i slipped out
into the waves of watercolour
that broke themselves upon the shore
of the horizon
and i disappeared
as they darkened into black

i escaped through the sunset
as words were climbing up my legs
setting fire to my ears
and forcing me to retreat away
from the choking letters and sinking ink
that tattooed all this sound into my skin

at first, the sunset saved me
and the waves that gently hit the dock felt like a heartbeat
telling me that this was how it would always be

but soon, i began to miss the panic
just for the simple fact that it was a feeling
and the sunset had stolen them all from me
leaving me bare, black and stretched high above
unable to land on the ground again
unable to even blink stars down onto the grass
unable to do anything
other than wait for the sun to rise again

but solstice has already passed
and the dark hours grow longer again
and i am pulled thin, veiling a world
that accepts me as the night
and doesn't even miss the stars

i am
aware of the air
enabling each step
and counting each breath
with the effort it takes to exhale
i could almost just sit down at the side of the road instead
but i won't
because i am
seeking out new people
new faces, new mouths
to give me new words
aware of the air
that falls from their lips
and catching the shapes, each lovely
small part of them
for my pocket
and i'll take these out later
edit the context
to create a compliment
to make me smile

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

felt strong and weak
like a paradoxical spirit
walking between the lines of
yes i do and no i don't

felt like a skyscraper
among all the other concrete mountains
blending in, sticking out
windows open, blinds shut
walls untouched by rain, but
the water still falls in through the gaping frames
and onto the floor
seeping into the surface in patterns of
yes i do and no i don't

felt like a city among many
like one among thousands
like the only one with my mind cut open
like the only one thinking
real thoughts

my real thoughts
have not yet been made material
are they still real?
yes they are or no they're not

all i'm really looking for
is an answer

Sometimes I feel
fleetingly
like I am not here.
I feel like a narrator
like a character
in an unfinished novel,
like
like

like an unending street.
Like this town,
like this place-
a collection of lives,
beginnings and ends,
tangled strings
and cracked windows.

Wandering through the small maze
of downtown,
I know the answer.

I need to get out of here.

I want to give you my feelings
in a colouring-book.
Can you fill me in?
I feel empty.
I want to give them to you
in a box
wrapped with a bow
so you can open it
and see there’s nothing inside.
I’d like to give you my heart
in a song without chords
so you can hear the echo of broken strings.
I want to show it to you
in a black-and-white photograph
so you can understand
how grey I feel.
Can you colour me in?

i threw rocks at time
tried to shatter the face of each clock
that mocked me today, but
i was unable to slow the seconds
that pulled me away from you

feeling childish, i gave up
and time paid no mind to me
as the bus sped away
and i walked home, my mind spinning
with visions of plane tickets and suitcases
and the spaces hidden around this city
that we've been occupying all this time

i saw sunshine smiling down upon rough, empty rocks
and a hill sloping steep toward the water
that we sat by
and i saw the places i have yet to show you
and i am so sorry, but the happier i am
the worse i feel
as the days slip past me
and i am always one step closer
to leaving

i'm always trying to describe
the wrong things, aren't i?
describing your voice
when it's the words that matter
outlining your face
when it's the smile that really shatters
upon my eyes
trying to write this feeling down
when it's the reasons that are really
important to me
and i guess that's when i realize
i've been avoiding penning this fear
afraid of the reasons, of the causes
that led me here
and this feeling?
it's nothing more than a consequence
or so i tell myself
as i step carefully over
the dark puddles
and onto the hard cement, looking
for the yellow lines
that will tell me where to go
left or right?
right or wrong?
i've been describing the wrong things
i know that now, and i have
each scene played out
in black and white
while the real meaning is lost
in the spaces between the letters
and the missing punctuation
gathers itself into the sky
spelling out the word i am afraid of
fear

spent years wandering halls
cutting the "i" from my sentences
forming words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure

guess that describes me pretty well
all consonants, harsh "t" and definite "d"
and the ever-slippery "y", like me
never making up its mind

felt like a half-learned language
still do, really
like someone forgot to learn the proper nouns
forgot to turn the sentence around
grab the sound and speak it

there's an accent colouring my life
awkward and stuttering, unsure
and never fluent enough
to step in time with the music
for long enough to make it matter

words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure

You were always skinny.

always turning away
always hiding your face
always twisting your frame

You were always more than skinny,
not quite thin,
not frail
not flimsy
but more than just skinny.

Turning to the side,
I saw you;
as the light caught my eye,
I lost you
in between the rays of sun
you hid,
as invisible as a smile
when one’s back is turned.

You disappeared,
you folded in on yourself,
you were more than skinny;
you were a magic act.

Now we see you-
now we don’t-

and that’s the story I’m sticking to.

And years passed,
and time ran by,
and seasons turned
and so you grew,
bulky
and strong
and proud in the torso,
capable in the arms,
different to the eyes
of those who paid no attention.

But to me you never changed.

Shoulders, still bowed,
like broken wings folding inwards;

Neck, still twisting,
escaping,

Face still shadowed,
still turned down to the ground

always turning away
always hiding your face
always twisting your frame

Never straight.
You were always skinny,
so easily bent,
so easily silenced,
so easily spent;
so strong yet so tired,
wired for work
but never for play.

Any day now
I expect you to turn
and disappear
between the cracks of the sunlight,
like a sheet of paper evades
real existence,
you will evade my persistence,
my insistence
that you could be more.

More than just skinny,
more than frail,
more than flimsy,
more than strong,
more than broken,
more than fixed;
more than lying.

You were always skinny,
always two steps behind;
but you were more than just skinny
in my mind.

You are like a child
who grows younger
& younger
every day,
smoothing over lines
with the sharp -cracks- of a smile,
& swaying
back & forth,
back & forth
like the swing
in an overgrown backyard,
like the child who sits
(lonely)
on that swing
& grows backwards,

(backwards)

you regress further
with every moment.

You are like the hair that grows
from the head of the child,
?wild?
& unruly
& never the same.

Like their small, chubby fingers,
you are clumsy,
s t u m b l i n g around a dark world
that offers you
no rest
from your actions,
(& yet)
unlike a small child
who is more clever,
quieter
& observing
each moment in life,
(learning,
growing
by leaps & b o u n d s , showing
that there is hope yet for them
in our adult world,)

you cannot seem to learn
from the mistakes you make.

Each error leads to another;
like a child,
you are running in a circle,
forever chasing a butterfly
that has lost its wings.

Your toys lie
scattered around you,
abandoned,
dusty,
-cracked-
& broken.

Like a child,
you grow tired
of the same old routine,
the people you see
& the games they make you play,
(day after day.)
Moment after moment
after unplanned moment
you grow younger
until one day
you will be an infant,
unspeaking.

& then
you will be
wailing & wishing
you could grow older
& make it all up to me.

the snow today
felt like a blanket
and my scarf was a masquerade mask
as i twirled through the day
on broken costume stilettos
with the stain of stupid words
colouring my lips

today, i finally came up with
something to say
that makes sense to me
now, all i need
is some other masked dancer
to say it to

can life just be a masquerade?
can we just judge each other
by tone of voice
and tilt of head
and honest things said
and simple choice
and just
that gut feeling you get?

today, i finally came up with
a request
and i've got the tape paused in my head
just waiting
for something to click
for someone to reach out and press play

please don't call me by my face
call me by my name

cars, trees and concrete flip by
like television channels, each one forgotten
by the press of the button
or the slow closing of my eyes as i grow tired
of the still-life patterns
and the constant sounds of humans
interacting with machinery

to tell the truth, it was different before

this morning, the buildings sped past
in time with my music
and i smiled back at the bus driver
sitting down with the anticipation
of standing up again
waiting to step down into that sunshine
waiting to shield my eyes from the sky
and wrap my vision around you

and you never disappoint

this afternoon, though
i sit heavy and sinking
into blue plush, silver metal and damp dust
as i leave the sunshine behind

call me dramatic, but leaving you
feels like the real thing

Tripping past windows,
turning to look but missing the image
(I’m going too fast)
too slow
I’ll never make it
not like this
Heart pierced
by each short, asthmatic breath
by each spastic, hazardous thought of you
I’m late
(for a very important date)
very important, even though it doesn’t exist
(this is all in my mind)
a silly dream I play out to calm myself
running down that road with a goal in mind,
a goal ready to leave at any moment
but because this is my dream
I make it all happen
(just the way I want it)
Maybe in real life, the train would pull away
ten minutes (ten seconds) before I arrive
but in my mind, I get there just in time
to wrap you in my arms
and pull you back.

i make these decisions without thinking
but then again, don’t we all?
there are some things that must be done
on the whim of a heart
or the quiet suggestion of a sudden realization
that the path to take has been cleared

so did i do the right thing?
i guess i’m just not used to opening my mouth
without thought to precede every syllable
and so decisions like these
take me weeks
and this has taken me days of split-seconds
long steps strung together
to make one big breathless change
and i am not left in the wake
of all this, no, i am
riding along

and i know this for sure, a new feeling
of certainty that i missed
feeling alive, occupying my own body
i missed the lack of control, i really did
and i missed the fear

i have grasped this feeling
and made it mine, while it has taken me
by the hand and pulled me forward
before i could ask a second time:

did i do the right thing?

the complicated patterns here
that i've drawn into the snow
feel like a labyrinth
look like a puzzle
and i'm trying to find the answer
before the pieces melt away
and even though i know i have the time
this cold will stay, it's only december
i still feel like the moon's hands
are ticking, beckoning me
forward, telling a story
where i speed through the next few months
and arrive at that fork in the road
the numbers don't add up
there is too much here
too many words, too many pauses
too many buried feelings
and possible causes
of probable scenes that play out
in my head
and the figures just don't work
pencil after pencil
lead, graphite and ink
crumpled paper, metaphoric cinders
and this is when i realize
i have never been good at math
and now it's finally catching up to me
as i try to add
you and me
together
and the equation just doesn't work out

it was a day of sentences
snapped clean off at the root
and pulled from my mouth
like wisdom teeth
until i had none left
and i was out of words
out of breath

it was a day of stones
clinging tight to the walls of my throat
pebbles in my shoes
and boulders reduced to ash
slipping through my fingers
not enough to hurt anyone
but still stinging my eyes

it was a day of pink cheeks
not the tipsy, happy pink
but rather the wilted kind
inadvertently displaying
the red inside

it was a day of clenched fists
hands working overtime
dancing some twisted dance with no purpose
wringing, singing
an anxious song
as i stayed stubbornly in my seat
resisting the urge to dance along

it was a day of a need to run
into the bushes, through the woods of the crowd
and out to the other side
to the greener grass
and the cloudless sky
of a few minutes of alone time

it was a day of short poems
short fuses
all moments lived while the clock just ticked
and the bomb never went off
i'm still waiting

it was a day of waiting

lust is pink
dark and cloudy
casual in its appearance
beautiful in its persistence
as those reddish waves crash upon my shore
lust is soft
clear and winding
round the bark-less trunk of my torso
rustling the leaves of my hair
as my roots begin to stir
lust is loud
quiet but growing
symphonic in its metaphoric
crescendo to the top of the page
lick my thumb, flick back to previous sheets
and try to figure out where the music started
lust is music
slow reggae from a stereo in the morning
heavy metal blaring from a passing car in the afternoon
turntable cranking out Sinatra in the evening
tape deck cracking and splitting the indie rock
that curls around us at night
lust is strange
wistful and insistent
tugging at the corners of my jacket
as i remove the layers that protect my jawline
so you can taste the soft skin there
scarf unwinding, falling to the grass
and the cold flees from our shoulders
frightened by our moving hands
exploring the obstacles across our bodies
lust is here
obvious, apparent
even to me
in my awkward awareness of the raindrops
blistering my warm skin
and lust becomes silent
as we swallow the sound of the tension between us
put the words to our lips and bite
in your mouth i find four letters
l u s t
and i take them from you
m i n e
give them back
lust is generous
and so am i

i am cheap logic
bought from a man on the side of the street
who says it's the real stuff, nothing but the best
and i guess you believed him, i guess optimism ran in your veins that day
and i should be glad, really
except you've been tricked, and the man
walks away laughing with your petty change in his pocket
glancing back to grin at your smiling face
as you slip your arm around my waist
and i pretend to be worth it

dress me up, because i'm tired of painting myself
i just wanna hear your description
i like it better than mine
take me out, at least as far as the road
to show me why i usually stay at home

i am a solid shell
this logic has been welded into my surface
and i make sense, just ask anyone
i am a rock, i am an unmoving blanket
i am a hand to hold, a smile to be reflected
i am a solid shell
within which the logic falls apart

too bad wandering gypsies
don't give refunds, eh?
you'll never track him down

be my computer genius, crack this code
make me logic from spinning numbers
make me make sense
make me make sense
make me make sense

keep the optimism running in your veins
i like you that way

i am not
the sum of my parts

i am my parts, still scattered
and somehow arranged
in working order
fingers scrabbling to sew
the pieces together
into this shambling, smiling mess

i am not
the whole picture

i am the pixels, the sharp squares
of almost-colour
that mean nothing up close
but look ordinary, lifelike
and solid
from far away

i am far away
a million-pixel memory
moving into the whole picture
and fitting in just perfectly enough
to fade into the horizon
as the sum of my parts
becomes just another spark
trying to ignite a dormant soul

and now here i am
writing poetry about you
in tim hortons
i've sunk this low
may as well keep going
extend the metaphor
except
we are not symbolic
we are real
or at least my mind thinks we were
and i'm usually right
so
who are you to say i'm wrong?
except you didn't
you just didn't say anything
and that's what makes me think
i should be somewhere else
somewhere other than this table
growing green with moss and envy
bending over time and time again
to pick up that lucky penny
polishing it off and adding it to my pocket
saving up for another drink
so i can buy more time
waiting around
for another chance encounter with you
that i know won't amount to anything
but hey
i can try can't i?
i have that right and i use it
abuse it
and all for what?
here i am sitting at a table for two
and you?
you're somewhere else
like you've always been
never there in front of me
except when passing me by
giving me the eye
or
did i just imagine it?
i think i know what i'm talking about
but my predictions all put me in the same place
sitting here with a cup in front of me
slowly emptying
but never all the way
because i still say i've got time to wait
my watch is wrong
some excuse
to go along with my own stupid games
playing the lottery and losing
but each small compensation lifts me up
i'm so hopeful one day it's gonna **** me
and i'll die here
in tim hortons
with my cold coffee sitting in front of me
saying
i told you so
you should've finished me when you had the time!
and i'll know
i should've finished us when i had the time
maybe then we never would have been like this
skirting around each other
all awkward smiles
cold coffee
warmed up
is never the same as when it's fresh

cold morning, warm heart
and burning concrete beneath feet
that are tired of playing along
to the off-beat rhythm of the cars that pass
covering any other sound

and i contemplate the difference
between the ocean and the sea
in an effort to stop thinking

well, there it goes again
no matter the metaphor, i'm always full circle
swinging back into this pattern
looking for noise, looking for colour
looking for a distraction

distracted from myself, i turn
to speak to empty air, just trying
to start a conversation with less meaning
than the days have been holding for me

give me weather talk, give me politics
give me capital punishment, for crying out loud
give me something to debate
that will not affect me

and i contemplate the difference
between me and my feelings
in an effort to prove that they are
without a doubt
separate beings

cold morning, warm heart
beating away from my chest
as fast as it can

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 didn't wear my hat, i know
i should have, but i felt rebellious
in some small way, i tried to cheat the day
and paid in tingling pain, sharp aching corners
and a strange sense of pride in my bones warmed me
until just the tips of my ears were left white, dead
yes, dead
but i felt alive

to be in danger and know it, to press on against the cold
to push forward into the wind, though before you is only white
to turn blindly into the storm, to accept the blizzard's strength
to guess what lies ahead in fear and still take the risk
this, to me
is courage

maybe i'm just talking about frostbite like some romantic wound
or maybe we're in danger, you and i
pressing on into the storm despite numbing fingers
smiles frozen, eyes watery
maybe we'll get frostbite in our hearts
but i think it's worth the risk

hold myself tight
find a new metaphor for loneliness
to symbolically scratch and burn away
find a different voice to speak my name
so i can hide under the covers
and pretend i hear nothing
let me be lost to myself for a little while
make it a treasure hunt
aren’t i worth the effort?

there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re drunk
i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain

this half a heart becomes a whole
whether or not you know it
out here i am never alone
spent most of my life
in places like these
and i’m always looking for more

recount the gossamer threads
because i love those words
and the nonsense means nothing
but i love nothing
it feels like home

there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re sober
it’s not the alcohol that makes the scene
it’s the scene that makes the alcohol
obsolete

i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i drink
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i breathe
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i believe
in those gossamer threads
fire and stars
alcoholic words

i love nothing

it feels like home

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?

in my mind, i counted down
the breaths until i was almost
gasping, reaching out to exhale
just in time to stay alive, and i am
conscious enough to close my eyes
and describe this feeling as
breathless

short words in each pause, and i am
only listening with half of my heart
but the meanings are not lost on me, no
i am aware of the definition of this feeling
short words joined spell
breathless

call me drunk, call me unsteady, call
the emergency line just in time
to lift me off the floor
but in reality, the more i sink down
the less i need saving, so just
take this as a sign that we should
fall together, call me by anything
other than my name, call me
breathless

breathless as i breathe in, breathless
as my lungs are filled between the words
that form my ribs and crack my skull
and bend my spine, and as our fingers intertwine
the oxygen spills forth from skin to skin
and even my hands are having trouble
staying steady, as life rushes in
while the world disappears
and it all falls apart while we fall in time
with the rise of your chest and the downbeat of mine
and the constant press of carbon dioxide
against my cheek begins to lessen, and i am blessed
with keening, sweet silence
and through the clouds my mind is clear
with the knowledge that there's nothing wrong
with being breathless

when i was young, i knew
(with more belief than i had in my own name)
that i would dance ballet
and i danced ballet, attempting
each spin, each hopeful leap
gaining slivers in my knees each time i fell
and keeping them there, proof
that i had flown

but i fell more often than i flew
and one day, i just knew
(with no tears, only a firm nod of the head)
that someone out there would always fly higher
than i ever could
so i just turned the music up
and let my fingers tap out the rhythm
and to this day i close my eyes
and let the neurons dance inside me
electric current, steady pulse of a bassline
mirroring my heartbeat
inside my head, my feet are light
even to metal, or to some quiet, hollow guitar
i don't touch the ground

and now, still young
i know
(with more belief than i have in any concrete thing)
that in this silly metaphor
we can dance to choreography
or just make it up as we go
and me?
i let the music show me
where to step

i looked in the mirror
turned
this way and that
and tried to bend my eyesight
fracture the light that sent this image
speeding toward my mind
just in time
to trip me up, as i catch a glimpse
of myself in a window
sidewalk coming up to meet me
as i fall forward into my own flaws
i closed my eyes
and it was dark within the confines
of my webbed, ebbing thoughts
sticky with contempt for the days gone by
spent before this mirror
and i tried to imagine myself
flayed, clean and sparkling
naked, proud and walking tall
but all i saw
was an invisible girl
behind a strong shield
coat of arms held up, symbols falsely proud
a hammer, for stupid, useless strength
a blazing sun, for the heat of my unsaid words
a pen, for the silence of my honesty
a heart, for the things i have yet to find
and in the middle, emblazoned
a mask
bright white and gleaming
for the shield itself
i looked in the mirror
turned
right, left, dead centre
tried to meet my own eyes
and saw only the mask

cheap wine tides me over
as i go against the grain, walk along the side
of the train tracks
and wish i was brave enough
                                          to stride down the middle
wish i was brave enough to admit out loud
that i’d love to just stand there
embrace the black coal smoke with open arms
breathe it in
and never exhale again

and i don’t mean that in a suicidal way
                                                         (i swear)
i just mean the thought crosses my mind
too often not to mean something

there’s probably a word for this feeling
but i’ve got nobody to tell it to

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

you make me feel beautiful
and that, to me
is a superpower
your cape of words, your compliments
keep saving me, and i swear
there’s something surreal here, insane
i feel lifted, caught
by more than just the wind beneath my feet
no, i’m more poetic than that
i feel
almost worth it, almost beautiful
almost ready

in my mind, it was always
a perfect ten
below zero, just cold enough
for me to shiver
and for your nose to turn a rosy pink
and for me to hide a dark thought
behind warm words, excused
by the curtain of soft snow
falling around us

i guess i overplayed this scene
i guess i cut and stripped it
set music to our footsteps
and played it up, all romantic angles
and close-up frames
hovering too long
over your awkward, shifting smile

i guess it wasn't really musical
no artsy, black-and-white short film
not even worth the imagery
that i gave it in each long piece of poetry
just worth enough
for me to hum along
when i hear the song
that i put to the scene, hoping
you'd recognize the tune

here in the cutting-room of my heart
i gave up
sat down on the floor, scattered images
floating down
and i grabbed my scissors
cutting each one into a snowflake
before it hit the ground
trying to recreate that scene
the way i remembered it
and in the darkness, i could ignore
the desperate feeling
of an imagination run too wild

i guess i overplayed this tune
but sometimes
when the words don't come easily
to my real-time writing, i am forced
to look backwards in time and space
across mountains of disgraced, forgotten things
back to a time
when all i could write about was you

underwater, laughing echoes
faces smile and mine smiles along
while the brick wall remains strong
and so do i

break the surface, grab the air
with one cold hand and save it for later
might be needing an emotion or two
sometime soon

above the waves, all i can do
is observe and pretend to exist
while the background consists of the rest of you all
and i am separate
and the only thing i feel
rises up in my throat, hard and painful
and of all the things to surface, this
(crying)
is not the reaction i was hoping for

I bet her name is Lola.
After all, she fits the part,
all little girl, sweetheart,
bow in hair and storybook ringlets,
bouncing down the halls
on pretty shoes
that I would never wear.
I bet she places her small hand
on your arm when she flirts,
eyelashes ablaze
and head tilted,
inadvertently charming her way
into adulthood.
I bet her voice is sweet,
crackling with forced sexuality
as she melds childhood innocence
with the politics of growing up,
trying to get the best of both worlds
and almost succeeding.
I bet her wide smile falters
when she walks away,
as she realizes the impression she has made
and, too proud to turn back,
continues down the hall
feeling tall
and yet invisibly small,
little girl, sweetheart
in search of rebellion.
I watch her, and
I wonder what
her problem is.
I bet her name is Lola.

In the bag,
you can find a dictionary;
you can find words
like
“alone,”
“gone.”

You can find
a week’s worth
of candy wrappers,
too many empty pill-bottles,
blunt pencils
and ripped pages
and crumpled notes
and band-aids
that didn’t help.

If you looked deeper,
you might find lottery tickets,
forgotten phone numbers
and puzzle pieces
and more empty things,
bottles,
containers,
bags,
hearts.

More words:
“lost,”
“missing,”
“unknown;”

some dust
and pennies
and elastic bands
and plastic knives
and drastic decisions
and

nothing

except
maybe

a few more words

these are my apologetic heartbeats
i am sorry but i will be late
because my arteries are running behind
and you will get there before me
but please don’t take it to heart
(that’s a pun
to lighten the mood)

nothing but the metaphorical truth
because i speak better in images
and pretty thoughts
and objects replacing feelings
so i can actually hold them
touch them
prove their existence

i think i’ll take this tightening in my chest
and turn it into a rubber band
stretch it between my two hands
and snap it
releasing the tension

i think i’ll take this weakness in my stomach
and turn it into a butterfly
which is pretty generic
but i want it to fly away

i think i’ll take this somewhat guilty weight
and turn it into a stone
grey and lifeless
and pointless
and i will drop it into the water
see the ripples spreading outwards
and touch them for good luck
tasting the tips of my fingers
to alleviate the cold

i think i’ll take this weird emptiness
and turn it into a poem
so i can raise the words up and run my fingers
through the letters
so i can print it and frame it
and smash the glass
and take the blood
and stain the paper
and crumple it up
and throw it down
to prove that it exists

and see if
when i look down at myself
the words are there
the glass is there
the blood is there
the lines are there
and i have been thrown onto the ground

these are my apologetic heartbeats
saying
sorry
but you cannot make us concrete
until you write us down
are you happy now?

on the way home
i listened to music
that made me think of you
blessing each note
with my mind, saying
"thank you for understanding
every single time"
and i say this to the music
because i cannot say it to your face
and yes, i just compared you
to the corner of my life
where everything is sound and i feel safe
and yes, it is
a compliment

you can’t just assume that
i’m gonna swallow these words whole
without trying to digest them
well guess what?
i might have a tough stomach
but when you’re not looking, i turn my head
and i spit your words out
my silent rebellion
trying to tell you, without saying it out loud
that i don’t wanna take this anymore
these sour pills dissolve in my system
and i am left feeling *****
as if your assumptions are seeping into my veins
and becoming a part of me
and who you think i am
is not who i want to be
so as a result
i’ve got a pocket full of these heavy pills
sticky with resentment
as i discreetly pull them from my mouth
and dispose of the evidence, trying
not to tell you that this is not how my mind works
and i go home and write about it instead
hoping that one day you’ll type my name into space
and find my words, arranged in a shape
that desperately tries to explain
why i feel this way
because i could never say this out loud
i could never even print it down, concrete
and pass it forward
to all the people i’m speaking to, writing to
now
i can only hope that you’ll get there on your own
because i feel so weighed down
by these things you say, as you explain to me
that you understand, you get it now
and you present to me my feelings
in a small box, and i open it
and i want to tell you
that you are so, so wrong
you’ve coloured inside the lines
and locked me in
and each time you describe me
to somebody else
each time you warn them
of what you think are my weaknesses
each time you tell them
what makes me strong, what helps me live
you push me further into this corner
of self-doubt, wondering
is this really who i am?
is what you see what everyone thinks of me?
because i am more impressionable
than you imagine, strong in ways you think i can’t be
but weak in ways you’d never believe
and these words leave imprints upon my soul
sinking into my heart like sharp footprints
falling through the cracks of my mind
and now i am occupied
with them, with the idea
that maybe i’ve been wrong about myself
all along
maybe i don’t know who i am
and the rest of you
familiar strangers
are the ones who have painted me, turned me
from my upside-down cocoon
and planted me down into this frozen ground
and i know, the voice in the back of my mind
tells me, no, you know yourself
and they are only taking
the outside parts of you
and constructing a sham, a replica
somebody they think they can dissect
but the problem is
this voice is at its strongest
when everyone is asleep
when the words are done their creeping
and have settled like dust around me
at midnight, at one, at two
and all through the night
i can finally know myself
and point out the fact
that you’re wrong
and i don’t have to go along
with your assumptions, **** your judgement
**** your advice, i’m going at it alone
and my mistakes are my badges
my success is my shield
and i will deflect your forged knowledge
back onto you, force it before your eyes
so you can finally admit
that you do not know me
and you never will
and that’s fine, i just want you to know
that my feelings are mine
and your words are yours
find something else to give me
give me your hand, give me your heart
i don’t even care
but because of you
i stay up, late at night
fingers crossed that you’re thinking of me
enough to search for my name
and find this long rant
in poetry form
and realize
just how wrong you are
and this is not beautiful, this
broken piece of badly worded ****
but i am not beautiful either
this is me on the inside
and now you know, do you get it?
just how wrong you are
and i will not throw these words in your face
i will not wrap these lines around your neck
and i will not leave you with nothing
but a guilty weight
i’ll still be here when you’re awake
i just want the assumptions to stop
the picture i paint and show
is mine alone, not even the frame
is yours to choose
and i ask
can you just let me be
the person i want you to see?
these assumptions are bringing me down
but of course, i’ll always have my language
and i’ll do this, time and time again
release this frustration into rough poetry
and then begin my next day, after a night awake and dreaming
and let you continue
to pick me apart, never quite reaching
the centre, and yet i’ll take it anyways
because that’s what you expect me to do
and i will let you remain unsurprised
fingers crossed all the while
hands in my pockets, juggling those pills
this is me on the inside
but you don’t need to know that, do you?

she is no longer human
writhing, shouting, feeling
human
past

i look at her and i see paint
windswept hair sticking to muddied lips
flushed cheeks over pale skin
gilded lids
blink

she is canvas
heavy and sagging
brushstrokes
this way and that
covered

i listen to her and i hear nothing
swirling silence
surrounding stereo sound
breathing into doubting ears
hidden

she is no longer awake
swimming, sighing
through cold water
rough, splintered waves of memory
slap her briefly
before the current pulls her under again
and the rocks onshore call out
faintly
to her floating body
as she lies beneath a blue sky
and lets the water move her downstream
life waves weakly from the bridge
ignored

the mirror tells me i am human
unpainted
loud and awake
but she recognizes the lies
she has learned
to ignore them

and one day i thought
i’d like to see the world through my father’s eyes
all roots and vines
and the simple need to create
and the feeling of dirt between your fingers
what does it feel like
to understand how the world works?
not its people, no, more important than that
how the seeds and the buds
and the soil interact
how to make something from nothing
from a small speck enveloped by your hand
i don’t understand
but you do
and we are the same height, but when i look at you
i am looking up
i am looking forward into the horizon
trying to see the sunset like you do
trying to understand the weary way you sit down
and the tired vigor with which you rise early each morning
to begin the cycle again
and i see you standing there, immobile
leaning for a brief moment on the handle of your *****
and i see the world dancing around you
just waiting for the movement of your hands, waiting
for the next order, the next command
the next request, as you begin again
and i try to understand
today, i thought
i'd like to see the world through my father's eyes

it was all i could do
not to uncap my pen
and mark you, let the ink
seep into your skin
let the words, the anxiety bleed through me
and into you
so that you might understand

how do you feel?
you ask
and i want to write it into you
scratch the answer deep
or at least
write it down
and it's all i can do
not to unleash these words
every minute of every day
they're kept at bay
until i can string them together
alone

so that the next time you ask
how do you feel?
i will have nothing to say
except
fine

i wonder
if i stripped this black liner
from my eyelids
if I scratched the pink
from my cheeks
if i showed my true colours
(not much different from the mask, but still
it feels like it to me)
i wonder
if i pulled my second skin, peeled
away the layer of doubt
would you still find me
beautiful?

wondering how you win at love
do you have to wait
until it's over?
what's the victory then
in losing it?

somebody needs to think
of some new metaphors, because
all these tired old scratched-up symbols
lead to dead ends

forget about falling, stop calling it
an end, stop calling it a means
just stop calling it anything
but love

let it describe itself, let it climb
up its own legs, let it be
what you will it, what you feel it to be

let it be what you feel
can't the victory just be
the feeling of holding on
and staying?
losing, falling, calling it anything but
plain old groundbreaking
love
is what it really is

whiskey drips down into the skyline
and my sober eyes close, refusing to resist
another heavy night
and i wake up drunk on too much sleep
again

this is how it’s been lately, maybe
i’m making up for those three weeks of sleep deprivation
but i think there might be something else keeping me
tied to the bed so late every morning
finally standing up, still tired
and the shadows never disappeared
from beneath my eyes

at any rate, sleep is not doing its work
bringing me deeper down into the sheets
as the morning runs its course
and still i don’t feel ready to face the world

the more i sleep, the less alive i feel
now tell me
is this how it’s supposed to be?

drying my eyes with the crumpled plane tickets
that brought me here
as the new ones slowly print, inch by inch
and the ink dries upon my cheeks
and the time has been tattooed into my eyelids
ticking away, ticking closer and closer
to the end

closing my ears to the sound of cars
passing by on an open road
as the sound of wheels on concrete presses
into my memory and suddenly
i am in a taxi, speeding towards the last drop
of this city, and part of me is left behind
among the crashing water of spring
and the wood chips of an abandoned playground
and the puddles that we avoided as we ran
uncontrollably down the street
laughing

i am not laughing now, except to appear
alive as the boy who makes my coffee
makes me a joke too, free of charge
and i don’t want him or anyone to worry about me
so my mouth opens a crack, and my eyes fold inwards
and he smiles, placing my drink on the counter
and i burn my tongue trying to drown
that fake laugh

the tickets are done printing
the zipper has been forced
over the gaps between my fingers
where your hand should be
and the puzzle wavers as i pack it, but
the pieces stay together, at least until
i close the suitcase
and somehow, i am confident
that it will remain intact

i crumple the tickets in my hand
in an effort to make them look old
as if the summer had already passed
and i was on my way back to fill my empty palm
with warm skin, soft words and a hard press
of my mouth to the sound of something akin to home

i can feel the push and pull of two places
that have shaped me and are shaping me still
as my body curves around the ribs
and hips of a new kind of comfort
and the stiff seat in this airplane
reminds me that i am never as comfortable
as when i am with you

and i resign myself to sunny months
and warm music
and the discomfort of a puzzle
that is trying its hardest
to stay together

and i resign myself to dipping my toes in the water each night
pulling out the glue from between them
and keeping the pieces together
pressing my hand into the soft wood of the dock
in an effort to shut out the cold air

and i resign myself to the confidence i feel
knowing time will be on my side
when i need it to be

i throw the old tickets in the trash
and slip the new ones inside my passport
ready
to keep myself together

This is why I am here
instead of there.
It’s all because of you
and your twisted neck,
turning too far
just to smile once more in my direction.
It’s because of you
and your reasons,
your forward thoughts
and backwards compliments,
chasing some dream
that I know you’ll achieve
because that’s just how it works.
It would be unfair of me
to point out the possibility
of failure.
It’s because of you
that I look on the bright side.
“If not today,”
I think,
“then tomorrow.”
With you,
there is always tomorrow.

it's just a word or two
a few syllables dropped from my mind
turned to slivers on the floor
and i step purposefully, heavily
upon them
so that the shards of myself can be painfully absorbed
back into my bloodstream

in other words, i'll do whatever it takes
to hide those shards from the open air
eyes and ears and even hearts
would never understand my language
so why try?

and now my blood is contaminated
with my own wayward thoughts
haunting my veins, trying so hard
to drift back up into my soul
and are they poison?
are they foe or friend?
am i my enemy or can these thoughts defend
my own fine line
between insanity and just another roving mind
the tightrope quivering in the cold air
i am always one step away
from an accidental leap into ice crystals
and sharp snowflakes
and another reason for all these stares
strange looks, imagined or real
pierce me like no arctic wind
could ever do

am i my crutch or my own splintered bone?
sunglasses or the blinding light?
the question or the answer?
truth or lie?
lie or truth
or both
or none
or just confused
or crystal clear
or muddy water, near the bottom
sinking down into thin air
and cloudless skies
and sentences that make no sense
and metaphors defying science

do i defy science or reality?
or am i just a monster of the two
born to question without end
born to close my eyes again and again
and write words into my spine
to keep me upright
in my dreams

eyes and ears and even hearts
would never understand my dreams
so how could i?

i am an old soul
in young love and out of body
i have ceased to hide