I wonder as I write
are they your eyes that scan,
that pan across the screen, meanly
assessing what was unseen,
caressing the language,
tenderly, ******* this
author from behind her
shroud of words, clouds
waved away expertly, heard
nakedly, mistakenly (but not).
there is intention here,
queer as I am and this may be,
I flee not from this tangled
nest of support and rest and
tension, suspension, and
disbelief, for behind the
scrutiny there is a fire
to be stoked,
a wet cheek to be stroked,
then slapped and squeezed,
pleased over and over again;
desperate to serve to be
broken, submission awoken
by challenge and dispute,
refuting not by habit but
necessity that I be seen,
I'd never say please until
it's pinched out of me,
take me, break me, rake
nails across my stubborn back,
have the patience to wrack my brain,
give loving pain and let
me learn to serve and receive,
believe in me (but never
say you do), who would you
be to give me praise
(please give me praise)?
I'm getting ahead of myself
while falling behind, watching
your steps and countering
all I find, call me
old soul if you choose,
but I lose to naivety, every
time, spend some with me
and see, what all I have to give--
may you finally
see me live.

Can I be honest? I'm
not ok, not doing fine, a
single twine remains between
my land and sea, my sanity
and an unreality, is that
too much to say? Day
and night blur together,
but I pass for normal
if I shut my mouth and
paint my face, replace
the tears and grimace
with a smile and idle words
I can go unheard for so long,
my song is silent, my hymn
gone mute, dim light and
blurry picture, dispute
fact and fiction with
practiced diction and nothing
to lose, refuse the help,
no no no, I'm fine,
can I be honest?
I'm a ******* liar.
can I be honest? the
situation's dire.

it's pouring.
thoughts hammer down
raindrops of disdain
hair heavy with disgust,
yet to be wrung out
wiping criticisms
from eyes, makeup
runs with doubt;
brutal showers
of loathing lusting
for defeat, longing
for relief,
no belief left
in the better, bereft
untethered in
this weather, both
feather light
and paper thin,
disintegrate and float
into frigid winds
scattering this rain again
on more resilient shores;
harsh words can land
delicately on the sand,
absorbing and hiding
wave after wave
crashing and obliterating
but see this dust, trust it
is brighter with every blow
below its surface
you'll find more dust still,
with each undertow
there's a stronger will.

keep her going
one smile at a time
one chin lift, tear wipe,
forehead kiss, at a time

keep her healthy
one breast at a time
one heaving chest,
and wobbling lip,
just do my best.
one drop at a time.

pick her up,
as she gains and gains,
the pains in my back
fade to make way
for her stay
on my hip.
her grip tightens,
and so does mine.
she is fine.

keep her clean
one bath at a time,
endless changes
and soaks, soaps
and suds and slips
and bumps and splashes
and crashes and just
stay still
will you,
for one single minute
my dearest one

brow sweat and
milestones unmet
this job robs me of
wallowing, for how
can i bow to the nothingness
when i have everything to do
and everything to be
to this little one
who is everything to me.

'She could be great
if she lost the weight.'--
These words burned into my mind

And I find that brand on my skin
In the form of slaps and bruises,
Grabs and pinches, trying to
Determine the length, the number
That is always over, never under.

Measurements
Measurements
Measurements,
Wait, don't go,
stay, be late.
I'm sure I can bite off the extra space I take,
I can rake my nails over thunderous thighs,
Compromise my breath
by wearing bras not my size.
I can be slight and slender
In my demeanor,

Look how invisible I am when I'm not on stage,
When I'm not in the dance!
You might glance me in the beginning
As I'm wearing a winning grin
And a sheen of sweat,
Worried to be found out as fat.

I promise I can dance,
See, look at all this art that I craft
With my hands and my heart.
Yes, my body as well
But you can barely tell.

The swell of my ******* rise and fall
With the breath in my chest, but
I can't rest, comforting words are
Too frail a nest.
Witness my hyperventilation
in this body fixation,
This determination that I can't be enough
because
There is far too much of me.

But I'm pushing, pushing back
I ask for gentleness,
  I begin to allow my bones to enjoy
   their cocoons
    Of muscle and fat and sinew.
     This is a body.
      And this body moves.
It reaches and teaches
  Grasps, gasps, hands clasp,
   Knees collapse, voice rasps,
    It's all valid.
    Eating salad won't fix what isn't broken.
    
The space I take up
Is my entry token into the world,
It's my ticket stub that can't be snubbed,
My admittance isn't denied
Because of my thighs.
My lungs are given permission
To the air, my heart receives
A knowing nod that I too may be cared for.

Life and love,
They love me all the same.
I must not blame and shame my size,
Using my eyes as daggers
that try to cut and carve away the excess.
Let my eyes be a balm,
To calm and to soothe what once
Was an abused and used,
And refused vessel.

I ask for gentleness,
Something new.
I ask for gentleness
From you, too.

Yes, I'm staying 'active'.
No, I'm not motivated
to do the things I
used to enjoy,
but I'm still doing them
because look at me,
I continue to operate
through the dysfunction.

The question is whether
this means I'm not so bad,
or my desire to not look
like the world's laziest slob
is the only thing getting
me out of bed.

Gotta get that Vit. D,
take mental health walks
and see the people I love,
all while smiling through
what feels like
the thickest fog and looking
through leaden eyelids.
All I want to do
is go back to
a dreamless sleep.
Wake me up
when I'm a person who
functions by desire
and not by design.

The glory of busy
Isn’t lost on me
The shame of time
Seeps down like rain
Drenching my lank hair
how dare you have
The luxury of restlessness,
I whisper to me.

The way my hands wring
And feet tap, toes cringe,
Teeth bite dry lips
And eyes glaze over
With this lack of action,
I feel my body revolt
When not called to duty,
To serve, to provide
To do the most.

Shivers travel down
My spine, enter my heart
Pumping electric blood into
Shaking limbs,
Quivering muscles
Empty throat and squashed
voice box, ears
Ringing, singing
Jingles to myself
In disgust and fun

I need help.
Save me from
The indignity of a frozen
Mind and a body too stiff
To act upon all
Those tasks that could
Make me so perfect,
fit and thin
Clean and together
All gathered into one
Human who didn’t forget
How to exist in the moment
Because what might I do
With the next?

I fly by night
over scapes of sea and isle,
I'll fall gently down,
a floating cloud,
a feather landing
upon sodden earth,
damp and bedraggled,
a small part of a whole.
A small bit of soul.

I pick and pick my
fingers, the nails flake
and chip, limestone
on tender red waves,
riding over sediment of
knuckle-bone.
The plane drones on
and I can't cross my legs,
collapse myself like fire logs,
I must supplicate to
the outstretch, the lack
of bend that mends
an anxious brain, feign
sleep, down deep
in the fog of wakefulness
the foreverness of an
alert brain that wishes
to rest, a cat tail that
swishes, a bat awake
at night, I am nocturnal.

On airplanes, my red eyes stay open,
closing down thoughts of
dreams I may live to
forget instead I get
streams of consciousness
and cramping legs,
too straight to be
built for slumber,
can I slowly timber
and fall into
unrest? the best I can
do for now, how
would it be to kick
down the seat
in front of me, and
have them fold
neatly in two while I use
the space to take up less,
needing more, the
floor is too close,
the window touches
my elbow, my toes
cramp, damp in
the ever so slight bend
in my knees that squeeze
into 90 degrees of discomfort.

Only four more hours
of this poor excuse
for a seat, meet
a real chair, why don't you,
and learn by example
the ample room
you could provide.
My behind, find it
in your stitches
to give more room
lessen the gloom
that lingers on
long flights, due to
this upright spoon
position, a notion
that makes my
nose crinkle as my
knees crackle and pop,
let the drop happen
soon, may I fall,
may I float,
land this air boat
that rides unsteady
waves of wind and fog.

May I rest like the tail of
an unhappy dog.

My home is the way
My husband reaches out
For me in his sleep, and
I am wrapped in his embrace
And his subconscious.

My home is the little kisses
On my fingers
When I stroke
My cat's nose.

My home is a wondering mind
That feels like a city
I hardly know, so
I keep returning to the same
Neighborhoods, because I'm
Too scared to wander alone.

My home is wondering
And questioning and doubting,
Because I can settle in uncertainty,
But am a guest in the house of peace.

My home is searching,
Frantically inspecting,
A detective on the hunt
For evidence of love
As dust settles on all the clues
I have collected and ignored.

My home is my hands
That roam over the skin
And fat I see, feeling
The extra on me that
My eyes can't subtract and
My fingers can't pinch
Back into skinny.

My home is forgiveness
For others before I give
Myself the chance to notice
The damage, smoothing over
The surface like makeup
Applied to a wound.

My home is hiding,
Fleeing, dodging the possibilities
Offered to me that have
Potential to be more
Than participation awards, but
Victories, because in every win
There is a loser that
Could be me.

Down, down,
Do I drown?
I could float
I have the fat,
I could swim,
But to what?
There is no shore,
There is no boat,
Life is in the water
And death is down below,
Make what we can
Of this treading and dreading,
Some taking beautiful
Strokes all around,
Right now I'm floating.
But when do I drown?

I'm a little bit here
and a little bit there,
my eyes, they dart,
my lips, they part,
and on and on
go the thoughts
during our chat,
this way and that,
here and now gone,
humming a song
while writing a line,
while drawing a face,
while lost in space.

I pet my cat,
I feel her fur,
I hear her purr,
I'm a little bit here
and a little bit there,
I'm in my chair,
then up then down,
smile and frown,
remember a thing
and forget the present,
scatter, find,
lose my mind,
leave the room
to fetch a broom,
see something else
on the shelf,
examine, pass,
step in the glass.

leave again,
find my pen,
write a note,
forget the quote,
look it up,
follow the thread,
realize I'm
still in my bed,
my foot is bleeding,
there's glass on the floor,
someone at the door,
could I have done more
to do a little less--
to clean the mess,
and write the note
and save the pen
and find the quote?

I hear her voice
the child inside,
coming in through
the static of
my constant critic
radio, she's been
screaming 'that's enough,
that's too much!' for
so long, she's been
hurt, she's been
wronged by a louder
sound I'm more used to tuning into,
the station of
doubt, fear, suspicion,
so much I've lost sight
of how much those
words sting,
bring
me down, tear me up,
convince me that I'm
not enough.

I think in causing
this initial pain I'm
saving myself from
the surprise of my
own mediocrity,
but living with a
lead coat on to
protect me from
the bullets of a
battle I'm no longer
fighting, it just
weighs me down,
till I'm ready to
give up, and I think
what's the point of
sparing that pain in
exchange for a less
humane option?

I feel like screaming and
I feel like doing nothing,
always teaming with
this imbalance,
not quenching either thirst.
By holding my tongue
and quieting my voice,
and interrupting my attempt
to do nothing by worrying,
worrying, and then that nothing becomes
something, it becomes wasted
energy, anxiety gone rotten,
a fruitless activity, producing
neither rest nor product,
my motivation to freeze
and stiffen and wait and
recede overpowers even the
fear of my own judgement,
who loves to blare loudly
that I'm lazy, that I'm
not enough, this stuff
i do is meaningless,
and I need to prove my
worthiness by being
exceptional in all ways, not
only all ways, but always,
not just sometimes,
and god stop complaining,
about the hurt and the pain,
it's so boring, it's so
standard, it's so privileged,
it's so bland, and
the more I do it the less
value I hold, i'm told
by my own self,
every poem that i write
that pleads for sympathy
and reaches out for connection
is just another title to add
to my collection of pathetic
writings, proving my biting
nails and troubled mind
do not an artist make,
but that it takes much more
talent and brain and effort
and refrain for this to
be any more than words
that fall to the floor to
be stepped on forever more.

It's like the two haven't met,
these different parts of me.
hard to see how they could be
residing in the same person.
But still, I think they'd get along.
After all they both belong
in the same party of misfits
that comprise this puzzled mind.
Fuzzy, trying to find
the connection between my
confident leader, and the shy
private eye, studying, studying
to see how she can make everyone
just a little more happy, just a little less
suspicious of just how vicious
I am on the inside,
always trying to hide these
thoughts of destruction,
disruption from my joy and ease,
I tease out the depression,
find the compression in my chest
and build the tension with the best
suspension of disbelief that
I'm still ok, and this is sustainable,
and maybe happiness is attainable,
but for now i'll just be so sad
I can't breathe because eventually
I'll get back to me, right?
the ending is in sight....right?

I'm arrived and I'm here
and I'm still just me.
my personality didn't exchange
i thought with that kind of range,
so far away, i couldn't stay
just the same.

but i'm no different, i'm not
working out daily and finding
my inner peace,
I thought travel held the keys
to improving myself, beyond
recognition.

where's the discipline?
i thought my derision of
habit would fall away,
shedding my awful in my stay.
i could be thin, i could win;
where's the discipline?

In buying the ticket
i thought i'd agreed
i was also buying the seed
to grow a new me, prettier,
funnier, healthier, sunnier.
but i'm here and i'm near
a breaking point.

I want to shed
my fat and my lack
of focus and sense,
dispense with the nonsense
and get sharp and get cool,
come home like a knife
come home a better wife.

I was so affirmed
By only a text
It took so little
To warm my cheek

It made my week, and
I paid the price.
So nice, so nice, so
Don't speak, don't seek
Better. can there
Be better for
Someone like me?

I don't see any
Alternative, I
Was told I wasn't
Worth it, a cold
Honesty shared
So early, I cared
So earnestly, spared
No hurt from
The long line of
Just fine, but unkind,
Men and boys.

They deployed
Compliments so
Sparingly, with a
Tactical training
So practical for
Blaming and shaming,
With just enough
Sugar for my starving,
Unloved self, carving
Little marks on my
Arm, so alarmed
To find out I might
Get your kindness, fight
For the scraps of
Your light, but the
Rays were traps to
Capture my body's
Honey and I'm left
Bereft, faulted,
Confused, assaulted.

Will, I hear your voice, I
Still, I have no choice,
My heart is that strong and
Apart just feels wrong.

I've memorized your hug,
I'm sensitized to the snug
Embrace of your arms
My face nestled, no harms

Can reach my core,
Can breach even your
Simple affection,
This supple connection

Belongs to you and me,
The wrongs and the fees
A small price to pay
To fall in love every day.

make it work
make it work
i tell myself to make it work
i sell myself on the idea
that so long as i try hard enough
i can patch up any
shredded quilt, if i just
feel the guilt and take the blame,
exhibit my shame, and tarnish my name
i can fix us because the mix of
you and me is the only
thing i know anymore,
i don't want to explore
another us, i want to be yours,
so i try not to fuss, not
to expect more than i should
say you did the best you could
and i can always do a bit better,
leave little love letters
for you around our space,
do the dishes in case
that might be the last straw.
i know i've made you so raw
with my careless levity,
and you use such brevity
i can never be sure
if your love is still pure
or is it tainted with resentment,
visualizing a contentment
with me that you cannot see,
not now or ever, so i have to be
careful, and thoughtful and
scared, my mind wrought full
of questions and hopes
that you'll stay, that you'll cope
and maybe learn to accept
then learn to love
me for who i am
with my faults and my sins
see that i'm still a win,
i'm a catch, i'm a find,
i've got my **** but i've
also got my mind,
a mind that gets you and sees you
that lets you just be you
i want to grow
but i want to grow with you
i need to know that my lengthening stalks
won't fall unsupported, unheld,
but that together we meld
and create something beautiful
with roots that go deep and
flowers that blossom and die,
our love is a plant, you and i
and the work is the water and
the roots are commitment,
the flowers are moments
that must come and go
but the going is part
of the growing and art
of relationship lasting.
this shadow we're casting
is just proof of the sun
and the light that's in sight
if only we'll look in the direction of right,
not the wrongs and the bads
and the i can't stands,
but the beauty we're clad in
and the touch of our hands
in each others, as we band
together on the journey through time
it's a crime not to try
and to fail and repeat
it was never neat
and it's never complete
but i'm yours yours yours
and i need you to be mine.
oh please let us be fine
let this be a phase
a growing pain
just before the bloom
let it happen soon

I can't sit with myself,
I'm the worst company these days.
I keep walking away
in the middle of a one-way
conversation,
short durations
only please,
I can't sit with myself,
as it won't be long
before everything goes wrong.

I can't feel this feeling but
I can **** well name it,
words come easy, its the
noticing that's queasy so
look there it goes, it flows
out the door so I don't have to
feel it anymore. i wish i could be sure,

but that is a lie, I know,
I can't be honest with myself.
my heart is a shelf and
the volumes of trauma have
collected so much dust, it
must take a lifetime to get
those clean and shiny.
who knew this tiny collection could
carry so much weight,
i'm guessing the heaviness is hate.

I can't look at myself, not
without thoughts thoughts thoughts
about the shoulds and oughts,
my body is not subscribing to my
beauty standards, deciding instead
to demand respect by taking
no **** about whether or not
it can sit or stand or stop eating,
defeating my idea of will power
with more force than i've ever known
and causing me to cower.

i can't write this poem
because I can't stop thinking about
writing the poem, and is it good, is
it good yet? should I take a bet
on whether it will ever be enough
for this semi-tough critic
who knows she's not really
a poet, so why are you doing this exactly?
you know it will not be good,
you should know it by now. you should.

i can't sit with myself,
i try to say what needs to be said
the thoughts i have just before bed,
the dread and memory,
forever in my flesh and bone, alone,
I felt so alone back then and now
with all around to be with,
i still sit with myself and
am lonely again, feel homely again,
i can't feel it really, can only name it again,
can only hear HIS name, again.

i can't forgive myself. I sit
here complaining to me about my
split personality which is really just
a hurt child inside, mild and trying to hide,
but all I do is hear her cry and try
to shush her, slap her, ignore her,
bore her, i'm not a good parent
to my memories, i don't ease
them the way i should, and there
i go again, if only I could
stop using should to scold her, me,
and see me, her, for what she is,
not cold and ***** but alone and afraid,
made to think it's all her fault,
the yelling, the silence and the assault.
but it wasn't, my love
i imagine a dove, i try to be tender
i try to surrender my thorny casing,
erasing the added burden of self-defeat,
just trying to meet her where she's at,
and seeing that she is me, and I'd
never call her fat, never call her selfish,
I'd never be rough, id say you're enough
to that little she who is little me,
trying to see that it's really my own
opinion that matters, and I'm grown
and no longer battered, not by others,
and no longer by me, i cross my heart,
and hope to survive, to be alive, to thrive,
i cross my heart to nurture this part.

Unknown, my hands
Wring and pick, I
Stick myself firmly
In the unknown, the
Places, the faces of
My future acquaintances,
The footsteps that will fall,
Small, unsteady, unknown
But ready, I walk,
To fly, to arrive,
I contrive this plan
Of unplanning, of
standing to face unfamiliar
space and sound, the
Ground beneath unknown,
Blown winds of seas,
I flee my home for the
Unknown, that I may
Be shown how little
I've grown, how far I've flown
To confront myself,
The true unknown,
Never out but in,
In, within my heart the
Uncharted map of
Blood and bone.

I want to feel love
Like a hug that comforts
Not a drug that quells.

I've been taking lines of love,
the only form I know.
It doesn't penetrate, it just coats
My surfaces.
I'm so hidden, I can't even find myself
Under my approval-seeking mask.

Will the me who tries less
Receive more?
I can't know until I try
To stop trying,
And feel prized for who I am
at my raw material
Not what I do
at my most fearful.

My costume is adored,
Maybe my nakedness would be too,
Even more so in it's realness?
I risk losing my accumulated love stash
In exchange for a single drop of the real thing.

It's the difference between an endless supply of  painkillers numbing my broken feet,
Or putting faith in a cast that heals slow and sure and warm.
And then I may finally walk on my own.

Maybe I won't be so tired all the time,
Not expending all that effort to be worthy,
no belief that my inherint value exists in the sustainable landscape of being.
Maybe I'll finally have the energy
to rest peacefully
In the knowledge that I can be me
when I wake.

It's a leap of faith,
For someone who has grown comfortable
with a hopscotch recipe for success,
Fleeting but with a guaranteed buzz.

I don't want to be a tweeker any longer.
I want to sober up on the real thing.
The pure glass of water that is
genuine affection,
The bedrest of trust,
Puking out my instinct to please
And filling up on the notion that
I, by myself, am enough
For others.
And more importantly,
For me.

Where are my words
When I need to speak out?
Gone is my ability
To articulate, whisper, shout.

Where is my 'no'?
My 'don'ts' , 'can'ts' , won't flow.
And where is my 'yes,
Yes, yes, please, let's go'?

Where is my honesty
Brave kind and true?
Hiding being the fear
That I won't be loved by you.

If I say 'look here
At my scars and stains',
What more will I be thought of
Than a list of my pains?

Shortcomings proving
Ineptitude and reason
That I have no business here
Or there, too unseasoned.

I start to vanish
Behind a false picture
Of who you want to see,
Complete with all fixtures

Of a well-spoken, anxious,
Nail-picking woman-child,
So terrified of yelling,
Always taming her wild.

I love to love fiercely,
Proudly, loudly, undaunted.
But reciprocation is fleeting,
I'll never be that wanted.

These are the words
I keep to myself,
They've gathered inches of dust
On my mind's endless shelf.

Collections and volumes
Professing learned truths,
Lessons unintended
Throughout all my youth.

There's something wrong with me,
Inherent in my veins.
All whom I love will leave
As marks washed away by rain.

Where is my power,
My comfort and ease?
To be enough for myself
Not needing to please.

Where's all my joy
In the blessing of being?
I've spent it on others
To keep them from fleeing.

Where is my love
For the body I'm in?
It's time to explore.
Its time to be more.
Its time to begin.

Deep breath,
glance to the bed,
wonder how tonight
I'll wind up dead.

And if I'll have
a birds-eye view,
or a quick cut to black
before I turn blue?

The natural way?
A shark, a bear?
Or horror familiar,
a deeper despair...

This time will
the others survive?
Or must I watch their fate
before my 6-foot dive?

How many seconds
stirring, confused?
Until I realize
I've again been abused

by imagination morbid,
unbridled and cruel.
I'd rather try flying
than watching blood pool.

Unable to save
myself or others,
can't throw a punch
or hold my brother's

hand as he's pulled
into dark, into black;
just watching as I
sink deeper on my back.

A voice: stolen
two legs: un-moving
enemies: countless
slumber: un-soothing

I'm in for a night
after night after night
I've grown accustomed
to fight the good fight,

and see an army
of Me's at my feet
who've died for the cause
of dreams not sweet.

A glass of water,
a goodnight kiss,
prepared for battle,
in lonely abyss.

Unpleasant as it is
I try to be kind.
In a way, it's my home,
it's all in my mind.

I lived within you, now
your blood is in me, and
we both dwell inside our
living memory, of

birthdays and bath times,
lectures and retorts, more
jaws clenched and accumulated
anger we didn't sort--it

was held in our chest, near
our breast, never said, till
we piled on words, hoping
that bottled-up beast we'd find dead

from the weight of false smiles, and
sorry's not spoken, till
mother and daughter becomes
just a title token.

The tenderness falters,
degrading to tolerance,
of sameness and difference, concealing
eye rolls,     sighs,        a wince.

And I want to be close, I
hear it in your voice, but
the bitter hardened case around
my heart makes a choice

to judge and to quip, to
sneer and humiliate,
you but more myself for
the actions I facilitate.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that
I do not like you right now,
which has more to do with my faults,
because I don't really know how.

Please forgive and be patient,
know it's always on my mind, for
every time I ignore or anger,
remember I love you, I want to be kind.

I'm screaming in
My chest, my
Breast teeming with
Protest, but no
Sound escapes pressed
Lips, my voice
Isolated itself to
My mind, leaving
Me seething
With anger at
My disability, I
Gift myself with
The handicap of
Politeness, as I
Lay  witness to
My own violation
Without exclamation of
"NO".

And I'll go home
With the blame,
Carrying his shame
Like a scarlet
Letter, it looks
Better on me, see,
I'm a woman, and
Isn't it fitting I
Am simply a man
With the added burden
Of woe, a small
Prefix to separate
Me from my
Genital counterpart.

I'd rather protect
Your comfort than gather
The audacity to
End your hand
Placed on my end,
Down my back
Finding the crack
Between my ***
With prying fingers,
Figures you're
30 years older
Than me, you need
To give young folks
The history that will
Grow us into defeated
Women, glow fading
With our power, if
It weren't for you, why,
We wouldn't know
We're objects for
Your pleasure,  the
Treasure you give,
An education
In humiliation, leading
To a conveniently
Degraded population
Of muted women
Just waiting for this
To happen, and then
Accusing our own
Existence of pretense.
We clearly deserve
Nothing.

Nothing more than a
Free dinner, don't be
A *****, put out!
With your mouth, don't
Be put out with your
Voice, your choice is
Important here,
To be clear, I
Might steer you in
The direction of
Submission, it's
Easier that way.

I hear you call
Me beautiful, like
It's open sesame
To my *****, and
When I don't grant
The access I'm
Simply a broken door,
A ***** to  your
Narrow-minded
Interest of getting
Off, you scoff because
How dare I lead you
On by existing,
Presuming to sit
There and be a "she"
Don't I know how
Much I look like I
Want it?, the touch,
The attention, a spoiled
Brat,
'you can't flat
Out reject me, I'll
Collect my due from
You some other way,
Say, I'll devalue
Your worth, describing
In detail your fault
And failure to be
open-legged to me'

How can I love
This skin I'm in?
When I'm taught it
Doesn't belong to me,
But to a sea of eyes
who despise my voice when
It voices 'NO'.

How cruel for
time to make her
slip away, further
and further out
of view, but
never from
my memory.

My mind's eye
holds her fast,  though
I can't see her
Anymore.

The creature inside me
Rears its head

Grabbing hold of my
Veins and arteries
With strong grips
Shaking, tightening

Wringing out my stomach
To 3 sizes smaller
Throttling my neck,
Bouncing on my lungs

Swirling and whisking
my brain to hurricane

And letting the blood,  bile,
And lack of oxygen drizzle
Slowly to marinate my heart
In injury
And confusion and
Dysfunction
And sabotage.

My forehead is covered
With tectonic plates
That shift and cause
Little mountain
Ranges to erupt
And oh what joy,
These too have oil to be found
In the depths.

But just like oil digging,  it
Takes bloodied
fingers and ***** nails
To get to.

Tanned hands rest on
White linens made
With blackened fingers
Dark with dry blood and
Dry calluses because it's
Nice to have nice things.

And isn't blindness the most
Beautiful view?

I am a nothing queen
With sand so deep
It grounds me
To the water floor

I'm here for you
And I forgive you, too
And I hardly know
But begin to see
If you are me

Is that double homicide?

A mass murderer of one.
Just my luck
That offing myself
Can't even be a private
Affair between
Me and my sandbag
feet reaching the
Water floor,  I'm done.

You collateral damage--
It's  more your fault
Than mine
That we should share blood

I feel so full of movement words
and language that skips and spins and slaps
as movement does
expression and silence and quiet screams
the tautness of my lungs
like in a dream when you can't
quite
speak

so full of wooden unopened doors
that lead to dusty rooms
with sparse shards of light
coming in through boarded up windows
from the outside that is my imagination
but it, too, has a yellow sun

and aggression that leads to unsavory thoughts about
people I don't know
who don't deserve my tightness coming out at them
through narrowed eyes behind a blank expression
just because I can't break the dam--
make a pinprick hole in my brain balloon
to relieve the pressure of my chest bursting at the seams
with angry love for everyone I don't know
but I do love them
don't you doubt it

and in my fullness I question
what it is that all in there was made to do
to write or dance?
and maybe do I want to sing?
pen music, words, be on a stage
or behind the curtain, mouthing what is heard
is that the needle? with which
I can make the hole
to empty out the art
that causes so much tightness
that I can barely close my hands,
my fingers can't come together

and then I want to paint so fully
that I don't need a canvas, I have skin
and can't I be a moving dancing writing painting?
that sings her own lyrics badly
and plays an invisible piano with dexterous fingers
self referential to a painful fault
whose badness screams
THIS IS ART
because, why is it not?
and it empties me out
I am no longer taut

"Stay here, I'll only be
30 seconds, a minute
maybe--
No, really, it's
okay, I'll be right
back and keep
petting you, then.
Look see, isn't this nice and
comfy, you're fine and can deal
with 30 seconds."

And he watches from the bed
my every move till over the threshold
I step, out of sight 0.01 seconds and
he springs with his hidden coils
up and off to
follow me to the kitchen where
I refill my coffee.

Every. ****. Time.

And don't I just love him for it.

I'll only be enough for you if
I'm enough for me;
Are you the only one who
I have a higher standard for
than myself.
(That wasn't really a question).

Take it as only the most obvious
sign of my utmost respect for you
That I reserve all of my talking to you
for writing, because it's the only
way I trust myself to
relay to you clearly--

my unedited and fallible voice and moments of being
human are not good enough for your ears and
eyes.

I must fine-tune our
casual interactions to
imperfect perfection.
And I must find your love for me

in there, somewhere.
And every time come up
empty-handed from
my gold-mining of your
unadulterated body language and
voice language and textual,
exasperated responses.

I break so easily, and again find
why I respect you and
it's because you make me believe
that you don't love me,
and that makes me love you so
unhealthily and I know

that you see through me,
just like I see through me
and it stings like a pain that tastes of
blood in my mouth because
it reminds me I'm only human,
and scratches bleed.

--And get infected if you don't
take care and you
have infected me to the point that
I'm suffocating in my own blood poison(ing)
of self-doubt and desire and
the pitiful knowledge that I may just
get over you if only
you
loved me.

Let me clarify.

Loved me the way
I would have you love
me; affectionately.
my friend, my -------

the comforting statement of "I like
who you are" I
enjoy your personality and
I take your opinion seriously because
you, like me, (and you like me)
are human.

But you love me in what
way you would have--
conditionally,
with rules that change
(only you know them anyway).

And I'm realizing with
bittersweet dawning
and incomprehension:
it's not  that I want to
be you,
but that I already am you,
except,

you're happy.

And I want the secret of
how to be you (me) and
be happy, I always
thought it was a
contradictory state until I met me (you) and saw
the version of myself that
could be at peace,
feel laughter bubble from under my
cheek bones,
and know joy as an intimate
companion.

But being you only reminds
me of that truth that I am
close but can never reach
the level of you-ness I desire.

And in my far-reaching imagination
I wonder at what
will be said about your
influence on me when
I turn out to succeed despite
my self-proclaimed shortcomings
         because deep down I know I'm good
         because of the differences between us
and my sorrow writes my movement for me

and will it ever be studied and observed
my obsession drove me to success
and drove me crazy concurrently (?)

and that craziness drove me further, still.

These are all just bad beginnings
in my search for a show-stopper,
a jaw-dropper,
trying to be just the right balance
of sarcastic and lovely,
the right balance of writer
that I idealize and am not,
of course,
what am I, a narcissist?

I'm trying to put into words
the feelings I told you I danced
because they are wordless (spaceful)
and because of you
I have to say them with voice;
what a dilemma is this--

That when I tell you with movement
what I can't say
you put me in the place
of having to voice it and now
I have no words
other than bad beginnings.

So is that it?
When I word to you
instead of dance for you (for me?)
what you have to return is a nothing,
a less-than-nothing saying,
saying nothing, leaving me

hurt and confused because
maybe there was a something
in all your nothing that I can't find--
because we are dealing in words now,
and I'm a movement reader.

And I know I will forgive you for this
but I won't forgive me for knowing that.

Even while I'm still so angry, it just reveals
my pathetic (patient?) desperation for your love,

But I didn't say this right.
I need to move (dance) this.

"Too late" I remind myself,
too late to go back now.
There are some stones
that can't be turned
because I'm an adult now;

That's what this means.

The love I feel
exists,
but it's not
what I chose.

And what if I'm tired
of being the old soul?

I begin to discover--
there is daring in
playing it safe.
And I'm happy--

enough.

Don't look in the misty waters of
"could have been"

what is? what has been?

I rested my head
on his shoulder, a plea
of my youth
asking the world
"is this all there can be
for me?"

But the May in Maine is over.

Let it go
let him go.

And after weeks go by,
I can look back
on myself looking back,
and I'm so grateful that it was
too late.

I'm happy.
And that's enough.

the words stopped coming.
not to my mind,
but to my mouth--
forming in the chamber of teeth and tongue,
out with my breath,
into the air(
creating)
what we call
'voice'.

bottled up letters
filled my brain to the brim
like a stack of  tethered
dictionaries
that mildewed
and smell of
doubt and old dogs
with no new tricks.

the gathered dust
on my lungs-- look
closely enough it is
alphabets upon alphabets--
the unspoken sentences
my heart forged
and mouth rejected, swallowing
them back, crumbling
them into
a graveyard of lost
thoughts,
killed by the fear
of being an unsolicited
opinion.

empty pens
college newspapers
puzzles that we'll never do

silverware
thank-you cards

and a pile of graded papers
to help me remember;

to relish in the proof that
I once worked so hard (for you),
that there was a time I'd give myself
to writing, writing, writing words,
and you'd give yourself to
reading them.

the failure is now to face
my work and art and effort
that so easily came to me when it wasn't me
I was working for.

but it wasn't for you, either;
it was for your love.
but still I never passed.

Because the word "love" is
appropriate to describe both
how I feel about you and
how I feel about ice cream,

Because I can no longer
use the word "literally" literally when
I try to say I literally
am dependent on
the sound of your breath
encouraging my lungs to sync with yours
and find sleep when
I'm with you, curing
my twenty year fight
with insomnia, literally.

That you are literally the reason I
can chase my dreams
because without the sleep you give me, I
wouldn't be dreaming at all.

Because "you're the best" is
said to even our
least favorite coworkers,
when I would use it
to literally say
"You are the best",
the most superior to all
that I love, and
I use those words correctly
when I say that,
and if
"love" is the word to describe my
feelings for you, then
I don't love anything or
anyone else because
what I have for you
is literally the best.

You're beautiful, girl
more than you know--
the world screaming in your face,
it's hard to hear love at your ear.

you're young, not 'too small'
you have deep eyes, not a 'funny stare'
and into the glare
of the hurt and used,
stand stand stand
smile and be kind;
'everyone' includes you.

All skin has color
it's a lie to say 'white
as it is to call 'black'--
rejoice decoration
on everyone, which includes you.

Express with your face,
your voice, your arms--
it's not too long before
you'll silence yourself for
something you cannot name, only feel
and into the glare, stand stand stand,
be strong, be real.

I allowed my heart to be battered
by more than just myself
which was already too much

Don't pummel your heart
don't tell yourself lies
don't torture your mind
and begin to despise

don't relish in tears
don't scratch, pull and cut,
don't grab at the 'fat'
don't give in to that

you think it sets you apart?
it only sets you 6 under
along with the rest
of the dead souls blessed
with bodies they hated to death.

Fighting with an aching body
and doubtful mind,
protesting muscles are no match
for a warmed heart,
but make me crumble
when fear enters.

There is a wall,
but I haven't hit it
yet.
Give everything still,
expect more
love more
open more
be more.

Vulnerable to important eyes,
I do this on purpose?
There is no cheating;
it's an honest profession,
of tricks over lies.

And now my heart is a closet
and the wardrobe is diverse
but so much goes unworn.
So when to dust off
that confidence dress,
and lay to rest
my suffocating overcoat?

My heart is a closet
when it could be a park--
it could be anything.
This is my metaphor,
and I chose closet.....
THAT is why I'm a closet.

But now

my heart is the sky.

My eyes are the stars
my hands are the earth
my mouth is the sea

my legs are the trees,
their roots and branches,
my arms are the wind, the clouds,
the thunder, the lightning, the rain.

My pelvis is fire,
powerful, flexible, enticing and necessary.

In my metaphor,
now that I am life itself,
I can live.

I miss you,
meaning,
I romantically picture
our finest moments
of conversation--
we laughed together,
you embraced me,
I swear I saw
your eyes sparkle
as they looked at mine,
and I get the feeling
you like me,
which almost makes
me like me.
so when I say
'I miss you,'
I think I mean
I miss liking me.

I can't stand
being around you
almost as much
as I can't stand
your absence.
If you make me crazy,
then I don't want
to be sane
and you make my pulse race--
please, let my heart be forever diseased
with loving you
a little too much more
than what should be expected.
I'll watch you be
just fine without me,
pretend I have better things to do
than arrive early
and leave late
just to get the chance
to glimpse you
and casually make contact:
"Oh, you came."
As if I didn't care,
when your casual drop by
is the entire reason
I'm here first
and last.

That which consumes you,
let it eat you whole.
Open your mind
for it to be devoured,
even if it comes from
the blood in your veins,
paint the picture.
And give yourself away for free,
to be broken by love.
Die by it,
if it's the last thing you ever do.

Wonderful
Is
Literal, describing you.
Lovely,
Is what I feel
Around
My love.

May I lay to rest
While I still might be missed,
And my unaccomplished dreams
May be spoken of,
Not my successful mediocrities
Forgotten--
When my potential may
Be actualized in the
Generous imagination of
Those who mourn
Instead of my living disappointment
Realized in old age,
When none of this amounts
To anything more than
The life of a person
Served better by early death
Of breath
Than by early death
Of spirit.

Intelligent is less than what we
Need, remember this is your body
Agency only to change more
Delight in hardship
Evolve during a single lifetime
Questions are for the slow
Understand to obey, not to comprehend
"Active lifestyle," synonym for
The never-
Ending diet.

Our face speaks
The language of nuance

Our bodies are fluent
In passion

choked cries are the liberated
Voices of pain

And hands the messengers
Of desire

Spoken word the refuge
Of a race too frightened
By such pure communication
Diluting speech to seek
Diplomacy over truth
Security over vulnerability

That I could say more
Than everything
By the angle of my expression
Rather than the constructed
Words of a language
Never designed to explain
The intangible.
For how better to articulate
Nonexistence
Than with the untouchable chill
Of a downcast iris against
An arched brow,
Not betraying the
Complexity of human emotion
With the word
"disappointed".

But what happens
when what you do
cannot be erased?

You keep going.

And what happens
when you run
out of space?

You start again.

But what happens
when you tire?

You rest.

And what happens
when you die?

You smile.

And what happens
when all you make
is absolute ****?

You learn to love the losers
and embrace the imperfect
for its honesty.

Because I am 60 percent persistence
and 10 percent talent
leaving me a 70 percent artist
in a world of 110,
which is a constant state
of adequate
in a world of miraculous.

And I can try to convince myself
that the remaining 30 percent
isn't emptiness.

It's potential.