someone took a needle
threaded it, tied a knot
double for luck
and then sewed me down to this feeling
sticky strands that prevent me from walking away
and i was forced to stay, forced to hold on
to the side of the rollercoaster car
no choice but to let it all play out
up and down, trying to ignore
the rising, sinking, rising again
in my stomach
up to my heart, up through my mind, and down again
but today i let go

just to brush the hair out of my face
to see you better
just for a split second, i let go

and the feeling dropped down to my toes
leaving me hanging on again for dear life
no, i’m not ready
for a “look, ma, no hands!” kinda deal
i’m still holding on, knuckles white
and shivering
waiting for the ride to end
and half-wishing it would just keep going
fight or flight, or just give in
let the scene play out
and my mind tells me, get out while you still can
but the rest of me is soothing
saying, stop looking away
at the apex of the hills, keep that eye contact
all through the drop, down to the bottom
forget the fear, it’s just part of the beauty
**** common sense, **** logic
harsh words trying to slam some sense into me
i guess it’s just the fact that i can’t analyze
a rollercoaster ride
when i’m still on it
but i don’t want it to end just yet

honestly?
your happiness makes my throat drown
in some sort of almost-tearful
rise to the occasion
of your smile
and every sad word, or quick avoidance
dries me up, aching
with a strong want for the alleviation
of whatever it is that drags your footsteps
whatever it is that brings you down to my level
and closer to understanding me
and perhaps it's that fear of complete openness
that makes me rush to brighten your day
or maybe it's just the fact
that i care
either way, i do what i can and more
to paint the clouds away
for you

i am small
gotta crane my neck to make a connection
look down to feel safe
close my eyes to feel whole again
look in the mirror to remind myself
that i am taller than i think

i am small
in that i lower my voice automatically
when afraid that i might be wrong
in that i look away spontaneously
when afraid that eye contact
might mean more than i want it to

i am small
in that i describe myself that way
and therefore i am
gotta have some excuse
for the crooked, sneaking way
i move through this world
gotta have some reason
for the volume at which i express myself
at 2 hours into the morning
loud and clear upon virtual pages
trying to tell myself
that i am louder than i believe i can be
and that i am right, have been all along

i am small
and i don't mean in age, of course
because my years betray nothing
of true experience
to be honest, i feel like i've lived
decades within my own mind
it's more that image, that casual description
thrown about
of a girl who sticks to the edge of the staircase
a girl who smiles just enough to warm hearts
a girl who looks away before her eyes can speak volumes
a girl who only wants to be a few inches taller, really
even if it's just my soul that grows
or my self-confidence

i find myself assuming the role
of quiet observer, looking around
discreetly, and with more interest
than i let on, i am transfixed
by the simplicity with which complications arise
between crooked pathways
and straight lines
of people, walking around
interacting on levels that confound me
and it makes me feel like an island
yet uncharted
sand untouched, bare of footprints
and most of the time, i like it
the feeling of being clean
unsullied by those complications
and i sit on my shore, watching the ragged ships
sail by
and the gulls circle, crying out
why?
why do we do these things to ourselves?
why do we hide the truth
and perform the lies?

sometimes, i assume the role
of confidant, of living journal
and i describe the weight of the words dropped on my pages
to nobody, because
it really isn't my place
to trivialize darknesses other than my own
and i understand, i do
but i feel lost, some days
among the black holes of people
who cannot escape their own space
their own star-flecked universes
and their planets crash into mine
Milky Way swerving out of the path of destruction
and getting lost in their dissolving sighs
and i feel heavy
with the ink of their confessions
heavy with the advice that they ignore
heavy with the simple ideas
that crowd my head, circling like those gulls
crying out
why?
why do we do these things to ourselves?
why do we confide in strangers
and never trust our own star systems
to find their way back into orbit?

i find myself assuming the role
of me, of my own name
displayed proudly on my sleeve
familiar letters that seem to betray
my transparent, flickering image
warm and true to friends' eyes, perhaps
but the spaces between the characters
are what appear to me in the mirror
not the black lines
but the grey areas
and i feel that transparency often
when i am surrounded by that sea once again
as i so often am
and the waves just seem to crash right over me
feeling invisible, and yet somehow
too visible
to ever be a part of the current, it seems
as each whisper, each ripple
each glance, each possible missed chance
each glimmering sail upon the horizon
appears to laugh at me
whether it's my sad, slow swimming
or my ragged inward appearance
that shines through the cracks in my face
it all becomes part of an image
that i see burned upon the surface of my soul
and some days it truly feels
like even the gulls are circling around me, crying out
why?
why do you do these things to yourself?
why do you even bother?

sometimes
i read my own writing
and wonder what it's like to know me

hoping the words will open a window
let the clean air in
so i can climb through the frame
inspect the damage, avoid
the broken glass
turn on the lights

wishing the words would be more straightforward
yes and no
black and white
this is how you feel
deal with it

well, i feel done with dealing with it
in monochrome, shades of grey
stealing away the colours
of a cartoon landscape
i think that this would be easier dealt with
if i could see it all through stained glass
diamond-shaped panes
breaking up the scene, shattering
the illusions unseen
and through rose-coloured glasses
black and white become so much more obvious
to my strained, searching eyes

sometimes
i read my own simple, twisted writing
and i wonder what it's like to know me
not the words, not the straight lines
that curve around my soul
but the soft ones
that make up my body, that protect
my smile and my eyes
and the ones that lead gently down to my hands
twisting around each other
in some dance
that attempts to hide the constant urge
to write out my disbelief in the existence
of myself

yes and no
still escape me
but i keep finding shards of stained glass
like a treasure hunt, like some accidental quest
picking them up from the damp sidewalk
discovering them cutting into an open palm
and i take them, then accept the offered hand
looking off into the sunset
through the bright blue and blood-red
of sharp reality

sometimes
i find the words
before they find me

speak up?
well, haven't i
spoken enough?
belief cracks beneath me
and i try to understand why
you'd ask me this
am i the only one
who wants me to quiet down?
doubt hovers above me
as i wait for the ball to drop, waiting
for you to realize
that you don't really want to be here
am i the only one
tired of who i am?

god, at this hour
everything feels like poetry
even the silence is blooming
with words
and i don't know
if that's a blessing or a curse
desolation
or just a plain old desire for more
or maybe just an echoed question
that i ask myself, and answer back
becoming my own interpretation
of each cryptic answer

am i going through something
(well, are you going through something)
or do i just wish i was
(do you really wish you were)
for interest's sake?

maybe it's a mistake
a confusing stanza to read, for sure
but hey, that's how it works
swirls around untranslated
in my mind
and i thank my lucky, silent stars
for the ability to strain out the bracketed pieces
and still appear sane to the world

am i going through something
(well, are you going through something)
or do i just wish i was
(do you really wish you were)
for interest's sake?