You take me to places only nightmares
are allowed entry to; the juggler in our midst
has now taken your hand and my head
and we are lost somewhere between wonderland
and purgatory. Bound to you with strings,
I am no longer an instrument of love,
I do not make music, nor do I burn
with impassioned colours. I only hum
the songs you've forgotten, and I refuse to.
We were born in a wrong time and we've got
to get out of this place, before the maze
in your thoughts swallows me
whole.

i define myself in my head quite deftly
by the very things i am not.
i am not
in love
i am not strong
i am not loud.

i am not all the things that i show people
like some childhood trinket i took a fancy to
passing it around the circle
waiting for other people to take delight in something that i relish
for a reason that is too simple for me to puzzle through.

i astound myself by how well i play it up
by how convincing my funny stories and shrugging shoulders are.
i am amazed at my ability to *******
(i get it from my mother)
but at the same time appreciative,
because i would be something altogether waif-like and diluted without it.

i depend on being something that i'm not
something that i'm still trying to decipher
something that maybe once was a part of me but got cut away
the year i started slicing my own flesh to drain out the sadness.

i guess what i'm trying to say is...
to the part of me that is loud:
to the part of me that drowns out the silent, open mouth screams and discolored arm-marks and the aching womb:

thank you.

If the Christian afterlife
is so cool, why would
Jesus play such a cruel
and mean trick as to raise
Lazarus from the dead?

  ~mce

Where everyone
is damaged goods,
there are
no damaged goods.

  ~mce

Summer blue
and you
Summer too,
waiting for the
fall.