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.

If my skin were a curtain
I'd pull back the drapes
at the corner of my clavicle.
the breathing, feeling organs
of my torso would reveal
what you never see.

the clenches in my stomach
when I catch your fleeting glance

the double-thump of my heart
relishing your bare shoulder

my lungs frozen--suffocating
under your cold, soft touch

shrinking with the biggest sigh
as I watch you walk away.

But I always wear my skin
two layers too thick
and hide my delightful shame
of delighting in shaming you.

If you look closely,
you'll see my soul speak.
peel your eyes and watch--

the subtle jaw and fist clenches,
rise and fall of the chest
shiver up the spine
listen carefully
my soul speaks--

tongue pressing to teeth
chin lifted, eyes down
elbows bent, knees locked
these words
become phrases

tears welling, not falling
hips swaying and popping.
heart pounding, neck retreating
I've spoken whole novels
in these articulations

to know oneself, stop talking.
your soul speaks in your body:
start watching

Your eyes gaze calmly, staring straight ahead
at the menu you hold between your hands,
speaking only about the kind of spread
you’ll share to keep your bread from getting bland.
Cough once, speak twice, drink water with some ice,
you have nothing interesting left to say.
Don’t even bother asking for advice,
except maybe what card you’ll use to pay.
Ignore the grace that thirty years will bring,
the happiness was never bound to stay.
It’s gone like the shine of your wedding ring,
and never was it any good to pray.

And as you leave you think but are not sure
You heard "What a cute old couple they were!”

If I wrote in rhyme,
with satisfying time,
would you like it?

Does it comfort you
seeing stanzas of two,

And is it pleasing
without any meaning?

Do you mind it?

And if I were to stumble
on my own words and
my thoughts crumble
beneath the structure

of beautiful nothingness
and regress

to complexity that resembles more
the disjointed thoughts of our souls
the pain and ugly in our hearts
the way we might actually speak (gasp!)
and think
and hope
and hurt
--is that not beautiful enough
for your poetic sensibilities?

If not, I understand
and will no longer clash
my words like waves that crash
on the unforgiving sand.

You may find much to see,
but this poem means nothing to me.

drip
drip-drop
drip
drip-drop
ka-thunk ka-thunk
drip-drop
CRACK!
ka-thunk ka-thunk
scrreeeech

like a badly tuned
but well-rehearsed
orchestra of
metal wheels on metal tracks
sticky doors admitting tired backs
intercom voice mumbles and cracks
rats paws patter and nibble snacks

and age old water drips, drips, drops
into age old puddles full of
age old trash in an
age old system of
public transportation

And the choir begins to sing:
"stand clear of the closing doors"
"yeah you'd better look away---
"clear the doors"
--you curly haired jew"
"59th street, stand clear of the--
"you *******"
--closing doors, please. 63rd street next"
"you think I feel sorry for you?"
"stand clear of the closing doors--
"I don't feel sorry for nobody"
--please"
"******* curly haired jew"
"stand clear of the doors"
"yeah you'd better look away"
"72nd street, stand clear"
"yeah, you'd better look away"
"stand clear of the closing doors please"

"81st street next. stand clear."

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.

beauty is seeing
a ladybug on the ground
picking it up to save it
from reckless falling feet
and realizing
it has already died.

beauty is crying
with all your might,
so hard you can't
even make a sound.
but it works out because
your friends are in the next room.

beauty is staring
at the person you love
who stares at
the person they love
who stares at you.
all looking, none seeing.

beauty is scratching
the skin off your hands
and clenching your palms
so tightly it hurts
in the only way your body
can express your mind.

beauty is laughing
so loudly people notice
and stopping and wishing
nothing had ever been so
funny because it wasn't
worth the embarrassment.

if the bottoms of our feet
were repeatedly coated in black ink,
then someone at least would start so see
how much I fall behind.

like the shadow that begins
side by side but slowly lengthens
stretches, pulls away from
your footsteps, I fall behind.

the distance between our strides
leaves clues of one stronger, one weaker,
and it's unclear if the person ahead is faster
or the other is just slower and falls behind.

if i could paint my feet to see
the difference in our gaits that lead
you to be so ahead of me, I would
but I could never stop to look back
without falling behind.

clover honey hair
iris pools of sea spray

soft moon skin
sunrise hands

bittersweet smile
faerie laugh

Andromeda shines
behind black pupils

a glance covers me
with morning dew

neck of dusk
and back of noon

silk chocolate fingers
red wine wrists

almond eyes closed
by snowflake lashes

a heart of sunset
and soul of crashing waves

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.

What a cruel existence
to be one original artist
among millions

at what point is it redundant
to be unique,

and when will it be novel
to be ordinary?

when creativity became common
brilliance, typical

artistry achieved
at infancy,
and the minimum standard to be
a prodigy.

the least you can expect
is a breathtaking performance

and the most you can hope for
is a biography.

'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.

I walked through the damp grass,
across the grimy pavement that shone,
coffee mug in hand.
the drops fell in
and I drank the rain

And my body expanded
because it contained the sky
on my tongue, down my throat
in my core, in my soul
I drank the rain

My mind was a cloud pattern
my arms were the wind
my eyes turned to hail
my fingernails dripped off my hands,
they turned to rain.

My eyelashes were the snow
on my autumn sky face
And my feet sank into the soil
nurturing the grass
As i sweat out the rain

I puddled on the ground,
reflected the emerging sun
I condensed to rejoin the sky
and formed a cloud of my own
and began again, to rain

Stop
Laughing like that.
you sound **A bit
Pathetic.

Hide that smile.
hIde that frown.
Thank your lucky stars.

Steam from the shower
Clears the mind and
Reveals the
mArks left behind
because I am Too fair or
should I say Caucasian
looking, Hispanic
doesn't comE
acrosS clearly like the mind.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, to
Everyone but me
becAuse I never got
anywheRe on my own.

Here lies the secret,
Eat it like dessert:
All of this has been done before
Little doesn't even come close to describing me.

Melt into movement
Ease into enjoyment
kNeel into knowing
Drown in deliverance.

Scratch.
Cover.
Again.
Repeat.

I changed direction
Mid-pavement mid-walk, mid-sentence of mid-thought
And I chose home.

And my Calypso caressed me away
with her truth.
The journey home is harder than the absence was.

It makes exception to the adage;
I ignored where my heart was,
and I chose home.

I'll never get there
And I'm not coming back.
I'm choosing the eternal walk home.

I liked you better
when I didn't know you.
pixelated words
made you my Pygmalion.
except you never
            came alive.

Keep worshiping the stone
while the puppet-master
works from above
or should i say
             Down Under.

You were my cocktail,
and drugged, i followed
your manipulations,
            requests.
           frivolous requests.

Called it my "education".
One where they used
              the rod.

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

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.

Black pupils envelop your iris, and I wish
That I could forgive your caressing hand, and
our lips would reacquaint and release as we crease the sheets

With salty tears and reconciled sense, but silence
ensues after your massage; you get the message
and sink deep into the  bed, your head

turned away from my cold shoulder; and I'm caught, not
sure if my resignation was worth your shirt, my skirt
not being flung full force on the floor-- more

even to say we could embrace, your face
on the space between my face and my chest; rest
no more, I'm ready to supplicate! but Fate
would say, "your hearts sleep awoken and broken in a fight, tonight."

If I could breathe the trees
I'd exhale color

And my lungs would be full of Fall,
My chest would Rise with roots and sap.

I'd breathe them out, they'd take it back
We transform into each other.

I'd be Daphne as my
Skin turned to bark

And join the display
of orange red yellow brown

A laurel tree amongst mighty pines
a nymph before the gods

If l could breathe the trees
I'd exhale color

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".

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.

Two sparrows descended upon
food left atop a picnic table--
bread crumbs and
chicken wing bones
not picked bare yet.

And the birds ate the birds
with zeal and their familiar,
innocent sweetness
and I wondered if they knew
they were cannibals.

And if they knew,
I wondered
if they would care.

I have words to say
I want to speak,
to tell you that I--.

Did you catch that?

My muted voice
is screaming through
the pattern of my footsteps and--.

Listen; a poem of gaits.

My heart moves my tongue and
my soul pushes the air
out my lungs to formulate these words: --.

The sound carries to the eyes of the listener
who hears my body move and
sees my mouth speak but not--.

I want my words touched, my movement read, my dance heard, my voice seen.

I--.

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.

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.

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.

A big curtain
As if on fire
Separates us from them
Real from fantasy
Gods from mortal me

It drapes
And tumbles
Like an elegant ball gown
Though what they wear
Is mostly bare

And I long
To kindly shout
Redirections because I see
How much better
The choreography would be
If entrusted to me

Arrogant
Is what I am
And fearful when the time does come
To take charge of my own art
But separate, I can play the part
Much better than I do
When it's MY show that's about to start

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.

It's time to write
I tell myself
there is so much to describe

a knot in the stomach
from the ropes of love and pride
getting too tangled
(the two never did get along)

an ache in the heart
from the dead weight of fear
she's getting heavier
(I can't stop feeding her)

write beautiful words

about the ugliness that clouds the mind
the condensation of dissatisfaction
enclosed by the walls of negativity
(and when it rains, it pours)

with so much inspiration
how could I possibly go wrong?
It's time to write

I wish that you would lift my chin
with the tender underbelly of your middle knuckle
of your pointer finger
and that you would trace the line
of my strawberry lips
with the fingerprint of your thumb
softly memorizing the asymmetry
of a face not fit to model but somehow
fit to be deserving of your touch

I wish that you would brush my cheek
with the tips of your eyelashes
as they flutter to sleep next to me
your breath soft and steady
like a gentle wave expanding and receding
on the pale shore of my bare neck
whispering life into a cold shoulder
that softens at the cool warmth
of an unapologetic slumber.

Is it not enough
that my mind is haunted
with dark monsters?

creatures of doubt
that creep around
corners with pins,
and whisper "failure"
lovingly to every bright
balloon of hope.

spiders of anxiety
crawl over
flowers of bravery
and spin a web
that makes
courage cower.
bravery buckle.
power petrified.

Is it not enough
that I battle
my own brain?
would I rather have
the life to match?
to 'justify'
my art,
my work,
my ****** expressions?

I wasn't aware
that I have to earn
depression---
that I first must
live a life worthy
of sadness

And now I question
if I'm just
broken
spoiled
or should quest for
the existence to
more properly fit
the mind
I was born with.

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.

Symmetry is lost.
Uneven scars on my hands.
A long sliver divides
one of my wrists in two.
A thick, wizened scrape
completes the line of a pointer finger.
This is how I know
Right from Left.

And my direction
comes from my mistakes.
My orientation
from a mixture
of hate and fate.
My scars ruin my symmetry,
and teach me to distinguish
Right from Left.

All things die at the setting of the sun
First shall be last and the last shall be first
You know that’s true when all is said and done

Moonshine and black light bring no salvation
Those unquenched have eternity of thirst
All things die at the setting of the sun

And by the bad are the good overrun
With gnashing of teeth and words that are cursed
You know that’s true when all is said and done

The corpses dig graves; virtue there is none
And though we are the last we are the worst
All things die at the setting of the sun

Along with the light, the beauty is gone
No music and no plays, no lines rehearsed
All things die at the setting of the sun
You know that’s true when all is said and done

And I want so badly
to do more, more, more
jaw clenching madly--
"don't stare at the floor!"

"Find more sensation,
feel it deep, deep, deep"
"use imagination"--
the corrections I must keep

"Try to look happy!"
my eyes are dull, dull, dull
"Remember, ballet's sappy."--
"dancer, think of the skull!"

All of this in my core,
I do gladly, gladly, gladly
And I want so badly
to do more, more, more.

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.

He is the text to my white-sheeted soul,
giving my energy potential; I am titled.
The coffee stains and characters have purpose
when accompanied by our story.

And on that night, he inscribed his
words to become the beginning of our novel:
our first conversation transformed
my diary into dialogue.

Our roughly-colored previous pages tether and tear,
as we build a better time out of new pulp.
We aren't unwritten, for see on this heart of ours,
is the carving of Fall's creation.

He let me in;
his open wounds
made it easier.

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.

"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.

Remember my face, but not my name
As we part ways, hands in our pockets
I’ll never see you again the same
You’ll only remember my face, not name.

Remember my sound but not my song
The words were never important to you.
You knew you would be fine all along
So you remember my sound, not song.

Remember my scent but not my perfume,
My hair was never much to smell.
A fool to think you might have been groom…
Do you even remember my scent, not perfume?

Remember my curves, but not my shape,
How uninteresting they appear now.
Never something at which to gape,
Hardly remember my curves, not shape.

I remember your name and your face,
And all I take is a sideways glance
At your now unattainable bubble space.
I remember both name and face.

I remember your song and sound,
The melody and words burn in my ears.
A rope, they tie around me; I’m bound.
And I still remember your song and sound.

I remember your perfume and scent,
A smell of *** that I recognize,
And a desire you’ll never admit was meant.
But I remember your perfume and scent.

I remember your shape and body,
As hard as I tried not to stare.
Seems that your memory is shoddy,
Forever I’ll remember your shape and body.

Try as I might to forget your name,
It’s all I have left of you to hold.
As you tell me this never happened,
I’ll prove you wrong when I speak your name.

Lonely in a crowd without the
         **One person the mind jumps to
         Violently, it isn't pleasant but
     thEn again lonliness never was

         Sun beams through a window
         Under a cloudy sky
         Barely warming but pleasing to
        iMagine how it might feel to
         Ignite from a cool flame, not
         To burn but to be on fire again

         Anger happens because we
         Can't not be human unfortunately
         Control happens too though.
         Every once in a while
         Prayer happens but we never
admiT it.

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.

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 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.

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.

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

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'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'.