i'm born out of a habit of self-destructive patterns

i'm born out of a foreigner's vacation
i am the product of anxiety, of wealth ill-gotten,
of american 90's dreams and excuses

i'm shaken like a passenger on a wooden roller coaster
i'm mixed like "mutt" like "i don't know what you are"
like exotic
like *****

I'll sing of all the ways I miss you
and how this sorrow came to be
the verses, lies I should have whispered
the chorus, truths in harmony.

The melody will break the silence
and call your broken heart to me
to be repaired by love unyielding
to broken hymns in minor key.

i was told i could be anything,
so i chose to be a feminist
because
when i suggested my father help with the laundry,
my mother told me i was crazy.
because
meghan tranior's "all about that bass"
is telling bigger girls to be comfortable in their own skin
because skinny girls already do, right?
because
i'd like to make as much as my male coworkers.
because
i was laughed at for wanting to be a doctor instead of a housewife.
because
people look at me strange when i say i don't want kids.
because
when i gave a speech about feminism in my english class,
i was called a man-hater.
because
"my shoulders distract the boy's education".
because
my mom shouldn't have to worry
about what goes in my drink at concerts.

i will be a feminist until
i can tell my boyfriend
"no babe, i'd rather watch the movie"
and i am not told
"you're depriving him of his needs".
until
my body is my body.
until
i no longer have to carry pepper spray on a keychain.
until
women in foreign countries can vote and drive.
until
woman means human.
until
we understand **** culture
and feminism isn't just about women,
it's about humans.

when you go to that lane
where the houses are graves
their rooms only pain
shadows' dark waves

where winds pause morose
light is barred
closed doors and windows
keep sunshine debarred

where walls are deadened
reeking of moss
the way is a dead end
weighed with cross

you would meet a hollow face
covered in hood
who would ask *all these days
you did what good.

I am the quill;
fleeting and energetic.
You are the consistent
flowing ink.
Your color knows
not of bounds.
In the inkwell we dance
You enveloping me.
Me, steeped in you.
Alone, we are but
pointed feather
and darkness.
Together, our stories
emerge from curved letters
on old, worn pages.

You belong to her, not me
When she's gone you can hardly breathe
She's all you could ever need
Each word crushes my lung
Makes my stomach hurt
You long for her smell, her touch, her every detail
So when you're gone, missing her across sea
I'll be missing you, hoping to wake up from this dream
He handed her a locket to cherish all they could be
On one side she had a picture of herself
On the other read "good luck"
If you were the moon then she was the ocean
Like spring tides, when the moon is full
The high tides are very high
And the low tides are very low

The morning I found the box
of photo albums in the attic
I learned that
the sun would have risen
even if I hadn't

Daylight is not necessarily
a good metaphor
for life

There you were
ten years earlier
having a picnic on the kitchen floor
despite the rain storm
visible through the foggy window behind you

You can make sandwiches
in any type of weather
but seeing the photos
loaned me understanding of why
you don't eat rye bread anymore

When I went back down stairs
I took our bread box outside to the birds
and made you soup
in silence.

Close your legs,
Little *****,
You are a destination,
Not simply a door.
All your friends will know now,
And each one will judge you so,
You know what will happen,
You've gone through this before,
Silly, slutty, little girl,
When will you learn?
You are a destination not a door.

You set a glass on my desk,
The day that you left,
And I leave it there in hopes,
That one day you'll come back
To move it