I can't do hard things. This shard of
glass thought rings through my head,
fed by the memories and voices
of times past when I haven't been good enough,
tough break, I'll never make it in
that business better try a different one,
desperate none of my skills will transfer
but I'll force myself to learn anew, get good
enough to do the bare minimum again
and then forfeit my ambition to the
voices that tell me I'll never be good enough,
remember? Jack of all trades and
master of none, talent in spades but
no faster at reaching the goal because
I disallow myself from working hard
enough to regret the effort, why try
and give all I have when I know
how it will end, I bend and then
I break, I get onstage and shake,
I leave the page blank to ensure
my failure rather than risk
scrutiny and come up short, hear
again the report that I'm close
but not quite, in spite of all my sweat
they regret to inform me that I'm
inadequate; adorn me in rejection
letters I could make a gown from
all the times I've been turned down.
A black and white dress that flutters
with all my stuttering tries, the words,
words, words I wrote, begging you
to love me as you stand there above me,
my palms out for alms, my mouth
open for water, rain into me and
feed my growing spirit -- no.
I've pocketed my hands and
pursed my lips, I make jabs and
quips at attempts these days,
play and dance around the issue
but dispense with the idea that
I could see recompense for all that
I have given away. I lied before;
I have tried, and done my best- but
it hasn't been difficult, because
I'm not capable of that.
I can't do hard things.

My body is not the same as it was.
A most obvious statement with an
All too familiar accompanied disappointment in the truth of it.
It rings in my ear like a persistent alarm,
You. Look. Different.

It’s been a year since I had an infant pulled out of me from a tear in my belly, they pried me open then sewed me closed,
I’ve never shaken so much in my life
as when I was bringing it forth.
I look different now.

I reached out to touch her face but my quaking limbs scared me, I didn’t want her first touch to be by accident, I
looked upon her instead, and then I fed her.
I was so pale, she so red, like she took all of my
blood with her on the way out,
A weight lifted from me,
but not the one I wanted.

I have weight, still.
But I’m not carrying anyone inside me anymore,
besides the demon that stayed in her stead
and sprinkled dread and convulsion into
My abdomen. I see my belly, and I’m repulsed.

But remember, a gentle voice reminds me,
Do you remember what you have done?
From sunlight and water and time in the world
I have created a little girl.
And that creation still lies within me
even though she is without,
I am round with fertile ground,
I’m not fat, I’m full.
This mound on me is sacred and now used to hold life as she grows.

I look different now.
My body is not the same as it was.
It’s become tree and canopy to raise
And shade a life bigger than me. When
I birthed her, I became as old as the earth itself.
And the world is not excessive, but abundant, and
Isn’t that a most wonderful thing?

I brim and sing with possibility.
I overflow and flower.
I look different now.
My body is not the same as it was.

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.

Hijacked by the side of myself
That can’t stand to see you cringe for
Your love must be so frail that the
Simplest error could cause rupture,
An earthquake toppling structures built
On unfirm foundations, say that you won’t
Make that face at me. I must be
Mad to believe, but I’m never
Mad at you, of course, that
Would mean needs and I feed
Myself, thank you very much, I have
No requirements of you, truly I do
Not.

But.
What might you do if I were to ask, to
Beg, task you with the burden of
Supporting me, see me for what I am
Past sham and charade to the scared
Child, wild and wide-eyed, terrified,
And violent, but ever so silent. Quiet
As a squashed mouse held too
Tightly in hands so mightily clenched
I can’t wrench my voice free from
This giant holding me, fingers not pliant
But plaster, an alabaster carving starving
My throat of speaking, it’s protecting me
By deflecting my own thoughts onto endless
Mirrors and I’m stuck in the funhouse echo chamber
While you remain safe, un-doused in my
Hose of half cries for help. ‘Hear me, please’
I manage to whisper from what feels like
The grave though I’m floating out of body.

Catch my thread and tie me down, fly
Me like a kite you once loved, watch
and I'll dance in the wind knowing I’m spiked down
By you, and whenever I choose, you shall
Reel me in and steal me away from the
Harsh gusts, I need not be battered by
Everything, even though I know I can take it.
I make it my duty to be put through all,
A tall order even for me, but ‘no more’, I plead.
This time, I’m asking myself, not you.
This time, it is me I must appeal to,
seal my self-inflicted wounds with kisses,
Square my hips and say with brave and trembling lips,
‘I need you. --
I need your help.’

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.

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

"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.

pulled this way and that, I
reach my hands out, palms
up and wide, fingers splayed
like my cheeks, open and
quivering and receptive,
please be gentle on me, though
I've asked for everything but
that, I've forgotten me and
what I need is gentleness, again.

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--.

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'm in a quiet moment;
I sit here and you're next to me
not paying me attention but
giving me suspension above
the glass shards I create
for myself with every mirror
I've ever wanted to break, because
I mistake myself for an idea
not the real thing, but you're
next to me now, bespectacled
and cozy, rosy lips mouth
wordlessly as your eyes
scan, panning across pages,
you're a burning sage to the
haunted house that is my mind,
find me hiding in a closet and
hold me close, unfold my
tangled limbs all reaching
to protect me from myself,
on the highest shelf of my
thoughts is a knotted book
broken up like puzzle pieces,
that when put together give
me directions to weather the
storm of my brain's hurricane,
it blows through my shores but
I can find shelter, sweltering in
the heat of your warm embrace,
a face that shines like the sun,
burning me, a brand, and I
can stand on my own two feet again,
finally feeling complete again.

chin lifts and neck cranes,
eyes close to relish pain and
pleasure, measure me
in hand cups,
a little mouth opens up
revealing wet teeth, a
high gasp escapes, a rasp,
roughly shove me
down, a frown upon
your lips but eyes glimmer
with delight as my resistance
grows dimmer, the lights
go down along with you
and I scream, steam
could blow out my ears
but it's tears on my face
that you replace with
droplets of yourself,
top shelf slap marks
join my decorated skin,
only to glow red
before we fall into the bed,
ready to begin again.

the problem is
I'll never be good enough for myself.
I've no one left to get approval from,
they've all come and gone and I'm
left with me and she is a naysayer,
a slayer of dreams and it seems like
she couldn't deem me adequate if
it meant saving my life from knife or
rope, yet here we are, she and I,
standing on the same precipice.
I look down and she says my chin
looks fat like that.
I raise my head, and am asked
what do I have to be proud of?
shroud of imposter syndrome,
begone! Bygones, all of these
insults I've tossed at me, I
can forget them all each day
and wake anew, ready to redo
all the hate I slew at myself
just hours before.
A short memory is important
for my survival, I can't thrive
in these harsh conditions I've
painstakingly crafted, but I
can have a raft for these rough waters
as I traverse perverse landscapes
and try not to scrape all
my skin off along the way,
maybe that's a win, I'll hear her say.

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.

I'm honest but I'm flexible, one
truth today might be a lie
tomorrow, sorrow turns
to laughter like alchemy,

me oh my, are you
confusing sometimes, but
I'm enticed and derided,
nice coincided with ruthless
but I'm toothless, I have

no bite, despite all my bark,
dark eyes and dark fingernails
scratch at your surface but
you reveal yourself all

too quickly, sickly and
terrible and beautiful, you're
there and I'm here but we
are together, somehow,
plow my fields and harvest
my crop yield, there is

part of me that belongs to you
and if I sound like I'm telling
a lie, know that it's true,
if only just for today please,
believe what I say.

the shame of having--
a lighter load to bear than
discomfort of lack

they scratch my skin so
I don't have to, leaving
red rocky channels to
pattern my landscape,
hand shape mountainous with
ridged knuckles that buckle
under pressure, tectonic plates
collide under your pinches,
inches separate my continents,
compliments mean much less
to me than land and sea
decoration on the world that
is my body, swirled with
tide pool bruises and oceanic
wetness, sweat accumulates like
dew forming my atmosphere
that you clear away with
thrusting earthquakes, shaking
my foundation, my creation
started at this *****, molten core,
more, more, more, it rang out,
pangs of pain and guilt
marble my thighs in stretches,
desert wasteland abdomen
with a dried-up well, swelling
******* pour forth milk and honey
but this is no promised land, sand
scatters and swirls, curls and unfurls
into furious scabs that could
serve as cityscapes, I have a metropolis
on my face and I'm patient zero,
latent heroes stay hidden under
fingernails while yours continue
to sail over tender skin, covering me again
in valleys and gorges and channels.

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

I smile at the bruises I've
given myself, knowing they
are evidence of a life lived
rashly and brutally, a full and
unapologetic purple speckles
my shins, my back, my behind,
and it's from dancing on the
floor of three different rooms,
a classroom, a club room, a
bedroom, and I do these
dances so well, the other
day I fell and recovered
and laughed and was
smothered with cries of
concern to which I learned
I'm so ******* resilient and
this body is brilliant at
taking a beating and
cheating death as it has from
my mind time and again

it won't surprise anyone
who knows me to find out
I'm an aggressive player-
impulsive, I see my advantage quickly
and take it or make one from go-
show no mercy, I love beating men
at what they think is their game.
see the shame on faces as they
realize their assumptions,
she actually could be good, and
should I choose to, you will lose
to me so fast you'll be on your
knees and not know how you got there.
It won't surprise you to know
that I play with a ferocity of
fighting for my life, because, in
a way, I am. my heartbeat
is tied to winning. But they don't know
me, and it's with disgust
and indignation I remember,
yet again, they are shocked that
this girl is a force, could
give them a run for their money
and have no remorse.

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.

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!”

A tiny fist clings
Wrinkling the chest of my blouse
Fingers fat with milk and love and bananas
Draw lines in linen and decorate me as mother
Wet spots polka dot my clothing,
Residue of tears and drooling and more milk.

This uniform is at once costume, straightjacket, cape and mask, nakedness.

She has my eyes, but hers are green.
She has his smile, but he doesn't smile as much anymore.

She carries our confusion like a torch, leading an angry parade,
we carry her little body like a sacrificial lamb up the stairs.

They say that my only way
to be home for Christmas
is in my dreams.
If that's true, my
reality must be in
a far away land.

Who knew Boston was
so mysterious...

How long then, must I walk
to either reach the
land of sleep or
wake up to a reality
that includes a home?

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.

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?

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?

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.

I'd like to ride again. I
wait patiently in line for
my ego rollercoaster, ready
to rise slowly, building
my anticipation, only to glimpse
the drop before falling down
down
down
into a spiral of nausea and
head jerks from left to right
looping back on myself and
ending at the bottom,
coming to a halt at
self-loathing, only to
start creating again so that
I can feel that tick tick tick of
my cart being pulled up the track again,
eager for the nosedive.
I'm addicted to the adrenaline
of feeling great and then remembering
I'm terrible and my art was the best,
no wait, the worst ever created.

Listen to them sing,
the braver few
who aren't denied
their voices by fear
but push past, rasp
as they may, or
belt, felt by the
whole room or
maybe just me,
doomed to notice
the part of me
stifled by stupid
nonsense when
I could spew
it from the rooftops,
anew in my loud
voice of violence
and idiocy
and elegancy.

I step into the elevator, wait
For the doors to shut, hate
Seeping out of my pores I
Raise my hand and take a breath,
Land a palm upon my face and
Replace my despair with pain,
I gain a redness to erase the
Shameful droplets I’m so
Tired of mopping up.
I strike again.

A fist closes and makes contact
With abdomen then thigh, my cries
muffled by a relieved sigh
That I may release the fury that
I could not curry favor with all
My labor I have done for you, you.
I strike again.

The two lights up, and I claw
Nails into the soft underbelly of
An arm, it’s mine but it’s not,
I’ve taught myself dismemberment
And I treat my limbs with a disdain
They don’t deserve but I can’t
Beat my brain so I trigger nerves
Within reach instead. I calm
This dread of imperfection with a
Swift direction of more blows.
I strike again.
And step out as the doors close.

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.

let me out, please
stop, I want off this
ride, hop an exit early,

and hide, surely that's
not too uncommon for
a mom and her depression
no recess in the home
of a parent with stress

and no where to go, roam
free my mind but my
body must stay here and
fear absorbs my joy like

a sponge, rob me of
life's little moments I
hear about, ***** grout,
tears and shout and
clean while she sleeps
and veg out, deep

in the bowels of my
mind I find the desire
to be let off this ride
no one to confide in

that I am beside myself
with rage, no pride,
pages get stagnant
unturned, unread, unsaid

let me off, scoff
at my selfishness,
I know I do,
but here I am
and I'm begging you.

I want you to expect from me
greatness, loveliness, reject
from me the loser I know resides
in my depths, hides behind
excuses of tiredness, fire this
engine with the thrill of
anticipating excellence,
participating in my self-
annihilation of that little girl
who lost sometimes, who tried
for the joy of it, boy did
she fail, but she also had fun,
her sun has set, and risen
in her stead is this high achiever
who rarely tries, buys favor
with lies, savors the rare
moments of feeling special
and tears flesh from bone
the rest of the time trying
to expose herself to more light,
fighting the instinct to go
extinct at first sight of
being a ******* loser. shoes hurt
and waist aches from sculpting
my body to be high stakes,
steak me through the heart
I've become a vampire
leeching off of the validation
of others, salivation at the
thought of turning you on,
without consideration of my
own pleasure, measure me in
victories please, and don't deduct
all my last places, faces that
set in disappointment of my
false anointment, I'm not the
chosen one, I'm just becoming
the unhappiest version of myself,
a ******* of what could have been
would that I had let go of
being a constant one-woman show
that shocks and awes, causes
locks to unlatch and people to
patch me up with ribbons
and medals, if it's not blue or gold
I'm convinced you won't be sold
on me, and I'm constantly for sale,
frail and fettered as I am, I pale
at the idea that I'm too fat
or thin for you, so much so
I forget what I look like, what
I might be if I knew nobody could
see me, how I long for that
invisibility, an ability to
become a ghostly shape,
mostly vapor and smoke that
could choke the insults I've
heard along my way, why did they say
those things to me? can't they see
how fragile I am, not agile, I can't
dodge the bullets of snide remarks
shot my direction, sniped from afar
and bludgeoning me up close
begrudging acceptance from
those I love most, feeling as
much like a wound as the
untarnished truth, my varnish of
youth is fading, too, and soon I
won't have my age to fall
back on, I lack the small
support that keeps me standing and
I've got canes hidden in my coat
to keep me afloat,
to link this boat to the sky,
so I don't sink but don't get too high.

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.

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.

they spill out, words
flood my eyes and cry
sentences down cheeks,
my pores leak letters, my
sweat is sweet nothings,
discharge a disclaimer, i
burst with thoughts
turned to words turned
to hand clenches

Did you like me? I thought
you did but there's no

response and life's taught me
I'm wrong so often, I soften

my brow in realization that
you won't message back,

I lack something, of course,
you found wounds that run

too deep, that seep too much
into the cloth of my words

and personality, finality is
heard by what goes unsaid,

inside your head is the
goodbye unspoken and my

trust in myself broken yet again
by thinking that you
could have liked me.

Untethered, untethered,
Feathers fall away, this
Ugly bird can't fly
Anymore, before the
Dreams to soar seemed
So close--bore yet
Another audience
With your unfulfilled
Aspirations, perspiration
Is my fountain of youth,
Truth bringing me salty
Foolishness, grab my
Wrists and force me,
Please don't ease
Me in, course success
Through my veins,
An IV, try me,
I'll consent to the
Harshest treatment
If it meant time spent
Bleeding love.
Come at me, give me everything
You've got, I've a lot,
To see for myself
How red my blood is before
I bleat, far too much,
Far too late,
Fate doomed me,
Sisyphus pushing my
Hopeful Boulder up
A hill of predictability,
Only to *** with a frown
When it comes crashing back down.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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

'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 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.

A slap across the face,
my thoughts' palm imprinted
all over my battered body,
beating me with every
judgement, steamrolling past
any rational compassion,
lashing out at any
dangling fruit, mangling
my esteem on a minute level.
Disheveled, I can see
I'm a mess from my latest
abuse, and I gently put
bandaids on bruises,
take rest, attempting to
set broken bones with time,
unwilling to perform
the work that would truly heal
instead of a quick feel of relief,
because until this belief is gone,
that I'm worth less than
any and everyone else, come
forth all imaginable injury,
all infection and poison,
rejection of self-love,
in favor of sickness and
pain, please someone explain:
is happiness even real?

Joy has become a fairy tale
to me, and as a child I'm
starting to realize the stories
aren't true, they don't
apply to you, this
contentment remains a
concept, illusory, not adept
to application in my
reality, and I'm just
here waiting and reading
the tales of peace
while my mind beats
and breaks, pinches
and punches, brings me to
my knees with a gun
to my heart, always
cocked, safety off,
and at this point
I'm screaming to just
pull the trigger, I
figure being over is
more tolerable, after all,
I can't disappoint
if I'm not here, don't need
to fear falling short,
appalling the masses near
and far, if i've traveled
where I don't feel or know,
If I've gone where
my thoughts can't go.