***** describes girls.
I am drained and have been on autopilot for nine years.
I keep on forgetting I am sixteen, and that makes it ten. I am the Buddhist of a Christian family. Hidden meditation before forced services and watching my grandfather on a stage for three days a week. I’m still trying to get by. I am what I am.
The sweetest and most sour liquid that has ever
met my lips is *****.
I feel pathetic for writing that. I am what I am.
A ****-wrecked liver at age sixteen. I am what I am.
A role model for five children younger than seven, and then there’s me,
drinking Grey Goose from the bottle.
It’s going to make my throat warm and my swarming soul pain teeter-totter to a rest.
The best past time I have found is trying to fix myself.
I am what I am. That’s not good enough.

My grandmother says that because I am depressed there are demons living in the rooms
of my chest.
I want to tell her that if she would peer into my stained-glass window eyes
she would see that no one lives in me; not the devil, or demons, or God.

I just pray that she doesn’t open the basement doors and find a swimming pool of the
clear stuff.
I am sixteen. I have to keep writing this or I feel like it’s not true and I’m not real.
I am an aspiring alcoholic.
I am what I am, and I need change. Bad.
But the habits are even worse, and I’m stuck with these bruising memories.
A curse from my past. Heroine and Marijuana.
Highs that never lasted long enough for a mother of one.
Bore a daughter, but wanted a son, and I’m stuck not being good enough
for the thousandth time in my life.
Getting mixed between the names Matthew and Miranda when she was on the low side.
Fast forward to high tide; she’s on cloud nine and I’m locked in my room.
I can smell the scent of smoke that she tells me is perfume, and I’m wondering
if I should be married to a boy, or a girl?

Same year. My first beer handed to me by the father of my first sibling.
“It’ll put some hair on your chest.” he says. I am what I am.
“Girls are not supposed to have hairy chests.” I say.
My mom sends me to my room. I feel so horrid that I don’t eat for days. Two years later
I find out about shaving my legs, find out that razors are sharper than the butter knife
in the kitchen. I still have the word BOY? carved into my thigh.

I go to therapy weekly. My mind is made of Latin words that I don’t know how to translate.
I’m seeing now that how you raise your heart is crucial.
I’m seeing now that not drinking for five months is a triumph.
I am what I am, not what I was brought up to be.

my fire for you is sweet like
melted sugar and i
love that
and it's like kissing a shooting star that's about to **** you and it's
like holding a blue candle in your hands and realizing
you're so pale that the wax turns the color of the sky the day you
told me you wanted to be friends.
i want you to draw a city sky on my kite string arms and a road
of evergreens on my telephone wire hips.
i've never told you this... i never
wanted you, but i always needed you, and that's why i think i love you.
something whispers in my ear when
your fingers wisp through my hair that tells
me to laugh in your face when you tell me
you love me back.

it's like a smack in the soul saying
WAKE THE **** UP

and then i do, and you still love me...



even then.

I am fourteen
and my skin has betrayed me  
the boy I cannot live without  
still ***** his thumb
in secret
how come my arms are
always so ******
what if I die
before morning
and mother's in the bedroom  
with the door closed.

I have to learn how to dance  
in time for the next party  
my room is too small for me  
suppose I die before graduation  
they will sing sad melodies  
but finally
tell the truth about me
There is nothing I want to do  
and too much
that has to be done
and mother's in the bedroom  
with the door closed.

Nobody even stops to think  
about my side of it
I should have been on Math Team  
my marks were better than his  
why do I have to be
the one
wearing braces
I have nothing to wear tomorrow  
will I live long enough
to grow up
and mother's in the bedroom  
with the door closed.

i feel void of words ..
                                  paragraphs and sentences are the same number of letters and 60 seconds is only a minute from now .
our minds can't think that far ahead , but the
hour glass that i'm staring at is the most mesmerizing thing i have ever laid eyes on .

we're never done killing time , but at least the stopwatch hasn't hit a mark that has made you feel
hollow inside .

  people say that love is young ,
but sweetest our love is centuries older than we have ever known .
we are the time lords .

my brain isn't connected to anything else in my body , and i think that's why i lie ..
because i honestly have no idea what's going on up there sometimes .
every once in a while there is a sting pain , and i get migraines from time to time ,
but i drink some *** and they're gone , and i am pleasant as punch .


today i helped my grandfather take down christmas lights
and every time i unplugged a set
from the outlet i thought about killing myself ..


love is lonely for almost all of us .
no one asked their lover to get a job that only lets them work night shifts ,
but we all told them they should take it .
and now we take a shower twice a week with only three cups of water ,
and we only only watch the television two minutes a day
so that maybe the bills will get low enough to the point that they can quit ,
and come home to us in the darkness of night .


the memories of that morning slide against my mind
like rain on a windowpane and i think that maybe you honestly did love me ,
but i also think that maybe ...

if you
can't see anything beautiful about yourself ,
get a better mirror .
look a little closer ,
stare a little longer ..
because there is something there inside of you that made you
keep trying , despite everyone who told you to quit ...
you built a glow-in-the-dark cast around your broken heart so that in the night
when the darkness tries to swallow you whole ,
you have a light to hold onto ..
you built a cast , and you signed it yourself .


you signed                                                           ­     **" they were wrong ."

there are days when my poems feel less like bruises
and more like crop circles waiting to spread their soft bones across
the earth of my page- these stories need to be told .
my voice used to be just a side effect of having a body ,
until it found paper and learned how to scream ,
the kind of scream that evaporates in all the noise .
i’d rather write about people who got lost in the cracks of my sidewalk -
so i can write about them clawing their way out -
than write about people who were born with every limb already above ground .
because sometimes every word is an act of therapy ,
and there’s no better listener than the reader who finds relief
in every oil spill of ink . because sad poetry is the truth ,
and i’m tired of biting my lip .
because the people i write for have been going through hell
and sometimes , if i spellcheck my words carefully enough ,
a line or two will flame brighter in that person’s heart
than the flames they’re so used to being burned alive in .
when i was a kid , i used to try mending the broken wings
of all the moths and butterflies that crossed my yard ,
until some of them gave up on flying with stitches ,
and i learned that sometimes people quit on life like that too .
so now i write all these poems to teach people
to start giving to themselves
instead of giving up or giving in .

i grabbed you and i
asked you how i
could possibly make you
happy .
and you looked at
me , and told me
you'd be happy if
i was happy .

i tried so *******
hard to
fix myself ,
but you were gone
by the time i started to smile .

my dad
"found"
my tumblr blog ..

i check my facebook page 36 times a day for the sole purpose of making sure i have not accidentally posted a **** photo of myself

i reread an email 13 times before pressing send to ensure i have not written something in the email that could convict me of a crime

if i ever end up taking a stage , when asked if i allow flash photography i always want to say “ no ” because i’m terrified flash photography will give me epilepsy
i know it doesn’t work like that , still

i never eat nuts on an airplane out of fear of that i will suddenly develop a nut allergy and if i have to asphyxiate
i don’t want it to happen at 30,000 feet

twice in the last two years i’ve been aborted from an airplane for running screaming down the aisles as the plane was taking off

i can’t walk through san francisco without worrying my indigestion is the beginning of an earthquake

i brace for tsunamis besides lakes in colorado
i’m not joking
the last time i saw niagara falls i couldn’t take it
it was too much much
i had to plug my ears to look at it and close my eyes to listen

generally i can’t do all my senses at the same time they are too much much

like if you touch me without warning , whoever you are , it will take everything i have to not hate you

imagine your hands are electrical sockets and i am constantly aware that i am 70% water
it’s not that i’ve not tried to build a dam


ask my therapist who pays her mortgage

my cost of living went up
at five years old when i told my mother i have to stop going to birthday parties because every time i hear a balloon pop i feel like i’m gonna get murdered in the heart


last year a balloon popped on the stage at a concert and i started crying in front of the whole crowd
plugged my ears and kept repeating the word “ LOUD LOUD LOUD LOUD ”
it was super ****

that’s what i have to do
super ****

like when i asked the super cute barista 11 times ‘ are you sure this is decaffeinated ? are you sure this is decaffeinated ? are you sure this ’ - YES
i drink decaffeinated and still jitter like a bug running from the
bright bright bright

i have spent years of my life wearing a tight rubber band hidden beneath my hair so my brain could have a hug


i only ever wear a tie so that when i convince myself
i’m choking my senses have something they are certain they can blame

as a kid i was so certain i would die the way of  meteor falling on my head
i would go whole weeks without looking at the sky
because i didn’t want to witness the coming of my own death

i started tapping the kitchen sink seven times to build a shield

my mother started making lists of everything i thought would **** me in hopes that if i saw my fears
they would disappear

bless her heart ,
but the first time i saw that list i started filling a salad bowl with bleach and soaking my shoe laces overnight
so in the morning when i ironed them they would be so bright i would be
certain i had control over how much dark could break into my light
how much jack hammer could break into my heart
my spine it has always been a lasso that could never catch my breath

i honestly can’t imagine how it would feel to walk into a room full of people and not feel the roof collapsing on my
‘ NO NO NO '

i am not fine

fine is the suckiest word
it never tells the truth

and more than anything i have ever been afraid of i am terrified of lies
how they war the world
how they sound by our tongues
how they bone dry the marrow

how did we get through high school without being taught dr. king spent two decades having panic attacks ?
avoided windows
jumped at thunder

i think we are all part flight the fight
part run for your life
part ‘ please please please like me ’
part can’t breathe
part scared to say you’re scared
part say it anyway

you panic button collector
you clock of beautiful ticks
you run out the door if you need to
you flock to the front row of your own class
you feather everything until you know you can always ,
always shake like a leaf on my family tree and know you belong here

you belong here and everything you feel is okay
**everything you feel is okay

marry someone who lets you have a bite of their brownie , 
even when you said you weren’t hungry . 
marry someone who laughs at the same things you do .
marry someone who kisses your nose on a cold day . 
marry someone who you can watch disney movies with . 
marry someone who is proud of you whether you earn $5 a week or $5,000 a week . 
marry someone who you can tell everything to . marry someone who isn’t afraid or embarrassed to hold your hand in
public .
marry someone who you can spend the day in Ikea with without feeling stressed . 
marry someone who wraps you up inside their coat in the winter . 
marry someone who accepts your fears and phobias . 
marry someone who gives you butterflies every time you hear their key in the door . 
marry someone who you don’t always have to shave your legs for . 
marry someone who accepts you all day every day , even when you don’t look or feel your best . 
marry someone who puts three sugars in your tea , despite telling them 
“ just the two ” . 
marry someone who doesn’t judge you when you eat your body weight in cookies . 
marry someone who doesn’t make you want to check your phone, because you know they will reply .
marry someone who waits with you to get on the train . 
marry someone who understands that you need to be alone sometimes .
marry someone who gets on well with your parents and isn’t uptight about family events . 
marry someone who calms you down when you get mad about stupid stuff , and never tells you it’s “ only stupid stuff ” . 
marry someone who makes you want to be a better person . 
marry someone who makes you laugh . 
marry someone who you love . 
marry your soulmate , your lover , 
your best friend .

most people ask me
why aren’t you happy ?
like they’re happy , their spirits bent in the shape of a
smile . fools, who haven’t noticed philosophy ,
or that the heart is a domino , stacked in a line of many .
black dots separated by black lines .
i'm always trying to rub my tender-flesh thumbs across the surface .
my heart is blind , but the braille doesn't translate into blood .

my love for you never seemed to be in english , but in sign-language ; our hands
knew just what to say to keep the happiness flowing with the sweat dripping from our heavy heads .
we held hands in public last week for the first time .
my heart jumped from my chest to my fingertips as your fingertips tapped
i  love  you  in morse code .
i had never felt so bold in my life . i wanted to run down every street corner
with your hand in my fist sceaming "LOOK AT THIS"

my love doesn't know how to be silent yet .
my heart just keeps thumpthumpthumping out of my chest , and i know that if i say the wrong thing
you'll leave .

i told the map in my soul to take me home , but the word error kept covering the screen .
it couldn't find you , so it panicked . i panicked when my blood attacked the dashboard like a
flash-flood .
you always used to be standing next to me . love is not a pair of domino-dotted hands .
love is not a language that my mind or my body understand .

at fifteen i drew a map of my high school
and stuck gold stars on all the girl’s bathrooms -
this is the best one for crying , for hiding , for skipping class because you are afraid of the wrath of a teacher whose class you skip too often .
i used to sit in the stalls and draw hearts on the scars on my knuckles .
at fifteen i was afraid to raise my hand , to break the spell of invisibility .
i thought nobody could see me
and i liked it that way .
but today , on the edge of eighteen , feeling golden
i went to the bathroom that used to be the best room for hiding.
i went to wash my hands and check my makeup ,
not to run from any demons except the fullness of a lit class lecture .
and i expected to be alone ,
but i wasn’t .
she was on her knees in a stall ,
high school sophomore , sobbing and coughing and gagging .
when i came in she started gasping
and scrambled to her feet .
here she was , hiding like i had for so many years
and i was banging on the stall door .
because i have always been the unfunny tall one ,
unable to connect or understand or relate .
i have always felt like an alien , gasping words in a foreign tongue
before an audience of unforgiving strangers .
it isn’t funny ; it’s scary .
and when you are tired , kneeling on the tile floor of your high school bathroom ,
vomiting lunch and flushing ,
you understand more than anybody
that hell is not in the afterlife :
it is a place we visit on earth .
so i was banging on the stall door ,
praying she was a stranger .
she said , “ leave .”
and i said , “ god , i can’t .
hell is a high school bathroom .
will you talk to me .”
she was fifteen , blonde with scars on her knuckles and makeup stains on her cheeks .
i said , “ listen to me .”
i said , “ you are brave simply for existing .”
and she cried , and she cried , and she cried .
she said , “ i’m only fifteen and i’m sorry .
i didn’t mean to end up here , with a stranger staring me down .
i didn’t mean to be so ***** and worthless ,
but i don’t think i can do this anymore .”
i gave her a tissue.
she said , “ i’m failing math and english class and i have a D in science and my friends can’t stand me , and lunch is awful alone ; no one ever invites me to parties , and boys think i’m fat and i’m ugly and i’m lonely , god , i’m so lonely and no one can save me and nothing’s worth saving .”
when i was fifteen i used to practice writing suicide notes in my diary .
it was never serious ,
it was just an idea to play with when i felt unwanted :
letters from the deepest cracks of high-school society .
god , it was like looking into a mirror .
i saw the blush in her cheeks , the brightness behind her eyes , and the fading scars on her thighs .
high school sophomore , you know you will not be this girl forever .
beyond the unfinished homework and the test scores is an entire world worth seeing .
she said , “ i am in love with a boy and he doesn’t love me .”
i said , “ it’s the same for everybody .”
“ i don’t want to live , but i don’t want to die .
i guess i don’t want to do anything .”
she was fifteen and as wild as a poisonous berry .
i told her i could hear god in her raw throat and see infinity in her eyes .
there isn’t much you can say to a girl who doesn’t want to die ,
but at fifteen i didn’t feel like doing anything either .
i told her , “ a year from now you will see things clearer than you ever have before .
a year from that you will be back in the bathroom , looking at the floor and seeing ghosts .
there isn’t a lot you feel like doing , but right now you don’t need to .
i feel happy for you .
soon you will be lifting yourself from the floor of the bathroom , and walking swiftly in the direction of your dreams .
at the first sign of change you will feel your insides exploding .
it is beautiful ; there is so much to learn about living ,
so much to learn about humans and strangers and the feelings that keep us connected .
what is happening now is not worth forgetting .”
and she said “ i’m scared because i skipped class for the first time two months ago , and now i skip an average of eight classes a week . last month i smoked **** for the first time and now i feel guilty .
my best friend hates me . i don’t know what to do because i keep crushing delicate things with my fists . there is a scar the shape of a cross on my wrist, but last week I burned my bible .”
i smiled and looked in the mirror .
i told her ,
“ at fifteen i was just as lost as you are . i’m still lost , for the most part . i still want things i don’t need and feel emotions too deeply , but i’m learning .
and i learned a lot more by burning on the floors of bathrooms than by sitting in classes .
keep your face forward . trust everyone . you are living in the world like a wildflower , and you will be just as beautiful .
god , high school sophomore , you will find everything you are looking for .
just remember nothing matters
as much as you think .”

i pick you up from the earlobes ,
shining in the december of your adolescence .

this morning a 19 year old boy asked me how to spell achievement .

this afternoon i saw exhaustion in a single mother's fingers .

i saw peace in the bald , pink cancer patient seeking holistic remedies at Whole Foods .
the weary barista delights in his tip jar .

and this
this is the tip

of the glacier 
that is hope ;
a shipwrecked shore to call home

you are not from here
sailor .
do not anchor 
your worries to reality ..

we all beat the ocean 
in our sleep

i want a good heart .
i want it to be made of good stuff .
i want the stain glass window builder to be my drinking buddy .
i want to drink only the punch of a million gender queer school kids taking free martial arts lessons to survive recess .
i stopped calling myself a pacifist when I heard gandhi told women they should not physically fight off their rapists .
i believe there is such a thing as a non violent fist .
i believe the earth is a woman muzzled , beaten , tied to the cold slinging tracks .
i believe the muzzled have every right to rip off the bible belt and take it to the patriarchy’s *** .
i know these words are going to get me in trouble .
it is never polite to throw back the tear gas .
just like its never polite to bring enough life rafts .
they crowd the balconies where the wealthy shine their jewels .
but sometimes love ..
sometimes real love
is ******* rude .
is interrupting a wedding mid vow just as the congregation is about to cry .
to stand up in your pew to say 
“ is everyone here clear on how diamonds are mined ?” 
hallelujah to every drag queen at stonewall who made weapons out of her stiletto shoes .
hallelujah to the blues keeping the neighborhood awake .
to the activist standing in the snow outside of the circus 
holding a ten foot photograph 
of a baby elephant in chains ,
when it’s probably some little kid’s birthday .
hallelujah to making everyone uncomfortable .
to the terrible manners of truth .
to refusing to clean the blood off the plate .
bend this spine into a bow 
i can pull across the cello of my speech .
love readies its heart’s teeth ,
chews through the etiquette leash .
takes down the cellphone tower after millions of people die in wars in the congo fighting for the minerals that make our cellphones . 
love blows up the dam .
chains itself to the redwood tree ,
to the capital building when a trailer of mexican immigrants are found dead on the south texas roadside .
love insists well intentioned white people officially stop calling themselves color blind .
insists hope lace it’s ******* boots 
always calls out the misogynist , racist , homophobic joke . 
refuses to be a welcome mat where hate wipes its feet .
love asks questions at the most inappropriate times .
overturns the defense of marriage act then walks a pride parade . asking when the plight of poor single mothers will ignite our hearts into action like that .
love is not polite .
deadlocks our rush hour traffic with a hundred stubborn screaming bikes .
hallelujah to every suffrage movement , hunger strike .
hallelujah to insisting they get your pronouns right .
hallelujah to tact never winning our spines .
to taking our power all the way back to that first glacier that had to learn how to swim .
to not turning our heads from a single ugly truth .
to knowing we live in a time when beauty recruits its models outside the doors of eating disorder clients .
that is not a metaphor .
this is not a line to a poem .
an indian farmer walks into a crowd of people and stab himself in his chest to protest 
the poisoning of his land .
a buddhist monk burns himself alive on the streets of saigon .
a united states' soldier hangs himself wearing his enemy’s dog tags around his holy neck .
may my heart be as heavy 
as a tuba in the front row of the mardi gras parade five months after katrina .
may it weigh the weight of the world 
so it might anchor the sun 
so it might hold me to my own light until i am willing to sweat as much as i cry .
until i am willing to press into the clay of our precious lives .
a window .
might our grace riot the walls down .
may the drought howl us awake
may we rush into the streets 
to do the work of opening each other’s eyes .
may our good hearts forever be 
too loud to let the neighbors sleep .

at the end of your ten day meditation retreat
you got in your car drove thirty peaceful feet and ran over a bird .
splayed its holy guts on the pavement like god
finger-painting
*******
across that deep breath
you were holding the way your mother held her first born .

you , thank goodness , were torn from the bible the day before they burned it for the verse about dancing to tambourines .
once you saw the blood of christ on a knife carving redwood trees into church pews .
now every sunday morning you hear glaciers melting and you cry easy
as a one night stand never ever is
when you see the feathers in your rear-view mirror scattering like prayers
searching for a safe place to land .

hold me to my word when i tell you i will leave today ,
catch a bus ticket west just to stand in the center of your highway
blocking traffic ‘til every feather’s answered .
i’ve see too many prayers caught in the grills of 18 wheelers and folks like us
have shoulder blades that rust in the rain ,
but they’re still g sharp whenever our spinal chords are tuned to the key of redemption .
so go ahead world pick us
to make things better .

we’ve been building a bridge through the center of this song since Mother Theresa replaced the walls of her church with the weeping cries of calcutta’s orphaned ghettos .
you wanna know what the right wing never got ?
we never questioned the existence of god .
what we questioned is his bulldozer turning palestine into a gas chamber .
what we questioned is the manger in macy’s
and the sweatshops our children call the north pole .
what we question are the sixty swollen lashes on the back of a girl found guilty
of the crime of allowing herself to be brutally ***** .
what we question is the idea of a heaven having gates .
silly .

have you never stood on the end of pier watching the moon live up to her name ?
have you never looked in the eyes of a thief and seen his children’s hungry bellies ?
some days my heart beats so fast
my ribcage sounds like a ******* railroad track
and my breath is a train i just can’t catch .

so when my friends go filling their lungs with yes .
when they’re peeling off their armor and falling like snowflakes on your holy tongue .
god collects the feathers .
we are thick skin covering nothing , but wish bones .
break in .
you’ll find notebooks full of jaw lines we wrote to religion’s clenched fist .
yeah , we bruise easy .
but the sound of our bouncing back is a grand canyon full of choir claps .
and our five pointed stars have always been open to the answer
whatever it is .

i know david argued with the chisle .
i know he said make me softer
when those tourists come looking for a hero
i want the rain to puddle in my pores .
build me holy like that .
build me a kite flown out a bedroom window at midnight
the day freedom set its curfew to 9:11 .

my heaven is a snow globe .
the blizzard will always be worth the touch of your hand ,
shaking me awake like a boy taking deep breaths
all the way down to the dents in his shins
like he’s building a telephone from a string and two tin cans .
he knows god’s number by heart .
he knows it isn’t listed in any book .
look me in the bull’s eye ,
in the laws I broke and the promises i didn’t
in the batteries I found when the lights went out
and the prayers i found when the brakes did too .
i got this moment and no idea when it will end .
but every second of this life is scripture
and to know that
trust me,  we don’t need to be born
again .

there are days when there is no way
not even a chance
that i dare for even a second glance at the reflection of my body in the mirror and she knows why
like i know why she only cries when she feels she’s about to lose control
she knows how much control is worth
knows how much a woman can lose when her power to move
is taken away
by a grip so thick with hate it could clip the wings of god
send the next eight generations of your blood shaking
and tonight something inside me is breaking

my heart beating so deep beneath the sheets of pain
i could give every tear she’s crying a name
a year
and a face i’d forever erase if i could just like she would
for you
or me
but how free would any of us be if even a few forgot what too many women in this world cannot
and what the hell would you tell your daughter ?

your someday-daughter when you have to hold her beautiful face to the beat-up face of this place that hasn’t learned the meaning of
STOP
what would you tell you daughter
of the womb ***** empty ?
the eyes swollen shut , the gut too frightened to hold food
it was seven minutes of the worst kind of hell
seven

and she stopped believing in heaven
mistrust became her law , fear her bible , the only chance of survival
don’t trust any of them
bolt the doors to your home , iron-gate the windows , walking to the car alone , get the key in the lock .
please
please , please , please open
like already she can feel the five-fingered noose around her neck , two-hundred pounds of hate digging graves into the sacred soil of her flesh
please
please , please , please , please open
already she can hear the broken-record of the defense :
“ answer the question , answer the question , answer the question miss ”
why am i on trial for this ?
would you talk to your mother , your daughter , your sister like this ?
i am generations of mothers , daughters , sisters
our bodies battlefields , war zones beneath the weapons of your brothers’ hands
do you know they've found land mines in broken women’s souls ?
black holes in the parts of their hearts that once sang symphonies of creation as bright as the light on infinity’s halo ?

she said , i remember how love used to glow like glitter on my skin before he made his way in ,
now every touch feels like a sin that could crucify medusa .
bury me in a blue blanket so god doesn't know i’m a girl ,
cut off my curls ,
I want peace when i’m dead

her friend knocks at the door , it’s been three weeks , don’t you think it’s time you got out of bed ?
no.
the ceiling fan still feeling like his breath , i think i need just a few more days of rest
bruises on her knees from begging to forget
she’s heard stories of vietnam vets who can still feel the tingling of their amputated limbs
she’s wondering how many women are walking around this world still feeling the tingling of their amputated wings ,
remembering what it was to fly ,
to sing

tonight
she’s not wondering what she would tell her daughter
she knows what she would tell her daughter ,
she’d ask her what gods do you believe in?
i’ll build you temple of mirrors so you can see them
pick the brightest star you ever wished on and i’ll show the light in you that made that wish come true

tonight
she’s not asking what you would tell your daughter , she’s life deep in the hell , the slaughter
has already died a thousand deaths with every unsteady breath
a thousand graves in every pore of her flesh
and she knows the war’s not over ,
she knows there’s bleeding to come
knows she’s far from the only woman or girl trusting this world no more than the hands trust rusted barbed wire

she was whole before that night ,
believed in heaven before that night
and she knows she’s not only one , knows she won’t be the only one

tonight
she’s not asking
what you’re gonna tell your daughter ,
she’s asking what
you’re going to teach
your **son

the day you left me in the cold was the day i knew you loved me .
love isn't a dish served hot ,
but a flower that is frozen in an ice cube and put in a cup so that it may slightly touch your lips
every once in a while .
i told you that i thought icicles were magic ,
and the next day you brought me an icicle from the neighbor's roof ,
so sharp i could stab a hole in my heart ,
and placed it in my freezer .

i kept that magic in my freezer for 4 months , until i broke my finger and needed something to reduce the swelling .

love is like that ,
not always magic ..... sometimes it's just
melting .
sometimes it's black and blue .
sometimes it hurts the most .
last night i saw your ghost
peddling a bicycle with a basket past a moon as full as my heavy head
and i wanted nothing more than to be sitting in that basket
like E.T.
with my glowing heart beating out of my chest
and my glowing finger tips point toward our home .

you built me a time capsule full of juicy fruit and promised never to burst my bubble .
i want our first date to be at the batting cages ,
where i'll miss every hit , but you'll still look at me with your starry eyes like i'm a home run in the ninth inning of the world series .
now every time i think of love , i think
going , going ......

the first week you were gone to college
i kept seeing your hand wave goodbye like a windsheild wiper in a flooding car
in the last real moment i thought the hurricane would let me out alive .

yesterday , i carved your name into an ice cube and held it against my heart until it melted
into my aching pores
today , i cried so hard that the neighbors knocked on my door and asked if i wanted to borrow some
sugar ...
i told them i had left my sweet tooth in your mouth .

love isn't always magic ,
but i offered my life to a magician ; i told him to cut me in half just so i could come back to you
whole
and ask for you back , would you listen ?

i wrote too many poems in a language i did not yet know how to speak ,
but i know now
it doesn't matter how well i say grace if i am sitting at a table where i am offering no bread to eat .
so this is my wheat field ,
you can have every acre , love ..
this is my garden song
this is my fist fight with that bitter frost .

tonight , i begged another stage light to become that back alley street lamp that we danced beneath
the night your warm mouth fell on my timid cheek
as i sang maybe i need you
off key ,
but in tune ....
maybe i need you the way that big moon needs that open sea
maybe i didn't even know i was here til i saw you holding me
give me one room to come home to
give me the palm of your hand , every strand of my hair is a kite string ,
and i have been blue in the face with your sky , crying a flood over iowa so you mother will wake to venice .

lover , i smashed my glass slipper to build a stained glass window for every wall inside my chest ..
now my heart is a pressed flower and a tattered bible ;
it is the one verse you can trust .
so i'm putting all of my words in the collection plate ,
i am setting the table with bread and grace .
my knees are bent , like the corner of a page ;
i am saving your place .

i.
silent words are mouthed through silent bodies ,
and if my love was not enough i don't know what to tell you ..
i have nothing left to give .

ii.
heavy hearts come with loose sleeves , but you're wearing your great grandfather's cuff links ,
so i won't have to worry about your soul slipping .

iii.
sleep doesn't do much for me now ,
neither love , nor singing , nor reading Shakespeare out of an English textbook with twenty owners ..
but when words snake out of those torn lips , honey , my breath travels with them .

iv.**
you're gone ....
honey doesn't flow as easily now , but the bees still sting just as fiercely .
flowers hardly bloom this time of year .
snow piles on the driveway , and my car is stuck .
i can't come visit you ...
you're gone ....

use your body ;
use it to put me to sleep .
the warmth of your breath on my skin ..
i have become a plant , taking in your carbon dioxide and making sugar that forms on my lips .


love is warm , but not as warm as you are ..
your hands are 200 Kelvin ,
and sometimes i have blisters in the morning when i wake up , if you have been there the night before .


love is cold , but not as cold as you are ..
your lips are far below freezing ,
and sometimes i become numb on my chest , and my mouth , and my neck .


love hurts me , but not as much as you do ..
but I have algolognia ,
and that pain transforms into instant pleasure as you bite , and pull , and pinch .

death is pretty with white funeral lilies .
death is expensive with the new black dresses and shiny mary - jane's .
death is quiet .....

unless you were there and you heard them cry out
hold me !
unless you sat beside them and listened to there hoarse breath and saw the blood they tried to hide
in a napkin ..
unless you saw then try to pay for their own funeral arrangements , and hospital bill ..
unless they asked you what they should get carved into stone and placed on top of their skull .

accuse me .
tell me i'm the one who let them go ..
who let them slip through my fingers , which are just as cold and as numb as the dead ..
tell me i'm the one who sat in the hospital for some extra cash ...

death is pretty with white funeral lilies .
death is expensive with the new black dresses and shiny mary - jane's .
death is quiet .....

where were you ...?

she was 10 ,
and love was measured in bruises
in her house ,
and when father got home from
work
she and her brother would race to find
the best hiding place .
her tears picking up pace with each
foot step that she heard .
she wouldn't dare to utter a word as she saw
his shoes , too close to her face .
she hid under the bed ,
hoping that springs and sheets
were enough to keep her safe .

she caught a glimpse of her brothers toes ,
sticking out from the space under the closet door .
father moved toward him ..

she felt herself **** in a breath .

father would skin him
and wear him with pride
and fold him upon a wire hanger with the
rest of the
coats
in that closet .
........
that night , they counted up their cuts and scars and bruises and brokeness ,
and decided that they had collected just enough to move away .
and so ,
they packed blankets
and apples ,
and not oranges because they were both allergic ,
and 5 nickles and 7 pennies she had been saving up for a doll ..
and they snuck out the front door ,
but they both hardly thought of it as sneaking
because father was sleeping with a shine in his skin
and shine in a bottle that was at his fingertips .

they crossed the street
and a light , so bright smacked their vision ,
came at them before they knew it was a light .
but they awoke in clean jeans and white t-shirts
with their backpacks still on their backs -
feeling as light as air , and walking on clouds .
someone had spit-shined the roads --
they seemed to sparkle like gold .
and mother was at the end of the glittering path ,
smiling that angel smile she always had on in the mornings
before the morning when they dressed all in black .
they looked about to see gates made of mother's necklaces ,
and smelled the sea salt
and knew they were

**home .

i.
i think i have a bug bite
for every
kiss that you planted on my
neck ,
arms ,
chest .
ii.
my jaw is set on
vibrate
and your legs are between my legs .
sensative .
i can't speak ,
and i can barely breathe straight ,
but i can feel ..
iii.
pretty .
like i matter .
my body is outside
and inside
and i can see you and me ,
feel you and me .
iv.
lights dance on and i start praying to a god
i don't believe in
that we're not caught and it's not ruined .
and that this isn't a dream .
and that you're real .
vi.
you come over the next morning .
and you smile .
and i smile .
and it starts all over again .
over and over and over and over in my head
on my neck .
on my arms .
on my chest .
in my mouth .
v.**
i love you .

I met you four years ago
and I hated you .

four years later ,
and we are holding each other
on you mattress , and I'm
stuck between finding warmth
in arms that aren't mine ,
and mining trees to make sticks .

you always end up holding me .
you always end up holding me .
you always end up holding me .

and I'm realizing now
that you aren't holding me
so that I will feel better ;
you are holding me because
you see me cracking
and you see the pieces of my
heart breaking off into your hand
and you don't walk away .

you're good at making things ,
and you know how to
put it back together .

and it scares me
that you take so much time
and care into looking at each
piece and finding its place .
because you see things
that I haven't seen .

maybe you're an angel
sent from god to prep me for
eternity ,
or maybe you're a demon
sent from hell
as a house-warming gift ,
but at this point
it doesn't matter ;

just as long as I got to keep you
for a little while .

you told me that
drinking
was bad for me
I told you that my
numbness
was worse than any shot of liquor  
it's getting difficult to wake up
again
and I wish I could be a
better
friend
and I feel so bad for the people
who love me against their will

you're
hurting
too and I don't know what to say
because I'm
not
sure that it will be okay

this doesn't mean anything
and I hope that means something

**let me hold your hand

i

I can’t tell you

how much I miss you

without tearing 
a few pages from your rib

ii
setting your eyes on fire 
begging you not to beg me 
kissing me whilst I try 
not to plant these memory seeds on your lips

iii
they grow into thorns 
piercing my life 
into a sore pink 
like watermelon flesh

iv**
you were born to be remembered , not missed

being missed means you eat up people’s memory space 
leaving them full of you 

but empty of now
and lost searching for a shadow of your smile