i never told you this, but:
i didn’t want to say “yes” when you asked me on our first date.
i was thinking of someone in buffalo
who was (at the same time) making playlists with my name in the title
and sending me poems in the mail.
you were just on my periphery,
something of a backup –
until you weren’t,
until you were
everything.

all summer, we were just kids kissing on the beach
just sweaty palms, just chasing trains --
until suddenly it became
running down the hallway of the hospital
and sneaking into the radiology ward,
losing my mind in the waiting room
and holding your hand, twisted up in tubes.
i’ll never forget the way you looked at me that week
and i’ll always remember
making out in the x-ray room,
the nurses on the other side of the door
and wondering if the man behind the divider could hear you
when you told me you loved me for the first time

the truth is:
it’s not fair that you stopped wanting me
and started wanting her,
just because she was convenient
and i was far away

maybe one day i’ll stop being angry,
maybe it’ll stop feeling like someone pulled all my bones from the sockets,
maybe one day i’ll stop missing you so much
and maybe, someday, my body will stop feeling
like a burial ground

but in this moment,
like a stupid animal,
my heart is still waiting
for you to come home.

i don’t know how to tell it you aren’t coming.

Teaching self the,
art of dying
after a serial failure.

Stone pelting has started.
You cannot hear your own voice.

Praying for the inaccuracy of time's arrow.

A physical dimension,
you will give to your impermanence.

And silent flows the glacier out of banks.

Clear fall, seems inevitable.
The sun rises from the debris of moon,
from drop on drop of watery eyes.

dear mom: (this is a poem)
     (this is typed so that you don’t have to struggle through my handwriting-- which is, like me, sloppy and a little difficult, but sometimes people tell me that it’s pretty and artsy. your handwriting is swirly and elegant and sometimes hard to read, but i love looking at it anyway.)
     psychologically speaking, children do not understand “good” and “bad” in terms of flaws until they are taught by observing, watching their elders discriminate peers based on skin and shape and size and little pieces of identity that seem to be unusual. children see moles and freckles as interesting marks. squishy tummies are good for laying on. good hugs are good hugs, whether you’re tall or short or gangly or round.
     psychologically speaking, a child’s insecurities will stem from their parents--
     when a girl sees her mother disliking something about herself, that girl is more likely to grow up and feel that way as well.
     people tell me that i look like you all the time. (i like to roll my eyes a little passively and act like i’m sick of hearing it (sometimes it does get tiring) but it has always been a compliment.) this is not me telling you that i have your insecurities (i know you don’t like your chin and your arms and sometimes you don’t like your tummy) but instead this is me telling you this:
     you and dad always like to tell me how beautiful i am.
     momma, i look like you. you’re beautiful too.
     you’re the perfect height for hugging because, if i want to, i can engulf you and pull my arms over yours and tuck my face into your shoulder. but you’re also the perfect height for hugging because if i need to, i can tuck myself under your arms and press my face against your collarbone and feel protected by you.
     your hands hurt a lot now but that doesn’t mean they can’t still make beautiful things. i love the way that your fingers compliment your wedding/engagement rings.
     your arms are good for lifting, picking up new projects and painting and framing and helping me carry things.
     (harry potter had his mother’s green eyes and so do i. lily potter didn’t have glasses but that just means that we’re beating them by just a smidge, then.)
     your hair is perfect for being played with, soft and easy to run my fingers through. (you endured countless Little League baseball games with me twisting your poor tresses into knots, didn’t you? and you’ve spent hours patiently playing with mine, because even though your hands get tired you know that it feels good.)
     dear mom: i know it kinda ***** to deal with moody teenagers (twice!) especially when you can’t really figure out what we’re upset about half the time, but you never get angry when i cry out of frustration. you listen to my dubiously-correct fun facts and watch silly videos of adorable cats and you buy me books and paint and all kinds of crafty things, and i know from experience how hard it can be to love yourself sometimes but mom, here’s the thing: *i love you.

the things that i want to say
are the things that might scare you away
how can i validate or dispel the thoughts in my head without taking a risk?
a risk that could change everything for the better
or
a risk that could ruin everything
why gamble away what is already good?
because there is a potential to discover something even better.
my heart is screaming to take the plunge,
my head is telling me it would be a total loss
who do i follow when i'm so torn?

I could say I've wasted my time with you,
but it wouldn't be true
because I don't regret our conversations or the times we sat in silence.
I don't regret all of nights I lay in my room alone, crying over you
Or the days I felt like drowning
I only regret not telling you I loved you enough

Its been six years since I met you at that football game in high school
and I still look at you with the same
admiration and longing.
And I still find myself swimming in your gorgeous green eyes
Even after all we've been through,
I still think of you in the best of ways.

Loving you when I was sixteen was like loving the ocean
I fell in love with your mystery and your impeccable beauty
And the deeper I got, the harder it was to breathe

Even thaw is met with freeze
Even rivers cannot flow
Winter brings her blunt breeze
Winds of change, cease to blow

And here, stuck in the ice
Of winter water's wake
Memories, they fall heavy
Yet ice they will not break.

Numbed down, chilled deep
Bated breath in thawing time
Though we lost our melody
The words I wrote still rhyme.

In time, the seasons change
Winter's sting no longer felt
Til then, in frozen frost I wait
To move, to mend, to melt.

|b.g.|