I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.

I tried to
write
a poem about you
but instead
I scribbled a
big, orange-ink blob
and I figured
that made
just as much sense.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I wasn’t supposed to fall so hard
I wasn’t supposed to call out for your arms in the night
And my lips weren’t supposed to search for yours
As if they would actually be there.
I wasn’t supposed to nuzzle into my pillow at night
pretending that your hands were nestled in my hair
I wasn’t supposed to make small talk
just so I could hypnotize myself with that something in your eyes
I wasn’t supposed to wake up cold in the gray morning
with the strong urge to be bruised and bitten
In fits of slow, languid passion.

Unreal how our bodies match and move together,
Uncanny how our minds meld and play in synch.
My youthful love for life,
Your chuckling maturity, still unsure what life is.

Now I play soft ballads full of aching, yearning,
I can wrap myself in a blanket on the floor
With a mug of tea, and think silently on you
And the shadows I wish I could conjure into existence…
They live inside, dancing to burst free from our guilty bodies
Too ethereal, too beautiful, to be abandoned
When we (artists) know we live for such wonders.

I wish I had any other option but forgetting,
or descending into madness.
(I’m currently choosing madness..?)

And it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I wasn’t supposed to fall so hard.
I’m so sorry,
My summer love.

Your voice has settled
On the taut film
Of my ear drum,
Like an echo
It howls,
But I've hummed it
Into a soft whisper.

My dreams are slowly crashing down
towards the bullseye on my head;
I don’t want to face reality,
I don’t want to face tomorrow.

The very sight of you moistens me,
with the ****** of your lips,
the stabs of your tongue,
and the grip of your hands.

You enslave me.

But I am humbled,
to become entangled with your body,
as the gray clouds hover upon us.
your curves reflects the moonbeam,
your silhouette painting the indigo sky,
brushing me with your bare hands...

I gave the hero of this story trust
issues. So that when his castle fell he
wouldn't worry about the damsel still
calling from the ramparts, where I hold court
in the dust. For this is my battlefield
where the headstones will read like love letters
and the weeds will serve as the royal seal.

I gave the hero of this story hope
a magic bean and two old china cups.
But the china, brittle, the bean rotten
as these once fertile lands lie waterlogged.
You can't grow your crops here, boy, go home.
I'll drown this hero before he can stand
the sight of the muddy bank. A hero's death.

I gave the hero of this story bread
water, and melody. To help him sleep
soundly and noiselessly, still. Arms, pillows
sway to the metronome of the city
beating such a heroic retreat. Stand
with fingers touching, childlike and brave.
Until the next wave comes and holds. It breaks.

Could you just let me in?
Tell me what I did,
To make me feel,
Like I am full of sin?

Am I not living right?
Not being good all the time?
Am I really as awful,
As the person in your sight?

Did I say the wrong thing?
Hurt you at all?
See, I don't think I did
Yet I am blamed for everything.

And they'll all say,
I'm in the wrong.
They never liked me much,
But that never mattered, anyway.

It would appear though,
That it matters now,
Because I am the *****,
The number one foe

I could just forget it,
and say, let it go
You don't desrve me,
Not one little bit

But contrary, to popular belief
I am a good person,
Deep down I am,
And I don't deserve grief

So just let me know,
What I can do,
To make it right
And stop all the woe

Or continue to erase me,
From your sweet life,
Just don't come crawling,
When you can see

See that you were wrong,
Because then it'll be too late,
My good nature,
Only lasts so long.

This may be goodbye,
This may just be it
I'll be sad to see you go
But perhaps it was all a lie.