blue house
brown house
tan house

brown house
blue house

brown house
brown house
brown house

backyard inside the fence
rocks inside of rivets

dead grass and
rocks inside rivets
rocks inside rivets

bridge over tracks
bridge over trails
bridge over the river
bridge over rails

parking lot
parking lot
parking lot
parking lot

high school called
a dead man’s name

circle
avenue
court
lane

and i hope you’ll take care of yourself
you deserve a lot more than the
torments you carry like a cloud
if only you knew how badly i wished
i could sail through every storm for you

i would’ve faced the crashing waves
and treaded even in the pain
of holding your head above water
because i wanted you to get the chance
to do better for yourself

but what’s the use if i drown
just trying to make you see
you’re worth more than the people
who pushed you overboard
and watched you descend so deep
into yourself you didn’t know
where the ocean ended and you began

and you try to hide the water
trapped in your lungs but
i can still see it in your eyes

i know you pushed me away because
you felt like an anchor sinking and
didn’t want to take me down with you
but you never even bothered to ask
if i could swim

always saying i'm so happy
but you never seem to notice
how sad you make me feel
i can't keep struggling
to strap a lifejacket
on the back of someone
who doesn't want to be saved

but i hope someday, you'll empty
the heavy stones from your pockets
catch your breath above the surface
and feel the sun shining
on your face once more

so the dancing dust bunnies gleam
in the soft light of the noontime sunshine
as it smiles down on me through
smudged second-story windows
bringing with it a reminder that even
the most ordinary everyday moments
can sparkle like stars in the midnight sky

i have built walls
inside of my chest
a hopeless romantic
with a fear of falling

but i've slipped before
only if ever by accident
and i've plunged
over the edge

freefalling
seemingly suspended
in time and space

enjoying the view
too much to brace
myself for the impact

believing that maybe,
just maybe, this time
i have miraculously
discovered the vortex

that maybe this time
it will be enough
maybe this time
i can fall forever

being distracted
is not the same thing
as being okay

why is it
when the sky is dark, heavy
holding onto every ounce
of moisture it can
just before its fingers
are too exhausted to hold on anymore

when the air is thick, dense
with the weight of the world
resting itself on our chests
and burdening our shoulders
underneath its pressure
that I feel lighter?

my head feels clear
and everything inside of me
which once seemed a mystery
is suddenly unveiled
in a beautiful, crystalline way

perhaps it’s because
when I look inward
at my own atmosphere
I see the fog
I see the clouds

a constant waiting game
to open the floodgates
that reside under my eyelashes
and cleanse my core
of all the things
weighing me down

looked at you for too long
and then i realized
you are human, too

fallible
uncertain
flawed

piously pined for
palatial splendor i
placed in my dreams of you,
imperfect you

and it's no ones fault
a figure headed facade
fabricated by figments
of my frivolous imagination

put you on a pedestal
made you divine
made you holy

you, the ceiling
high above my head
and i, looking up
in the sistine chapel

untouchable
untarnished

couldn't see the cracks
beneath the varnish

then, close enough to study
a faint fresco with critical eyes
fantasy faded in the fault lines
of your frowning face

looked for too long
until i realized
you were just as broken as me

a collection of shattered pieces
shrouded and shy
once a shrine
now a shriek

wide eyes on you
a sinner, still
i called you sacred

ignoring the nature of
the irreverent, the profane

liked the luster
of longing lingering
on my lips
when i breathed your name

the veil torn
the truth beheld
and you are not god

gambling grief and
gleaming gloom
thought i could be
the sun to your moon

majesty to malignancy
momentarily merciful
moreover cruel

monstrous mr monsoon
after all, human, too

there's a dime on my bedroom floor
from the day i moved in
over a year ago, now
my broom bristles always conveniently
missing its ridged and silver edge
i guess i love the way its perpetual glint
reminds me of beginnings

and the black dress i wore
to my great-grandmother's funeral
its formality and pleating made me
feel mature and important
in fact, it's still hanging in my closet
hoping for a happier occasion
maybe even a celebration
but i'll never wear it again

come to think of it, i've never
been that good at letting go

like my scratched up cds from so many days
spent gliding around on hardwood in baby pink
ballerina tights while playing barbie dolls
dreaming about what it might be like
to love someone someday
my favorite one stayed in the dented player
until the day i moved away

there is ripped paper in a folder
from failed scrapbook attempts
that usually ended in poorly cut photographs
taken from the photo box in the basement
where mom kept the grainy originals
of all our childhood memories
captured on some ancient kodak

yes, come to think of it
i've never really been that
good at letting go

but as time moves forward i find
less and less value in the tangible
i suppose i don't care for objects like
i did as a child

these days it's mostly burning words
held inside my throat
of all of the things i wanted to
but could never say
and yesterday's breath in my lungs
because i hold that too tight, too

and people -- no,
the idea of people
frozen, remembering the exact moment
they became the sun i revolved around
and now they show up in nostalgic dreams,
evergreen never aging, never changing
inside my brain everything stays the same
and i end up longing for a time
i probably over romanticized anyway

no, i've never really been
good at letting go
i’ve always held on to what i know
but lessons learned come with time.
here’s mine:

letting go is the hardest part,
but it’s a start.

yellow stained fingers
i wanted to paint myself
a happy picture

splatter the cheap canvas
with a bit of acrylic sunshine
layer it on in heaps

i’ve never believed in
the moderation of joy

finger print smudges in gobs
of goldenrod and daffodil

couldn’t find the patience to wait
for abundance to settle in

footprint on the rug
i never watch where i’m going
stepped right on it

call it artistic liberty
it probably means something
when i figure it out
i’ll call it a sign

maybe next time i’ll know better
than to let it dry
on the living room floor

probably not though

anyway, i never minded
the messes we make
when we’re too busy living
to clean up after ourselves

i think we should
be allowed to cry
in coffeeshops

or any other place
when, even in public,
we are so overcome

with  f e e l i n g

that it spills over
maybe into our
nighttime coffee

anywhere
we finally feel
quiet, calm, safety

wash over us
briefly,
for no good reason

what's the use in
sitting there, alone
working, reading

drinking things with
stupid names and pretending
we have it all together

i think we should
celebrate overflowing
which is how i've always

really felt about
crying, anyway
it's all so much

just to exist in a world
with everything to experience
in so little time

and it's really
no wonder our delicate
little vessels

can't handle it
all without some
overflow

what's the point
in doing it all and never
letting yourself be full of it

so full that it
spills, runs, drips
from your insides

because there's simply
not enough room for
you to hold it all

i want it all
even if it stings
even when it

really, really, hurts
like deep down in
my bones hurts

and i want the rest
especially when it
feels like my chest

will explode if i
even think of inhaling
another bit of life

i want to cry because
everything hurts so much
even the best parts

i think we should just
let each other be open,
maybe a little too open

what does that
even mean anyway?

i think we should
be allowed to cry
in coffeeshops.

isn’t it liberating to know
despite the storm blowing
around in your brain

there is a whole wide world
that will keep the pace
without ever stopping
to consider your storm

time keeps running
the earth still spins
and the rest of the world moves on.

there is hope in that for you, too.

i’m always asking questions
i already know the answers to
for some reason i can’t accept it’s real
unless i hear it from you
and the answer is always no
i tell you i understand
and it's true, i do understand
because i have been preparing myself
to hear you say it
since the day it began

it’s good and then it’s bad
and it’s love until it’s apathy
as sure as the sun sets
in the west i know all
good things turn to dust
just as suddenly as they
accumulated into opacity
i don’t want to accept the way
i’m so easily turned into a casualty

a plan made two weeks in advance
is almost unheard of in my life
i know there’s a good chance
you won’t be here by the time
i get your christmas gift in the mail
but i ordered it anyway because
a piece of me is always hopeful
but hope isn’t always the dreamy
optimism i usually paint it to be
sometimes it’s just an excuse
to turn a blind eye to the end

if you shut the door i’ll
cover my eyes so i can’t
see you leaving, even with
goodnight on the tip of my tongue
if you don’t say goodbye
i’ll stand there til i fall asleep
thinking you might still wrap
me up and carry me to bed
i knew all the words before
but i needed to hear them said

i’ll ask you a question just to
hear you tell me i’m right
and the answer is always no
he loves me, he loves me not
a million yeses don’t lead to another
and a trillion noes will end the same
but i need to hear it from you
crush the hope stirring in my
chest that makes it harder to
breathe, say it soon, or i’ll die
holding my breath for you,
again

morning light
calls out to me
inside the first
breath of the day

there is clarity
the sun greeting
tired eyes from
the distant horizon

awakens reality
as clear as glass
before daydreams
and judgements

have time to pass
you will never be
so sure of what you want
than in that moment

what are you wishing
to gaze upon once
your eyes flutter open?

27 miles to empty
i needed to leave the house
i needed to get out of bed
to escape from loneliness
and, for a moment, leave behind
every single thing i never said

out of the quiet emptiness
of my cold grey walls
out of my head which,
coincidentally, only finds
stillness in distraction

i needed to give myself
something else to think about
to be preoccupied from
my own preoccupations

because it's never empty
up there, but sometimes
when i sing along
it starts to feel like
it's just me and the music

but my phone is dead
it always is
it's surprisingly hard work
avoiding all the conversations
you don't want to have
(which is most of them)

FM radio, i forgot where to look
i scan the stations
three times over
and only stop when i feel like
i'm emma woodhouse
88.1, symphony no. 3

and in the dark
i don't even have to
close my eyes
to pretend i'm someone else
somewhere else,
sometime else

and then the host rolls
advertisements, deals and steals
and did you know the cemeteries
are ready to serve you again?
i laugh to myself and wonder
what's it like to serve the dead?

to dig six feet down
and resist falling in
it's much more sad
up on top, anyway, you know

but i'm distracted again
and god, it feels good
i'd rather think about death
than how much it hurts
just to exist sometimes

in the classical music
i lose myself in the past
i'd romanticize a war if it meant
i'd get to wear a pretty dress
and never have to think of
someone falling out of love with me
ever again

even if it's because they're bleeding out
on a muddy battlefield
in the middle of a match
that wasn't even theirs to fight

somehow death seems a more
proper thought than imagining
you going on and living
without me

7 miles to empty
and i'm back to where it all began
i just can't shut out the voices
telling me all roads don't lead to you

and i think
i'm just so tired
of being sad
but it's something
there's no sense in
hurrying

the process of
yearning, of unlearning

there is so much
emotional labor
that goes into
forgetting

all of the good
the bright, the beautiful
before the terrible
the painful, the ugly

the feeling
you used to get
when you looked
into their eyes

and it hasn't been there
in months, maybe years

but you're chasing the high
because you're afraid
the memory
is all you have left of it

remembering
what it felt like
when you weren't
pretending
everything was
alright

i went back to the healing place

drove through town just before
5 o’clock, traffic slowed, i sped

i went back to the healing place

the one i felt i hadn’t needed when
for once i had trust, i rushed
to take seat, said hello to my friends
the varied thrush, the winter wren

i said
i went back to the healing place

just in time to see the sun laid rest
beneath barren branches scratching
cracks across a sky caressing dusk

with it i lay back myself and look up
at those familiar hawthorn branches
i must’ve traced a thousand times before

i went back to the healing place
and the healing place was there for me
once more

cinnamon tea in a chipped
thrift store mug
a minute ago
it was too hot
and now it's too cold

here and there
fast and then faster still
it all happened so quickly

i barely had the chance to blink
it all happened before i even
had the chance to stop and think

but the red light on 6th street
lasts a minute longer at midnight
and that's where i usually
come into my remembering

sometimes revelations hit you
less like a brick and more like a burn
it's a kind of hurt that stings longer
than the bruise of the initial blow

i guess you never know
when the last time
becomes the last

it happened so fast
you forgot all the times
you ached so ardently
you thought you'd become
symbiotic with the pain

but the idyllic recollections always linger
like scalding hot shower steam
hanging around a winter room
you illusioned elation because
it felt better than the truth

it was the last time
but somewhere deep down
you already knew
you held the feeling in your gut
begging for countered proof

you've unfolded the understanding
became transparent with the pattern
joy is punctuated by brevity
the very reason it tasted so sweet
on the tip of your tongue

time follows a template
of give and take
the longer you live
the more natural it becomes
to see your fair share of loss

and you know everything ends
you know the swift current of this
breathtaking experience in space
is the temporariness of existence

but why does everyone leave

a minute ago they were here, now
the sureness you cultivated is ripped to shreds
and thrown like confetti in the wind
and love is carried away
like it never held any weight at all

the wheel spins,
the last time
becomes the last
and yet again
you become just another piece
of someone else's past

i could pull the sheets
up and over my head

i could shut out the day
and hide from the light

but i can't escape the fear
i hold tight within my chest

will i always be running
in search of something better

wondering if i mistakenly
fled the best?

woman
you are more than
every "no"
every interruption
every door that's ever been slammed
in your hopeful & determined face

you are more than
arbitrary numbers on clothing tags
the weight of your muscle and bone
and counting calories until
food becomes a source of shame
rather than a source of energy

you are more than
disney princess button noses
anti-aging creams before bed
and covering every single spot
that made its way to your face
by way of sun or oil

you are more than
changing who you are to make others happy
waiting up for a message that never comes
and all of the excuses made by men
who don't know how
to keep their hands to themselves

you are more than
all of the things this world
throws back in your face
when you give it your all
and get nothing in return
while a man gives nothing
and the world falls at his feet

woman
you are not bossy
you are too emotional
you are not less than

you are qualified
you are compassionate
you are strong
and you are enough

no matter what this world
built on the ideals of men
tricks you into believing

you deserve a spot at the table
you deserve to shatter the ceiling
you deserve to break down doors
and pave new roads

they will shout down at you
from powerful pedestals and say
you can't
but woman,
you can.
and you will.

and i guess i learned
the hard way that
chasing you is like
chasing the sunset
  
i am running towards you
but when i reach out to
hold you in my hand
fingertips grasp at empty air

a master of disguise
appearing so close, but you were
distant, off in the distance giving
the horizon line goodnight kisses

you belong to the wind
the light, the sky, the stars
you belong to everything,
but you do not belong to me.