at school my name is Ida,
the one that alternates
between lively chatter
and awkward silence

at home my name is Lily,
the one that starts disputes
as often as she tries to end them

to myself I am Chloé,
the one that waters the trees with her overflowing emotion,
spilling the both the agave syrup of a positive encounter
and the bitter vinegar of rejection
onto the roots of the plants she speaks to

the doctors guessed I was a girl,
and I would say they did a pretty good job of it

but with this guess comes the less accurate ones of others,
who think I must like boys
I would say that their guessing skills are less refined,
but neither are really notable

my hands are happiest when holding a pen,
whether using it to sketch out a face
or detail a notable event,

and when an instrument rests in them
my mind choreographing a dance
for my fingers to perform over the holes

this happiness spreads to the rest of me
when their efforts yield a thing of beauty







that happiness spreads to the rest of me when they are making something of beauty

1/9/2020 assorted thoughts
Once again, I have failed at talking to Lillian.

Each word that slips out is one I regret saying
and she regrets hearing.

The inhabitants of my mind bicker over what to say
never coming to consensus
resulting in a confusing, jumbled mess
in no way resembling
what either side hoped for.

Neither has any idea of why we keep trying.

iris

we were cut
from the same kind of cloth
but hers was more finely woven
more intricately patterned
more vibrantly hued
more durably built

she talked like
a retrieving dog running
a wild horse galloping
a lion chasing
quick, with aim
never wanting to stop

I talked like
a hippo out of water
walking slowly
treading gingerly
wanting desperately
to be back in the pond

she wears, they all wear
little jewels of knowledge
I never got a chance to acquire
when I hear them talk a sophisticated necklace
I can do nothing but admire
and wish I could add just a seed bead

but I can still listen
paint pictures of the jewels in my head
find ways to cope
attempt to conceal
my unfortunate ignorance
and hopeless stupidity






they always sew dresses with her cloth
who can blame them
her cloth is better than mine
in every aspect
if only mine were entirely different
so there was no comparison to be made

but I can still look
enjoy the dresses
I can’t get away from them
so I may as well think of it
as a thing of beauty
as a thing of unmatched refinement

I am not blind to her troubles
but she can sing them out
talk them out
write them out
while mine are trapped in a bottle of questions and worries
a bottle of bitter soda bubbling upward

no, I am being selfish
I can see that she is still pained
I can hear it
from the back table
even the most arrogant, insufferable, condescending specimen in the table
has helped more than I have

I guess it is just tormenting
to see you and your comrades and your beaded braids
dart down the corridor to the lockers you share
no, I’m being stupid
it’s not like I said anything edifying
or anything for that matter

what am I even saying
I don’t want to be a nuisance
I guess what I wanted to say was go ahead
keep on talking
I don’t want to hear
what I had to say either

Dear Soren,

I could not see past
the smog of fear and envy
to see your kind heart

I saw you through a red filter
one that blotted out and muddled
So many of your true colors

So afraid that you would take my only friend
That I didn't realise
Maybe you could be a friend too

I never saw your good side
Because I didn't want there to be one
Something I can't forgive myself for
That you don't have to forgive me for either

In the hall, neither of you would talk to me
I watched, tormented by your joy
Something I now regret

It's why I stood so far away

Now I wish I had enjoyed the peace
While it lasted

I tried to earn my respect
But in the end
I lost it

It was almost a year ago
But it feels like last week
Sometimes it feels like last night

We've all changed since then
Hopefully our friendship
Has improved

But those words I wrote
Are unforgivable

And I don't expect you to forgive them.

I just hope you know
That I believe
That you are a friend.

And a good one.

Even if I am not.

velvety sheets of
cream colored paper somehow
endure grand monsoons
of woe etched onto its skin
it feels pain, it is my fault

torn by my stylus
by what it carries in its
dark ink, spilling out
defacing them both, broken
children of confusion, pain

dark ink spilling paths
worn smooth by the passage of
questions, a stampede
of them, they act like hard cold
answers with less certainty

everything you find
in one who is acquainted
with the pain that is
questioning, is that a thing,
no, you are wrong, surely no

why do you plant such
a delightful garden here
only to allow
insects to plague and consume
take the drive from its thin roots

why has joy bounded
into even my crossed
arms only to be
slain by the dagger of fear
that it is all a fiction

I cannot bring air
inside to ventilate my head
I cannot bring light
into the dark swathes, closets
of stirred up notions, quibbling

why do you give me
wings to see the sky, love the
sun just to be stripped
of it by the clouds that rain,
downpour, obscure with dense fog

help, my paper, please
be lit by the sun, show what
is beneath the ink