Who is paranoid?

Me or you,
as you shield the pages
on the train
from me
with your shoulder
as I
try and see
what you have written
thinking you are hiding
something from me
as I clutch my bag to my chest
and start to breathe faster
        lungs tighten
        face feels warm
as someone speaks in foreign language
accidentally pulls against my hair
and they face me
straddling the seat I’m in
pushing me towards you
as I try to disappear
as the people get closer
and the train gets faster
and everything is swimming
in bright fluorescent yellow

until

the tracks point upward
and upwards
and upwards
lunging from the underbelly of the earth
and the light bursts through the windows
and the beast emerges,
breaking through
like a sigh of relief,
like breaking into heaven
so fast
that no one could stop us
if they tried.

It’s raining outside
but in this new place
I can’t hear it hit my window
or the rumble of the thunder
which I delight in hearing
as it tries to frighten me
but does so feebly
like a baby tiger
learning to growl

So I stare through glass
but at an angle
because I can’t see the raindrops
except by the orange lamplight
which reflects all the water
that swims trapped inside the globe
of the burning glow
and seems to disappear
once it has passed

And My God, these thoughts
tighten my stomach
and their hands scratch through my forehead
and constrict all of my breathing
so I try to erase them
as they try to frighten me
but do so feebly
that I can forget them
by trying to feel the storm.

In the palm of your hand-
I feel that I’m only in the palm of your hand
and that I fit there, so tiny,
like a fairy, curled up
inside of a tulip
and safe and content
to sleep,
softly
and
serenely
and
lovely,
with tiny shoes
that always fit.

But, oh, it’s just not fair,
that I can do no more than spin tales and enchant
and there is nothing I can do
there is nothing  to do
looking up from below
that will keep you safe
from you,
for you,
around you.
I’m
sorry.
I’m nothing more
than a tickle at your ear.

It’s a peculiar race
of peculiar beings
not of god nor of beast,
just something betweening,

where the righteous eat cabbage
and where the sinners eat meats
and the dangerous ones,
they press send, not delete.


We stomp over stones
and toss in our beds
forever tops spinning
around in our heads-

the heads we hold high,
the heads that hang low
that move by the slightest
“goodbye,” or “hello-”

a race not content
to merely survive-
but it’s art we create
for our hearts to thrive

and to make us feel
we’re more than we are-
just train sets and potlucks
and zooming fast cars,

because, just perhaps,
though it’s hard to see
there’s something exquisite
just for us to *be.

Glass figurines and teacups,
china dolls and painted plates,
I’ll pile them all in your hands,
and like a child,
         I will wait-

I’ll wait for you to break them,
but I’ll pray they don’t shatter-
if the pieces hit the ground hard,
they’ll slice through
        my gray matter,

and then I won’t comprehend
what is left of me at all,
beyond pieces left of trinkets
and the man
        who could not fall.


Darling, I hate to say this,
but I swear you must be blind
if you can’t see how much I hang
on each word
        that you design

and ship off and send my way
and the rest that you forget
and I am constantly a wreck
of what you
       have not said quite yet.

I have a sock drawer
that laughs at me
   every freezing day-


It hides its contents
one at a time-
     it’s just cruel that way.


So now, in the cold,
I swear to it,
    when the earth thaws out,

My feet will be bare
in the dirt and grass!
Shoes? I can do without.

I’m feeling out of order
like inside my pocket
pulling out the pieces
and the crumpled bits of paper
are covered in crumbs
and sticking to my sweating, nervous, palms
as I look for the dollar
as the line grows longer
and the lady at the counter
taps her too-long nails
and stares cold and empty through the laughter
when I find my dollar's gone
when I reach through the hole
and there is nothing left to do
but trudge along home.