I may seem cheerful
There are still days
I need to cry
Because you are not there
And certainly not here
And I can not
Contact you
You’re busy
Today
Most days
I need, no
Rather I want to
I’d like to call you
Tell you I want you here
You won’t come over
Tomorrow, either
Nor the day after that
Then it’s my turn
To be busy
A day or two
I wish I could
I wish I was able to contact you
I wish you would answer
If I tried
But you will answer
Once you feel like it
When you have time
You know
You are aware
That I will not disappear
I love you
Too much
But if I told you
That I am writing these lines
You’d probably hate me
You’d find me pathetic
Insane
And I can’t tell you
Because you’d be
So
Extremely
Uncomfortable
That is why
It’s a secret
A treasure
That I hope
You will
Never
Find out about.

The first time
I took my clothes off in front of you,
I didn’t take everything off.
The first time
I pressed my bare skin against yours,
There was still something between us:
A final barrier between my secrets
And your knowing them.
People say the act of love is the most intimate,
But it isn’t.
The truth is,
The most intimate of acts is stripping yourself
Not of clothes,
But of everything hidden,
Even from yourself.
This act of trust,
Of divulging the deepest, darkest parts of yourself
You often refuse to acknowledge –
This is laying yourself bare.
And often we ask for nothing more
Than to see someone’s clothes on the floor
Because, frankly,
True nakedness is something too personal to ask for.

Neither in heaven
Nor in hell
There are people to tell
About the things
That does not make sense
Here on earth

You see
Neither in heaven
Nor in hell
Anyone cares
About the questions
That needs to be answered
Down here

Because in heaven
Things are too good
And in hell
There are worse things
To worry about

But I’d still like to know
What’s the point of it all?
And if
Either one will exist
When it’s my turn to go

Sometimes
When I remember my dreams
I dream horrible nightmares
In which
I'm surprisingly calm

Usually
I get shot in the back
***** by a friend
Cut into pieces
And thrown
In the trash

I've been
Running
Hiding
From unknown threats
Dreams that usually end
With my own death

I've been
A ****** accomplice
To someone
I've never even met
Decapitating women
And washing their heads

It so hard to grasp
And I don't know how to tell you
But all these dreams
In which I'm dying
Are the ones
That I prefer

The Christmas party was going well.
Everyone was smiling and laughing.
We were playing ***** Santa.
All was normal until his turn.
He walked up to the tree and,
Instead of picking a gift,
He froze.
As if this decision would be his last,
As if his life hung in the balance.
We all waited with our breath held--
On the edge of our seats--
Nothing happened.
The pastor tried to smooth things over
Move him along, go on with the game.
We all played along,
As if he weren't still standing there,
Staring at the tree.
I clocked his time:
Thirty seven minutes and forty three seconds.

He lifted his head,
Looked around,
Sat down,
As if nothing ever happened at all.

"What dew drops is, Miss W?"

Where do I start?
What dew drops is?
Should I address the syntactic structure of that question?
Should I even bother to correct the grammar here? Will it matter?
Or will this student roll their eyes because they've heard it all before?
They know how to speak properly. They simply choose not to.
Or that, at least, is the opinion of many of my contemporaries.
I don't know how I feel. I can't form an opinion about anything.
I'm too young.
Not much older than the 18-year-old squeezing into that tiny desk asking
What dew drops is?

Should I go into a scientific explanation about
how the heating and the cooling of the earth,
each rising and setting of the sun,
affects condensation?
I'm not even exactly sure how it works.
I apparently know more than this kid.
What dew drops is?

Have they ever been outside?
Have they been up early in the morning or late into the night?
Of course they have. This is high school.
There is no sleep.
When I was in high school, I woke up before dawn and worked late into the night.
I knew what dew was because it dampened my pant legs
as I walked to my car in the morning and at night.

What dew drops is?
Is this a real question?
Is this really what one addresses in a 12th grade English class?
Shouldn't I be sharing the true meaning of literature?
Or some life-altering insight into a canonical work?

No. I teach English at a high school.
And that means I answer questions like
"What dew drops is?"

And I love it.