Anything can sound silly
death threats from the weak
and admissions of love
from sociopaths
the height of hilarity
a squeaky voice
will do a good job
at stealing the strength
of any sentence.

looking at the sky
is enough to make you feel
more insignificant
than the bacteria we crush
beneath our feet
which begs the question;
are we so tiny
that all of our efforts
all of our actions
amount to nothing?
or are we small enough
that every single thing we do
matters?
you said you hoped it was the latter
I do, too.

you always told me I was patient
so patient I will be
I'll wake up in the morning
and I'll go about my day
and I'll stop by to see you on the way home
even though you're never there
but you always told me I was patient
so patient I will be
I'll sit here on this mound of dirt
for an hour every evening
and I'll wait for you to come home
I'll wait for your voice to dance across the stones around me
like it used to
if I listen hard enough
sometimes I can hear it
but as soon as I turn, it's gone
so I'll stare at your name
engraved on this slab of granite
till the sun goes down
and maybe a little longer after that
just waiting for you to come home

he is a cocoon,
a rock,
an escape,
he keeps you warm on sunday mornings,
makes you feel safe and secure.
but deep down
you know that this
just temporary.
and that
you need to
grow your wings and
fly away
soon.

I skirt the edges of humanity,
a lone wolf, incalculable
in silent black dresses that flutter
and colossal ideas that squirm,
yearning to see themselves
reflected back in the moonlight.

You shift on my horizons,
a quiet place amidst the swell
of violent noise and clenched teeth,
and something in you keeps
drawing me back- a magnetism.
I walk amongst your leaves,
feel your scattered light,
and it is calm. It is home.

You see me, not the smiling
daguerreotype that I paste up,
but deeper- inky black and serpentine,
with feelings that swell
and burst like balloons.

We tread lightly over the bones
of things we've left unsaid,
our eyes reflecting mirror images
of words that swim and satiate
this primal thirst, a spark
of unconventional
connectivity.

Blue wind encapsulates
in the midst of this ephemeral
autumn madness,
and my hands shake
as I try to forget.

I am just a human,
small and faulted,
trying like hell to squelch
the siren songs
of these maniac thoughts
buzzing like bees
through the empty spaces
within my skull.

I am just a silent body
and grey matter processing
words and colors
that feel truer
than any cheap emotions.

Cold light illuminates
and sparks nostalgia
and I am just
two eyes
retreating
into the mist.

he covers you with his body and his hands like he wants you to disappear from the rest of the world. he says he wants to keep you all to himself, that he wants to be the only one to really see all of you but you think that maybe he just wants you to be invisible. he wants to make you small, to quiet you down and keep you hidden so that you don’t have the chance to be yourself. he doesn’t understand that you were born to be as big as a galaxy, that sometimes you think your soul is too big to fit inside your own body and sometimes you need to let it out. you think about making your way to a different planet, one that’s far away from him and those hands that restrict you but you’re so vehement; you’re not sure anyone will love you and your noisiness.

*****

Just a word like any other,
you spew it into the dark air
and hope that it will stick.
After all, shouldn't we all
be marrying our high school sweethearts
and ******* in the dark
to settle into bone numbing
missionary pleasure,
just like the good book says?

And if you're not married,
shouldn't you be knitting
or biding your time
silently *******
in an empty house,
willing God to shut the **** up
as you ******?

I'd rather be *******
in the moonlight,
in dimly lit offices,
on cliche sunset strewn beaches;
dancing naked in rivers
and sprawling over
sun-streaked sheets
ripe with leftover love.

Radiant heat seeps
from my wide eyes
to my long fingers
to my small *******
to the arch of my spine
to my uneven toes,
and, my god, isn't this
what it feels like
to be alive?

You can take your Sunday best
and your mewling children,
your whitewashed walls
and your plastic sofas.
I'd rather
be wholly, phenomenally
woman- shedding eons
of contempt,
laughing like Caligula
over the power that something
as simple as this body
that I carry around
can wield.

youre talking about a loon thats so far ahead of us that it swims out of my view. its easy to lose sight of things when the fog is this thick. and im avoiding the hill because i cant risk seeing the blazing trail of a departing plane just yet. you try to find value in things that no one else could love and im sorry you have to find out like this but i belong under the hill, not on it.

the only flowers i can keep alive hang blankly on my wall and maybe thats why you take so many pictures of me. im not something you frame or press in a book i am not something you put on display i am not something you should water.

on the floor theres a bag thats missing 4 but everything still hurts.