Black Lilacs
blooming -

a blossoming
of grief -

dark fallen pollen
on the breeze -

I can see it falling
all around me -

there on the wall
for us to see -

April will be
the cruelest of them all.

can I see the moon again
or
should I see the stars today

I just want to take them home
with me

and put one on the ceiling

I'm too greedy
taking your love for granted

I use you to feel better
about myself

can I have the moon
and put it outside
for me

I just want the sky for me

not for anyone else

To this body
Death does as it should,
Consigns the shell
To the firewood
And sets the spirit free.

Close to the fire
the heat singes me.

I know it's only the prelude
to the fiery furnace
licking my skin with flaming tongues
reducing me to powdered ashes
disappearing and in no time fading
what was me but in an instant
dusts in urns and upon wall
and years after maybe one's
untimely rains of dusty memories.

today i drew up a
crime scene
out of my thoughts

which sounds
perplexing

unless you're someone
like me who can't think
one thing without thinking
about another

so i drew lines on paper
connected people to events
places to regrets
circled notations
and perhaps little
is relevant

if i wear my heart
and emotions on my sleeve
which i do
can you possibly imagine
what kind of things i don't
admit to thinking?
and for awhile i thought
i didn't have any hidden
feelings but then again
the deeper i dig the more
i find that i do
once i get past the fact
i don't want to admit
they're there

my gut response is
to wait until the
wound itches
grab the
band aid and
rip it off

but this is a much
slower process
of hot steam
and stinging
soap and water
peeling bit
by painful bit

trying not to let the
crime scene thoughts
take over my life
but slowly snipping
color coded threads
until things begin falling

learning to live my life
with less explosions
less catastrophic
breakdowns to push past
and more tears that wash
off in the morning
and less that drip
into open cuts

letting
light in

disassembling my
crime scene thoughts

as a child my mother told me
i would be a writer someday
because i was always asking
"what if?"

but now i'm twenty
years old and i only
write when i'm
trying to forget

as a child my mother told me
i would be a writer someday
if i just kept asking
"what if?"

but i just grew up to have
an anxiety disorder

i guess i figured by
twenty years old i would
be the girl with
the band and not
the girl in the corner
behind three crockpots
and a cash box
dancing alone

but that's my favorite
part so far of being twenty
that by now i know
i am who i am
and i don't have to be who
i once wanted to be

sunset flickers across the
road and off the telephone
wires as once again
boredom sets in

maybe not my favorite
part because i hate this
but i figure it's comforting
even if i have to lie to myself

i also figured i would
be in love by now
and not
just lonely

on the other hand
i never realized
that i've always
been lonely

a lonely that
stays the same
regardless of who
i'm with

regardless of who
is under my feet
regardless of how
i spend my weekends

raised in a habitat that
did not tolerate the
concept of evolution
as being a possibility

but isn't that part of
carving my own way?
realizing that
i have changed

and i guess growing up
growing old
is the hardest thing
i'll ever do