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 .

you will never be let down by anyone
more than you will be let down
by the one you love most in the world
it’s how gravity works
it’s why they call it falling
it’s why the truth is harder to tell
every year
you have more to lose
but you can choose to bury your past
in the garden
beside the tulips
water it
until it’s so alive
it lets go
and you belong to yourself
again

when you belong to yourself again
remember forgiveness
is not a tidy grave
It is a ready loyal knight kneeling before your royal heart

call in your royal heart
tell it bravery cannot be measured by a lack of fear
it takes guts to tremble
it takes so much tremble to love
every first date is an earth quake

sweetheart , on our first date
I showed off all my therapy
I flaunted the couch
where I finally sweat out my history
pulled out the photo album from the last time I wore a lie to the school dance
I smiled and said
“that was never my style
look how fixed I am
look how there’s no more drywall on my fist
look at the stilts I’ve carved for my short temper
look how my wrist is not something I have to hide”
I said
well , I was hiding it

the telephone pole still down from the storm
by our third date I had fixed the line
I said listen ,
I have a hard time
and by that I mean I cry as often as most people *** and I don’t shut the door behind me
I’ll be up in your face screaming

“SEATTLE IS TOO RAINY SEATTLE IS TOO RAINY
IM NEVER GOING TO BE ABLE TO LIVE HERE .”

I sobbed on our fourth date

I can’t live here
in my body , and by that I mean
I can’t live in my body all the time it feels too much
so if I ever feel far away know I am not gone
I am just underneath my grief
adjusting the dial on my radio face so I can take this life with all of it’s love and all of it’s loss

see I already know that you are the place where I am finally going to sing without any static which means
I’m never gonna wait
that extra twenty minutes
to text you back ,
and I’m never gonna play
hard to get
when I know your life
has been hard enough already .
when we all know everyone’s life
has been hard enough already

it’s hard to watch
the game we make of love ,
like everyone’s playing checkers
with their scars ,
saying checkmate
whenever they get out
without a broken heart .

just to be clear
I don’t want to get out
without a broken heart .
I intend to leave this life
so shattered
there’s gonna have to be
a thousand separate heavens
for all of my separate parts
and none of those parts are going to be wearing the romance from the overpriced vintage rack
that is to say I am not going to get a single speed bike if I can’t make it up the hill
I know exactly how many gears I’m going to need to love you well
and none of them look hip at the hot coffee shop
they all have god saying

“good job . you’re finally not full of ******* .
you finally met someone who’s going to flatten your knee caps into skipping stones ."

throw me
throw me as far as I can go
I don’t want to leave this life without ever having come home
and I want to come home to you
I can figure out the rain .

my dad
"found"
my tumblr blog ..

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 .”

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.

I dreampt of you again last night ---
so sweet , it was a nightmare .
an apparition of your hand embalmed in mine .
"poofing" in the smoke of my reality come back to life .

the way you looked at me so fond ; I can never forget .
it brings the tears like a monsoon .
the time going on and on ; post -traumatic .
I age ten years in the span of two months .
living ; learning .

and I still love you .
like pneumonia that never leaves ...
there is always a risk of the sickness again .
take caution .
do I want to fall ill again ?
the second time may come to pass ---
my death would then be on your hands (yours are so lovely) .

and I am so lonely ...

I sit before flowers

hoping they will train me in the art

of opening up

I stand on mountain tops believing

that avalanches will teach me to let go

I know

nothing
but I am here to learn .

here to breathe
and live a new life
among stars and planets .

here , where
your mind
and
your body
are desperate for the same thing
desperate to learn
to know .

to know the secrets
of the universe you fly in
and the happiness your soul
has dived in .

to know love ;
to know life ;
to know all .

I always spill my stupid feelings
and they always
get all over the floor
and I've got to clean

because no one cups their hands
or gets a towel
or helps , or anything

they all just stand and watch
as you try to wipe it up
and they smile
because it's their house
and you're cleaning it for
free

and my godfather
definitely isn't
a fairy*

grandmother's ice - cold words
frosting a gown
a pair of glass slippers
that you smash on the ground
bleed
keep walking forward , like you're told

and my mother isn't a step
up from anyone I've met
she's just like everyone else

my father is silent
dead

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 .

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 .

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 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

i was raised up
to sing ,
and to praise god ,
and to say amen .

nothing else .

but as i live this life
with all of the forks
in my yellow brick road ,
that i was urged to travel on
by people in my life
who i realize now
were children
compared to people who cared ,

i see no god .
i see no praise ,
for him or anyone else
that is said to deserve it .

i hear no singing .
just see thousands of quarter notes
in a hymnal book that five people
pick up
and study , like it's their job .

i hear no independent amen .
it is only said after one person's prayer
is finished
and after they have used
pointless
s p a c e f i l l e r s .

" dear
lord , we just thank you father
for the day to day lord . and
god , we just love you lord . and heavenly father ,
we would like to pray, lord , for those who couldn't
make it to this service tonight , god .
remember , dear lord , our soliders , god .
remember those of your children , father ,
who have strayed from you path god , and
please help them dear jesus to
find their way way back to you , heavenly father .
in jesus' name . amen ."

THEY KNOW WHO THEY ARE PRAYING TOO .
THEY NEED NOT A REMINDER EVERY SECOND .

i bet god gets sick
of his own name .

i bet he changed it
like mom does when the kids say "MOM"
too much .

maybe that is why prayers
aren't getting answered anymore .


i bet he changed it to something awesome , too .

like Spacefiller Christ .



i think a chorus of silent , heartfelt prayers
and hushed amen's
would be more beautiful
than any robotic , unified repeat ;
more beautiful
than any hymn .






STOP .


you are not just
one of god's children ;
you are whatever you want to be .

god is not glenda
and the devil does not only reside
in the west .

life was made
for you to awaken
from this controlled dream
and hug your auntie em
and to work on the farm in kansas
until you get the money to go
where you want to go .

you don't need to click your heels .
not even once .




you just need to wake up .

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 .

the spring after we both killed ourselves ,
I with a box cutter to the wrists and
you by leaping off the roof
of your business partner’s fourteen-story office , the crocuses
came up as usual , yellow tongues
like saxophones poking
through the earth .
when you arrived to pick me up ,
I answered
the door in my underwear since ghosts have no need
for either clothing or modesty .
you stood on your tiptoes
to kiss me , and when our mouths touched we felt
that old familiar wound
of self-pity .
at the tattoo parlor ,
so I could get the vertical scars
on my wrists inked back on in a
stronger color ,
the artist
would not let a dead couple through his door .
I pleaded with him that we would tell no one else ,
that we were not like the usual dead , not scary ,
not like zombies or ****** gang members , but to no avail .
at the café where we next stopped for raspberry lattes ,
the other patrons stared at us without inhibition ,
searched the air for the smell of rot .
there was none .
later , at home after the movie in which everyone left
to sit in another theater after we entered the doors ,
you gave me a bouquet of flowers that wilted in my hands
as soon as I touched them .
we were lovers
that had lived and died together , and our date ended as
they always had in life : with both of us trying not to cry
looking at the floor and wishing we could be more
than our shared self-hatred .

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.

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

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 .

my four-year-old sister asks me where we live , and I tell her
that we live in a land where america is the punchline
to one of god’s jokes
that half of us are busy debating
the existence of ,
while the other half of us are holding
our bibles like they’re grenades that we can lob at
anyone who doesn’t agree with our opinions .
I tell her we’re still busy digging through the mine rocks
of our subconscious for some hope of gold ,
while on the other end of the world there are tribes of people
who are happy just to have charcoal to eat for dinner .
we live in a world ,
I tell her ,
where streets are filled
with the bodies of people who work harder trying to find
a place to live than the people with 5 million paychecks ,
and those bodies get stepped over like doorsteps just the same .
where “ soup kitchen " is a synonym for “ system failure ,"
where sometimes the pops of firecrackers and gunshots
are indistinguishable .
here in america ,
I say , we wear
those pops like bling rings on our index and middle fingers ,
and we flip the middle one at anyone who dares to suggest
that handling a gun like a solution is actually the thing
that creates the problem in the first place .
my four-year-old sister
wants to know about how come
we tighten our coats and purses closer to our bodies
whenever we pass someone of a different color on the street ,
and I tell her that in america ,
we only trust the people
who’ve got the same color of a mood ring as we do .
we live in a place , I tell her ,
where the system has failed
but then again ,
the system wasn’t very much
of a system in the first place.

peter pan said

to
die
would be an awfully big
adventure .

and I've had my bags packed
and my gym shoes on
for the longest time

I had put 
healing on the list .

the grocery list .

the to do list .

the night list .

the things to pack list .
because

I thought that it would help me
to remember
that people care
and that I am worth it ..
but they came to visit
my little apartment
in seattle
and asked what the lists were for
and I told them
and they laughed

those things are not true .
those things are no good .
silly girl , don't be so foolish .


that night
I cried and I ripped down
my lists
and laid face first on my bed ,
letting my makeup run away
from my skin .

but that same night ,
my windows flew open ,
and I saw a shadow take shelter
from the rain outside
and he flew in
with a roosters crow
and a smile
fit for a child .

come with me
to neverland .
you will be away from them .
you will never have to grow up ,
or be saddened by burdens .
you will be a  lost girl ,
not a  lost soul .

I grabbed my backpack
and wiped away clean cheeks
and tied my laces
and flew away .

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

as he tells his stories , I watch , curious .

does he ever feel the body walking next to him ,
the one whose life ended so quickly .
does he feel the ghost of his friend ?

does he hear the guns firing , the bombs booming ,
the cries of his fellow soldiers .
do the sounds play over , terrifying music
without melody ?

does he ever close his eyes and see the battlefield ?
the destruction wrought by only man .
did he ever take a step and feel as if he was on their soil ?

does he ever turn around when called by name ,
and expect to see his fellow fallen soldier ?
does he ever turn and expect to see
the war raging behind him ?

do the images haunt his nightmares ,
his dreams ?
or worse ,
do they haunt his waking moments ?
has he been able to find happiness,
after all he has saw ?
I only hope he has .

the year we dissected a squid and ate its tentacles piece
by piece down at the pier next to your house was the year
you expanded while I grew into myself .
we kissed one another
like good luck charms ,
like talismans , and used
our bodies in place of
fortune tellers .
I read your palm lines
and came to the conclusion that we would be together forever .
you hated the word forever and settled for a long time .
as we grew more familiar
with one another’s skin ,
I watched my intake .
I wanted nothing but you ,
would inhale nothing but you ,
counted my calories
like sheep before
drifting off to sleep .
the less I ate , the more
room I saved for you .
you wanted to swallow me whole
so I fed myself to you
piece by piece , the tender red flesh of my thumbs
and ******* until they grew bruised
by your mouth .
In those days I ate nothing
but a cup of cold cereal .
when we watched the whales dive in the surf ,
slapping the water like winners of an arm wrestling match ,
you were almost as giant as their cavernous ribs .
I was smaller than the smallest school of fish .
I wanted to fade into you, into the house of your lungs ,
so I spent hours ******* in my ribs in front of the mirror .
we became opposites of one another .
but in the end , my wish to become part of you failed ,
and I simply became the skeleton in your closet instead .

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.

still faced child ,
the memories slide against your skin
almost as easily as your makeup .

you don't forget on accident ;
you forget because it's convenient .

something tells me
that it's getting hard to juggle the memories
that you want to remember
and the ones you want to make disappear .

your atlas eyes
take me
to the trailer in petersburg ;
to the cozy neighborhood in warsaw ;

to the dead man in the basement
in dayton ,
with his head on the tile
that was stained red
and the needle
next to his limp hand .

lucky you
that you got to see him .
that you saw his face .
that you were the first to see his
body as relaxed as it was .

a couple days later
you dressed in black
and saw his body again ;
not quite as relaxed ,
and without the lazy smile tracing his closed eyes .
he was stiff as a board ,
and had as much emotion as one .

his sister has gotten a tattoo ,
her arm still sore to the touch
as she recieved hugs
from family and friends and other people
who had that same
lazy smile on their lips
and around their eyes .

the tattoo told you the year he was born
and his name
and the current year
and that he had gone fishing somewhere .
there was a colorful fish between
the sloppily-gathered information ,
greens and yellows and browns .

you look her in the eye ;
she looks like you do
when you are trying to catch the good times that are flying
away ,
caught in the breeze
of ****** ,
and of the funeral feel .

it's sad .. because she has bad memory
and you can tell .

you hug her ,
and make sure not to touch her arm .
it's a sacred limb
that she will skim her fingers against in the mirror
so that she may collect
the good times
and sit down to dinner with them
on sunday evenings
instead of going to church
and sleeping through a sermon .

....

maybe
she will invite you over
for dinner
with her beautiful stories
and her memories
caught fresh from the sky .

**the lord only knows
how much she needs to move
her mouth ;
how much she needs
to speak .

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.

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 .

we met on a
busy
new york sidewalk .

how about this ..
I'll save you from yourself ,
and you give me your heart .

I look at you .
skeptical .
shaking in heavy boots .

okay .

you are reliable , and safe ,
and your eyes look like leaves on trees
and you smell like a forest .
I can't help but give you all of it .



you didn't lie ..
you saved me
from me
but we stood there , and you got bored .

I have to go .

and you dropped me heart
on the cold pavement and went away .
it was a black , disgusting mess ,
and you and I both left it there
to rot .


to die.


and I see you sometimes .
we pass each other on the sidewalk and
look into eyes
that are glazed over and haven't seen anything
worth while
in centuries .
I can't muster up a smile .
you can't muster up strength to wave .
we walk by .
silent .


I shot myself that night ,
and I left you a note .

please give me back my heart .

so you picked up my heart .
went to my funeral
dressed in all white
like the angel you are
and dropped it six feet under
along with my sealed casket .






thanks .

hands on her shoulders
hair down her back
lying to her daughter at home
making barely enoough money to feed
the posibilty of another mouth
another life

she drove seventeen hours to be crumpled
like dust

words hurt when you wait too long
words hurt when she is in your arms
words hurt when they're spat out of a poisonous mouth
words hurt when they're inked to her flesh

but in her anger
she's a fire
raging
in her arms she holds her heart
not on her sleeve just yet
but pretty ******* close

she is honest
not to her daughter
but as a mother

where he sleeps
is where she falls

to another addiction
to another shot of liquid feel-good
to another love

she has a broken heart
that she is trying to sew up
and a tattoo
to prove it

for the longest time I thought that maybe
I
could suffocate you
and
your demons ,
so that you could die
and live
but your parents refused
they said that you would have to be
shocked
and have water that they had to kneel on their knees to make holy
poured onto your face .
it's a little funny though ,
because I don't think anything could shock you more than I did
the night we both heard the
crackcrack
of your ribs as I told I didn't love you
as much
and that I have made you cry
more than twice ,
and your demons know how to swim
because of it .
I never saw you in the hospital ,
but I bet you looked beautiful ,
and vulnerable ,
and scared ,
and scarred ..
I regret it now , not visiting you
because at least you were feeling something there ....
and I would've liked to have seen that ;
I would have liked to see you live
as they watched you ,
and as you died .

it was may twentieth and
he asked me
why I always tried to **** myself .
I never liked this question ,
but I loved him ,
so I told him .

I was like a broken table ,
in the kind of way
where nobody wants to have me
because they're scared I'll
break ,
and even though they know
I'm going to break ,
they keep putting bricks on me ,
expecting me to be **strong .

I listen to comedians on pandora 
because it's the 
comic relief
in the midst of my tragedy 
and I always fall asleep
to the sound of laughter 
just to dream
of death 
and of worthlessness 
and I wonder if maybe
I fell asleep to the sound of
your breathing
that I would dream of better things
but for now
I will lay in the dark
in my black sheets
and stare at a ceiling that I can
barely differentiate 
from anything else in the room
in the world
and I don't know 
how I got here or how I get back 
but louie c.k. and lewis black
remind me that things are funny
that life itself
is one
big
joke
so I go back to sleep under my
black sheets
listening to hard laughter 
as the comedian says 
" if I can prevent my son from being gay , I will "
" I say hate in a harmless way "
" you hate child abuse , but you like strippers "
" taking your clothes off for money is the easiest job in the world "

and I wake up 
to death
and worthlessness

I wake up
to
the world

she stepped out
into the light of day ..
bare .
she was completely alone ..
and worthless ..
and small .

she swallowed silence
like she had not eaten in years ;
she looked just the same .

the silence and beatings
and numbness
she felt
was poured from her wrists
in hundreds upon hundreds
of beatings of her own .

her skin was pale .
her bones were fragile .

she was eighteen ,
born on an april tuesday .
she had lost her name
to the voices inside of her .
they had named her ana .

she trusted no one .
she loved no one .
she was harsh and numb ..

but most of all ....
ana
was lost .

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 ...?

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.

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 ...

I was in the winter of my life ,
and the men I met along the road were my only summer .
at night I fell asleep
with visions of myself ,
dancing and laughing and crying with them .
three years down the line
of being on an endless tour ,
and my memories of them
were the only things that sustained me ;
my only real happy times .
I was a singer - not a very popular one ,
I once had dreams
of becoming a beautiful poet ,
but upon an unfortunate
series of events saw those dreams dashed and divided
like a million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again , sparkling and broken.
but I didn't really mind
because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted , and then losing it
to know what true freedom is .
when the people I used to know found out what I had been doing , how I'd been living ,
they asked me why - but there's no use
in talking to people who have a home .
they have no idea what it's like to seek safety
in other people - for home to be wherever you lay your head .
I was always an unusual girl .
my mother told me I had a chameleon soul , no moral compass pointing due north ,
no fixed personality ;
just an inner indecisiveness
that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean ..
and if I said I didn't plan
for it to turn out this way
I'd be lying .
because I was born to be the other woman .
who belonged to no one ,
who belonged to everyone.
who had nothing ,
who wanted everything ,
with a fire for every experience
and an obsession for freedom
that terrified me
to the point
that I couldn't even talk about it , and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me .

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 .

love is a flame
but mine doesn't warm you
I love you like an inferno
you would be ashes in the blink of an eye
maybe that's why you stand so far back

once upon a time I felt
your hand on mine
and I loved you
and you loved me .
my mother always said
that love was a treasure
that pirates tried to take
from peter and wendy
in neverland ;
our love was kind of the same .
always needing guarding .
always needing tender care .

you flew away to be with the mermaids

I stayed to protect the gold .

it wasn't just the way you
looked at her
or the way that you didn't even
flinch
as she accidentally placed
her hand on yours
when you both reached for
the same thing
it was the way you
talked to each other
the way you guys spoke
like she never broke your heart
in the first place
the way your eyes seemed to
shine
when she made a comment
toward you revealed that
your feelings for her
would never change

and though it seems
like all I've ever wanted is
for you to look at me
like a blind boy who
had seen the sunrise for
the first time
and talk to me like we have
known each other
for years
I can't hate her

I can't even pretend
because she makes you so

*happy .