i want someone to cradle me
someone to bathe my body of myself
someone to run a warm washcloth over my hips and wash away the hurt.
to cluck soothingly.
or be silent.
to take my hands in theirs and guide them away from me.

bend over me in the bath
i am helpless
a child in a woman's body
scrub my back.
get a mug from the kitchen and use it to pour the water over my head like some sort of baptism.
i dont care if the shampoo gets in my eyes
I'll keep them shut.
It will sting like going back in time

once your arms tire of dipping, filling, and pouring again and again,
give me your hand and i will get out.

I'll hold the towel close.
hugging it around my arms like some sort of bat when it sleeps
only im not really upside down

the water will drip from my hair onto the tile.

I will shiver and it will be welcome.

I'm thinking of Iowa and you and time
im thinking of long car rides and your hands
I'm thinking of the condensation on the windows of your taurus

what if its dying is symbolic of our love?
What if I don't love you as much as you do?
why have i almost cried so many times today

this month has gone by so quickly I haven't had time to breathe
I know you but i cant tell if you know me

why am i not perfectly happy?

My feelings had wheels that day.
they slid and fell and whizzed past
I tried keeping up with them
I laced my skates tight to hold my own

I cleared my head in crowds,
tossing myself forward so I could be on the same
track
And I still need more practice
I never caught up with them.

But you couldn't skate.
You were a baby giraffe and I felt unfair
You let me grab your hand.
And around we stumbled.
I told myself that if you fell it would be over
between us.
But I smiled as we rounded each corner
I smiled when I looked and saw our hands together.
I smiled when I knew you were right there
And I smiled when I held you up.
Held you steady.
I felt like an oak tree.

I didn't talk enough.
But you sure enough didn't fall on my watch.

maybe I wish you had.

There's this boy...

(How to start every bad poem ever)

He has curly brown hair that frizzes and
stays in perfect little curls.
He is funny

The muscles in his back make perfect sense.
When he reaches up to pull the curtain I want him to be pulling the drapes in my livingroom.
Cutting us off from any interruption.

i wonder what he thinks about me

maybe i am just really vulnerable right now
but I think i have a crush again

When I rest my warm hands pinkie to pinkie with his,
he doesn't move away.
I moved past, my cheek brushed his shirtsleeve and i liked the feeling.

He's pretty. I am also pretty. I wanna make out with him.

i kissed a girl accidentally the other day
i flustered myself.
We were joking, walking
towards each other;
Chicken with a kiss
i had thought of it before.
i think i wanted to see what it was like.
I think i liked her a little in that moment.
i really just don't know

even when i love myself
it doesnt change anything.
And it is too much work.
Who knows? maybe the hate will be beneficial

i feel sad at 11:56 when ive had
cups of coffee
the sadness lives in the back of my neck
the pit of my stomach
behind my eyes
it's the uncomfortable impression carpet leaves on every palm that holds weight for too long
feet cold enough to feel
lump in my throat

Forming my mouth into a smile seems like the world's biggest, most useless lie
Useless.
I still haven't cut my nails
they are nice reminders of my own anxieties
my palms haven't made up their minds--
whether they should stay or go
stay and hold

who knows if this is art
i can't seem to think
analytically
rationally
clearly

but i know i want to be smaller

I know i shouldn't want that

I know I miss her.

I don't know how.

12:09 and it's dark
I am s[o confused]ad

I flew across the ocean to somewhereI
ne verwasbefo re.
I stopped in different airports
different countries different people different Air
Off the plane. Outside
Finally.
The air cushioned my lungs
;reassurance

The city the towns the country
everywhere. I was Home
more than ever before.
Dialect adopted my speech

The earth fed my peace
The clouds drifted serenity my way.

like a wool sweater you warmed only parts of me.
the rest you left naked to the harsh reality,
in the wind

She was there like the cloud
that moved in front of the sun to block the glare from
your eyes
You could tell she saw everything.
She was alone
And she was good at it.
But you saw her hesitate
when she stopped to buy a candy.
You saw her, across the store, pace
back and forth--
with small little steps, rocking
back and forth,
to build up enough momentum to make her decision.
She glanced around for no one to see.
You could see her walk with confidence.
The way she looked at everyone like she was reassuring herself.
She sat by the bus stop, alone.
And you saw her.

If you love me,
don't you ******* dare let me go.
Because I am worth the fight and I will be responsive.
If you love me, if you ever liked me, ever saw something there,
let's make something. plow a field with hard work and throw away mis-communications like stones
sow trust with tiny seeds and let it be. Let it grow.
But if you love me, listen.
Don't ******* throw me away

As I'm writing this
all I'm thinking of are the pauses
between your words when you stop to wet your
mouth with the disregard of others'
thoughts.
I think of the pauses the people on tv take
They've made those silent but how they shape our lives has become Louder

The pauses in my sister's words are deliberate. because she
can not speak toofast    t o o  f a r   too out of hand
about the things she cares for.
Her words are Broken by the slow sounds of
A mouth closing and
opening others to her opinions closing
them to their own.

I hear my mouth
I hear the way breath skids over my lips like a body being dragged
behind an old pickup.
I hear my mouth make wet noises and
I ask myself how to be dryer
I ask myself why I breathe like I do
because my Living isn't supposed to be a statement.
My life isn't supposed to interrupt
anyone else's.

All I'm thinking of
is that your pauses
interrupt my life.

I can taste the burned cinnamon that coats the air
with a bitter film,
a coarse tang.

I smell the smoke and believe it or not all smoke smells the same to me
this smoke from cinnamon bread smells like when i burned pineapple and sugar.
this smoke smells like the time I lit too many candles with the window down, door closed, smoke alarm off
Smells like burnt anything
Tastes like natural want.

I'm living on the edge
of discovery;
of happiness;
of a breakdown;
of tears.

I've finally learned how to hold my tears back, down, in.

It's funny:
Until now I couldn't imagine dependency on substances.
I didn't know how to imagine addiction.
Couldn't imagine a Routine in Smoke

But for the first time I got just to the edge--
went only a bit beyond.
And then I forgot.
I forgot to worry
my head like a puff of cottonwood
I didn't even have a backburner on
Simmering the responsibility
the inability
the fragility
of my self.

When I woke up it was back.
I had worry rushing to fill my head because it had
to make up for Lost Time.
and i wish i never had to stop Losing Time.

I studied his face during practice
The Law had no effect on his features
He was not without blemish, not without impurities.
I never liked him.
His eyes too high, nose to bulbous for the rest of his face.
His hair stood straight up. Like bristles.
He was ugly. I knew it.

Through the trial I sketched.
I fancy myself an Artist--
I drew a nose.
I saw his bulbous nose.
I said, "Oh god."

I can taste the wood and paint
of the pencil i've been biting
I let it roll from my teeth down my shirt.
And I can't focus on the Words in my head because
the Song is playing but I can't focus on the Song because
the Rain is hitting
the roof. And my window.

Everything fades to a Place where
all outlines are blurred.
No harsh edges
Only the ideas of words

i carried a bottle to the door. Left the book that was mine now in his car. He'd
keep me safe, he was my dd. I am too afraid of cars manned by inhibited drivers.
He'd keep me safe.
In the house. More people showed up.
people opened that bottle i had.
My first shot was out of a measuring cup.
My second straight from the bottle.
The third I spilled some on my chest and called myself an *******.
Fourth from the bottle. Elliot said he was proud of me. The tequila in me impressed him.
They said I should stop.
I took a fifth.
He was playing chess on the black leather couch so I joined him.
I couldn't focus on the chess pieces.
I curled into him
my legs over his my arms curled in.
I could focus on his fingers tracing doodles on the soft skin on the back of my arm
The lazy pattern burning into my psyche. Staining it red like blackberries on a white sundress.

I felt safe with him.
I hadn't felt taken care of in too long.
I feel safe with him.

And even though i was drunk and even though he's still getting over her
I can feel something with him, like there's a future somewhere in there.

If I hadn't had to leave, if he wasn't safe and sober with me,
things would have gone differently.

Instead of being hounded for trying I'd be scorned for doing.
I know that full well

The show ends. the set's torn down. I've figured it out, i'll say, "strike went late."
He drove me there. We'd planned on him following, but I liked the excuse to drive with him.
He was sad that night. through the dark he told me that he's lost two of the three things
He takes pride in. Songs, Gaming, ***.
he doesn't like his poetry nor prose, but he likes his songs.
He lost friends being unable to compete internationally.
He knows having so much pride in being good at *** isn't healthy. That's when my mind
wandered to his recent ex-girlfriend.
But he said hesitantly that he'd love to read my words my poems
and i forgot.

I read in three different places that night.
on the chair. on the bench. on the floor up the stairs.
Chair: I felt him watch the words under my hands.
I hoped he was watching my face.
Bench: all the same except our knees were touching and
when it got too loud to focus, he pulled me up the stairs.
Blocked from the doors' green room behind,
we slid to the ground.
Stairs: Closer than before, or maybe I was imagining things.
Keats' Ode     on a Grecian Urn and on Melancholy and to Autumn on
my lips as I try to piece together what's happening right then, in life and on page.
too many poems about lovers for my head to think straight.

building up,
I skipped past 400 bc Beowulf to 642-735 bc Bede and then was hung up on the word "irr--"
I don't know how it ended.
i asked where he found it. I was told it was his great-grandmother's. I knew I didn't deserve that.
I was never that good a friend, never a lover, always that ulterior motive
He asked if I had read the note he slipped amid the sketches and notes
in old time cursive. I hadn't.
On the tattered brown leather chairs he sat by me, as I read.
I read all but a word of it, i couldn't make it out. But, in his eyes,
I am a Woman who loves Words.
and he couldn't be more right.

Euphoria began with brown paper packages and orange highlighter
Inside was a book of centuries over a century old
with pages thin and browning and filled with age
in the next string-tied parcel, tea. an ounce or so of
loose leaf chamomile and two different
bags. One bombay chai.
The string was tugged and an opening formed, spilling tea leaves like my worries scattered.
I got up and hugged him, and by god he hugged me back.
He hugs just right.
Tight, long, and swaying a bit.

Euphoria began with brown paper packages and orange highlighter
Inside was a book of centuries over a century old
with pages thin and browning and filled with age
in the next string-tied parcel, tea. an ounce or so of
loose leaf chamomile and two different
bags. One bombay chai.
The string was tugged and an opening formed, spilling tea leaves like my worries scattered.
I got up and hugged him, and by god he hugged me back.
He hugs just right.

building up,
I skipped past 400 bc Beowulf to 642-735 bc Bede and then was hung up on the word "irr--"
I don't know how it ended.
i asked where he found it. I was told it was his great-grandmother's. I knew I didn't deserve that.
I was never that good a friend, never a lover, always that ulterior motive
He asked if I had read the note he slipped amid the sketches and notes
in old time cursive. I hadn't.
On the tattered brown leather chairs he sat by me, as I read.
I read all but a word of it, i couldn't make it out. But, in his eyes,
I am a Woman who loves Words.
and he couldn't be more right.

I read in three different places that night.
on the chair. on the bench. on the floor up the stairs.
Chair: I felt him watch the words under my hands.
I hoped he was watching my face.
Bench: all the same except our knees were touching and
when it got too loud to focus, he pulled me up the stairs.
Blocked from the doors' green room behind,
we slid to the ground.
Stairs: Closer than before, or maybe I was imagining things.
Keats' Ode     on a Grecian Urn and on Melancholy and to Autumn on
my lips as I try to piece together what's happening right then, in life and on page.
too many poems about lovers for my head to think straight.

The show ends. the set's torn down. I've figured it out, i'll say, "strike went late."
He drove me there. We'd planned on him following, but I liked the excuse to drive with him.
He was sad that night. through the dark he told me that he's lost two of the three things
He takes pride in. Songs, Gaming, ***.
he doesn't like his poetry nor prose, but he likes his songs.
He lost friends being unable to compete internationally.
He knows having so much pride in being good at *** isn't healthy. That's when my mind
wandered to his recent ex-girlfriend.
But he said hesitantly that he'd love to read my words my poems
and i forgot.

i carried a bottle to the door. Left the book that was mine now in his car. He'd
keep me safe, he was my dd. I am too afraid of cars manned by inhibited drivers.
He'd keep me safe.
In the house. More people showed up.
people opened that bottle i had.
My first shot was out of a measuring cup.
My second straight from the bottle.
The third I spilled some on my chest and called myself an *******.
Fourth from the bottle. Elliot said he was proud of me. The tequila in me impressed him.
They said I should stop.
I took a fifth.
He was playing chess on the black leather couch so I joined him.
I couldn't focus on the chess pieces.
I curled into him
my legs over his my arms curled in.
I could focus on his fingers tracing doodles on the soft skin on the back of my arm
The lazy pattern burning into my psyche. Staining it red like blackberries on a white sundress.

I felt safe with him.
I hadn't felt taken care of in too long.
I feel safe with him.

And even though i was drunk and even though he's still getting over her
I can feel something with him, like there's a future somewhere in there.

If I hadn't had to leave, if he wasn't safe and sober with me,
things would have gone differently.

Instead of being hounded for trying I'd be scorned for doing.
I know that full well

i put on my sweatshirt, yoga pants, tennis shoes,
and said, "I think i'll go for a jog."

And I left. I ran down the driveway
I jogged round the turn,
I passed, on my way down the road,
a collar.
Pink, purple and small.

I took a break. Walked it off
That lost collar means a lost pet.
that lost collar might mean a lost kid.
I brushed it off.

Running across the bridge, I
told myself i couldn't stop, or
The eyes behind windshields would stare.
would realize im nothing.

I took the path along the river.
It was noticeably full and wide.
a dark, River green.
the current was strong and I

Followed it with the path
until i coudnt breathe. And
I told myself to get a rusty fishhook
carve my failure into my skin.

I told myself to ****.
To **** myself.
To jump in the winter river,
to leap too far into the hypothermic current
to come back.
I sat on the edge for too long.

I went back home.

I want to live in a different time
No--
I want to live in a book.

Let me write my own life:
its mistakes,
tragedies
Let me find myself
through script from my own pen

I'll create a companion;
they'll have their flaws;
but in the end
there'll be no problems.

I'll make decisions
on who impacts my life
A moral will appear
with the end of strife

And, in my book, I'll
have Someone.
I will have someone
who fits me just right.

So the stars are still there
So they still shine
So?

So life can be beautiful
it isn't for me
So?

So why does it matter;
Why do I feel;
Why am I stuck in a
State of Mind where So?
is the only question
I ask

Alone
it's a state of mind, a feeling,
a tangible description
The clearest form of loneliness
Comes
From being surrounded.
That's when realization hits.
those people have those people
they group together over there.
Overheard whispers attack your brain
like parasites
******* all the self confidence
out. Transferring it to self-Doubt
when you realize you're Lonely--
that's when you really are.

Explode off the page in a whirl-wind of understanding
Let Coherence show its head
Through measured guidelines and enforced comprehension
Find deeper meaning in the mundane

Leave your books in the dust and race toward
yourself.
Explore the crevasses in your complicated, beautiful head.
Feel your mind mold itself into a shape all its own
Until its own is all it could ever be

Pour over books and words and pages until letters s-
                                                              ­                        p
                                                         ­                                i
                                                               ­                             l
                                  ­                                                             l
over the confines of what society says is enough
break rules, do it on Purpose.
You’re acutely aware of how each syllable
Crashes—
a symbol of your refusal to be “ just enough”
Know the outside of your words half as well as the inside,
Make it so the half as many people who pay attention have Something worth attending to.

Open the doors   w    i    d    e   and let pride saunter in
You created something
Your head your thoughts your intuition
It’s never been done before
But there’s a catch:

You have become Different
And Different is Dangerous
Different means change, and loss of control
A thing of worst nightmares for those who clamber
To ensnare and suppress the individual Individual

This is not a poem—this is a statement.

Peel back wax paper
Wedge my nail between two disks
separate; they stick

You see, for me to keep myself afloat in this raging ocean
this roiling, writhing mind of mine
I need something--
A Human Life Safety Floatation Device
why not use a Lifesaver?

I think you are like me
leg hair
television
feelings
Similar.
And I think you miss your sister
You must,
sisters are special things.
I empathize.
And I hope you have friends close by
Who can be Similar
nearer in proximity.
I don't pretend to know your head's
inner workings.
I can't know.
but, I have this feeling.
You're probably feeling a little bit like me.

Now, someone whose head
supposedly works like mine
must hate it sometimes.
I hope you have an
Escape.

And i think you are Interesting,
cool and so much your own person.
that you understand
yourself.

And that Self intrigues [me]

Thank you--
For looking me in the eye--really
Seeing me.
Thank you for always making
me Laugh
Because laughter is underrated.

The thought of you fuels my
day and and saddens my nights.
Saddens because I can't
For the Life of me
Carry a conversation well anymore

I love your eyes.
And it's cliche, I know, but
You used to unnerve me with them
Your blue stare
You jolted me from a world
Where eyes are for makeup and tears
Now for this connection.

Thank you for carrying a conversation
with me.
I feel safe around you enough to
spill
practically
my entire life
You listen and respond
intelligently, nonetheless.

We teach each other things, but
what I want, more than anything
is to teach you all the things I
love about you.

Mostly I love that you make it better
I love that we trust ourselves with feeling
I love that you are different.
I love that you know how to make
things work

Make me work, Jack.
Make us.

It sways and flickers
away. Like a wren.
The flame stains the glass
and reflects fully
the inconsistency.
Casts shadows
on the wall
Frightful swirls.
Turns wax to syrup
Sweet, seduced I want to swallow it
Feel the liquid fire scald my throat.
I shouldn't be allowed to have candles.

We sit on the blankets in the park; I say he smoked.
And they say:
ew! Cigarettes are disgusting, I could never
poison myself like that.
And they take another sip from their contraband Sailor Jerry's
And they light one more bowl

And I don't say anything,
But I am surrounded by walking contradictions
slurring their words and crying out compliments

And somehow I became one of them
somehow I inhaled like them
--too wary of the pipe,
I breathed the smoke from their mouths' instead
And I threw back my head and
let the alcohol worm its way into my system, decimating my pride
like the mold that covers a bruised peach.

And nothing of consequence happened.
it's all too easy to hide.

"YOU AREN'T ALLOWED TO DIE."
Okay, I won't.
My life means something to someone
Someone.
I am not allowed to die.
That makes things a helluva lot easier.
Not an option.
No. Don't even have to let my mind
linger
for a minute
For a minute, I can go on living.

Hot and cold fight
for control
Neither winning
(for very long at least)
And that disjointing feeling
I have still
is in the forefront of my mind
I feel so less like normal and
wondering why my Head would
do This to me

disjointeddisjointeddisjointeddisjointed

When the tension pools in a specific place in my stomach, I freeze. I cannot think i cannot move and then I am filled with a knot. And with a breath I am sawing at the rope, at the knot, and piece by woven and frayed piece I loosen the ball at the end of the rope and
I come undone.

Pigeons have pink feet and
the People surrounding me have
none
They float by, un-fazed by the ground beneath them

You know that feeling?
when you come home drenched in rain and happiness after
a Downpour
When you hair is plastered
to your face and that
Feeling
of when you take that first sip of tea.
How it seems to target
all the places of the rain that hit your skin

You know that feeling when you take
a big Gulp,
and the heat traces
its way
all the way into your stomach
and Suddenly you aren't cold anymore
your body parts are, but
you aren't

You know that feeling of half dry skin?
How it feels like smooth paper.

You know that feeling when suddenly, Things
don't matter.
It doesn't matter if you got that scarf wet
or if you'll catch a cold
because you have that Feeling

And that feeling makes everything else
okay

It isn't the marks on my arm
it isn't the thoughts in my head or the way I act or the tears dried on my pillow.
those don't matter.

I need to create a future and so none of this matters.
This is my in between time and
******* is it hard
but it only shaped me a little
it only molded me with light touches, it only sketched
its mark across my wrist
it doesn't define me.

so this isn't me
I am normal I am not messed up I am ordinary
iamnotmessedupiamnotmessedupiamORDINARY
I
am
ordinary.

Summer stops and then I begin

rain drops fall on each protruding part
of my body.
My breast, the
small
Of my back, my
knobbly-knees.
And I imagine those drops
recognizing something inside
of me
that others don't.
And I imagine
that something to be
a One of a Kind
Trait.
The rain finds me
when I can't;
The rain reassures me
when insecure is
All I feel.
I catch myself in storms
I am falling from the clouds
To nourish
those who need it.

I feel like I'm sinking
I'm going down, to who knows where
And all it is, is beneath me
To say I know it would be remiss
Below, Under, Deeper In
I'll not be able to escape this life.
Because I'm going down
Submerging more--an inch a day
It's a quicksand pit
It's a sea cave and the tide's on the rise
I am Strapped to the wall in the back of the cave
I am falling through quicksand with no hope of a rope
Can't pull myself out
All the kids do it these days
They love Submersion
I guess I've just never gone with the flow
Why start now?
I'll find a rope,
cut my ties,
and Start
                To
                       Fly

Face bright and
dripping
With raindrops
smile and hair alike--
Plastered on.
sweater damp and chill
On skin flush with
excitement.
Spirit flying with the
rainclouds
See it float past;
it has Wings of its own

The moon waxes,
the waves crash,
days end and nights fall.
And so the world goes on
turning,
       spinning,
and turning
Again.

Lovers lie peaceful,
tangled in sheets;
like the quick hearts' of birds
theirs' beatbeatbeat

And gardeners they tend
to their blossoming rows,
in hope that their fields
Reap more than they Sow

let their bounty fill hearts,
let those leaves foster love,
let those flowers bring peace
as on the wings of a dove.

And as a final touch,
keep safe the passing of the Days;
allow our mysterious Earth to
go on with its many ways.

And so the World goes on....

A baby born after tomato seeds
Were sown in the earth
I’ve known from early on
That loss occurs
As I lost a pet, a friend,
My family’s unity.

I’ll return home from Value Village—
Not where I need to shop, but where I choose—
With bags,
And bags,
And bags
Of my own personal flair.

The feeling of glee have I felt.
When dancing in the rain
Giggling,
Singing,
Carefree,
Side by side with my sister.
My friend.

I’ve been labeled as serious—which I am—
Though more important to me
Is my full enjoyment of time.

My nerves have humbled me,
And brought me back to Earth.
(Contrary to my ego’s belief,
My voice is no angel’s.)

Sincerely I can tell you
That I am not perfect.
I think too much.
My unruly emotions tend to dictate my life.

I once spent all of Thanksgiving break staring at the television.
Once I flung cake at my father.
And once I traveled to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter, to live in my imagination.
If only for a day or two.

Twice I have had hot cocoa explode in the microwave.
Twice I have stumbled and sprawled up the stairs.
Twice discovered bobby pins tangled in my hair.
You see, I’ve got a ring representing my heritage
On a chain
Around my neck
And learning how to adapt is like second nature
To me.
I have plenty of experience in severing ties. But please
Please do not make me repeat.

If ever you tried to number
The tea mugs I have sipped,
I would wish you good luck,
For they are many.

I long to see bustling cities,
Rolling hills,
Diversity and
Unique people;
To experience
The WORLD.

The guitarist of The Script once
Winked
At ME
I call him Baldie.

I remember that sort of excited yet unsure tension I felt
When I stood hand in hand with the person I loved.
It’s tucked away; I’ll lose myself in it sometimes,
Even now.

Things do scare me though.
I am scared of loss.
I’m scared of being



Forgotten
       Of not mattering
              Of my emotions getting
             The
Best
      Of
       Me.
And I put milk in my tea this morning.
The morning before,
Too.

I am what you call ordinary,
But only at times,
Because lightning once struck the grass
Twenty feet away.

Here’s a secret:
I cry over politics.
The possibility of not having the future
That could be
Terrifies me.

You know, even now
I can smell
The rain crisply cutting through
Summer’s grime.


Weak baby bunnies I have held in my hand.
Only a
Week
Old.
Felt their nibble,
Their trembling whiskers;
Light
As the wind behind faerie wings.

I’ve spent a birthday in Ireland.
Witnessed the foggy haze.
Had the chill nip my nose in the bracing wind.
And I’ve spent drizzly days at the library.
Breathing the scent of musty bindings,
Ancient ink,
And smelling the stories
That waft through the air.

Sitting in front of my wood fireplace
I’ve poured over pages with rain beating on the roof.
I can still smell it now.
The fire.
The rain.
It smells like sweaters and of sleep
Of warmth and of welcoming
Like Home.

I smoked a cigarette today. to feel something
I feel like the gross lazy person. cant bring myself to ride back home.
the cigarette burned and I inhaled
three
times
and then i stubbed it out and ground the ash into the ground. and put it back in the pack
if my sister opens her bag, there will be a reminder of me tucked away in that crushed box.
Home alone
feel alone and eat alone and sleep alone and stay alone
and my fingers smell like smoke and I wonder if my dad would be able to tell.
I wonder if he would care
I wonder if I do
If i am alone, then I am my only competitor.

What if words never come to me again?
like they came when I was
idontknow
different

What if I never feel like me again?
they way I was when hell yes
Of Course I was the best at being
idontknow
Different

What if i get lonely again?
the lonely i get when they sky is too dark
and the air stagnant
I don't like the way it feels--so
idontknow
  different

It's the smell of a mild summer evening. The grass, an occasional bloom mixed with overheated lawnmower and gasoline undertones. It's simplicity and classic rock love songs; U2's The Sweetest Thing. It is complete satisfaction overall, with a pang of uncertainty niggling at that fact. It's when the windows are rolled down with the wind blowing in your face, buffeting your hair. It's the sun shining through the trees--blinking and flashing like a strobe light. Hurts your eyes. Look away. Headache.
It's hearing beautiful things as if underwater. It's having a great idea but no means When you want to say something, but don't have the words. It's you. It is all of you and thank you.

I never used to drink coffee
tea was my caffeine and i didn't need anything else
but coffee made me jittery. That
those jitters like love
could appear without the actual love,
Engaged me and let me know
brought me the Insight to stop with the pretending
Love?
No. it isn't.
It's coffee
The coffee that I made and drank from a White Mug
when no one else was around.
Not love.
Coffee
Chemicals
Not love.
there is my decision made for me
by me
not love
Coffee

Come on, now
darling, mine.
Work with me, head, and
stop.
You have become a
not
me
I have unKira-d
like the person i
was
Not "am" anymore
disappeared

Not sure if I was painted over or mixed
                                                                        in
                                                                             new colors new me;
                                                                                                               some still slightly seen
                                   No.

I have been Remade
Hello.
I am still Kira but now that kira has become me.
Kira.
Cuddly and Passionate,
or so They say
their Favorite,
but they haven't spoken to me since May
I don't believe those that think independence is the only way are very smart.
Because I am Lonely,
and it pains me
and how am
i
supposed to Succeed
when i feel like that?