the one thing that really keeps me from being myself is,
well,
me
traits, quirks, moves that are innately built in to my genetic makeup
are also the things that prevent me from who I am
the one thing that really keeps me from being myself is this tight kilted skirt
so tight, in fact, that because I can hardly breathe I find it hard to say what I need to
held in by this waistband that divides me in two
the one thing that really keeps me from being myself is this bottle of wine that I have lost myself in,
one, two, three times
alone,
unfocusing the lens of my present onto a picture of the past,
to recede,
the one thing that really keeps me from being myself is this profile that I hide behind
this picture of me, head cocked, sly smile, eyes wide
is that really me?
the one thing that really keeps me from being myself is my big mouth that drags me into unfortunate situations,
reveals too much or too little,
gossips, quivers, spits fury and turns upward in a forced motion of supposed happiness
am I –
happy?
am I –
myself?
this city keeps me from being myself because I’m afraid that around every corner that I might see the face of someone I long for or long to harm
the subway keeps me from being myself because there are too many bodies pushing against mine that I am afraid if I touch one more person I might mould into them
the sun keeps me from being myself because in its light I shut my eyes so tightly you can’t see into my soul
this stabbing pain in my stomach keeps me because it’s the only thing I feel and it prevents me from ingesting new moments
my mind is the real culprit:
stories,
stuffed to the brim with tales
chock full of figures from back then and now
blurred visions of faces begged to be forgotten
she steals my eyes sometimes,
my mind,
pulls them out of their sockets and reverses them
to see the gears turning
“I can feel you disappearing”
I am gone;
a cyborg,
my body disintegrates but my mind lives on
transhuman;
transcendent
“myself”
is in photographs ,
imprinted in the sand,
(I always look back to where I sat to remind myself that I leave a mark),
and in words
in –
words
yes,
the curvature of my transcribed thoughts
I live in
words
how foolish I am!
they hold me like my favourite old sweater
smell of my skin
breathe with ease
but now: words on page should mimic words from one’s mouth,
no?
I should speak what I write and write what I speak,
should I not?
guard only my deepest secrets, but speak honestly and freely
then, will I be myself?
fine then, the truth:
once, when I was seventeen I grabbed the hand of a boy I liked and held it in mine to know what it felt like to feel another’s warmth,
when I was four, I lost my hearing to a monster that lived in my canal,
and I never speak of it because although I can’t hear well,
I can feel the vibrations of dishonesty and hate
last week, I broke a bag, my headphones, a mug and a chip in half and cried because I literally felt everything around me fall apart
there:
the truth,
now:
can you see me?
or are the pages of my body still slowly filling up with my stories?
perhaps I will never be “myself” until I lie on my back drawing my last breath
and I reread the words on my skin
and finally find
me.
until then, one last truth:
the one thing that really keeps me from being myself and the one thing I fear will continue to do so:
is me.

light
this light casts a shadow on me,
one side,
one half,
but I am trapped between the light and the darkness,
this penumbra
a shadow draping itself across my cheek,
cloaking my left arm
and covering my hips
this shadow of the past
from yesterday, last week, last month and beyond
it is so warm and inviting
I feel safe in this cloak of my past
all that has happened up until now
the moment the colour rushed to my cheeks when I saw you
and when I was drained of my blood completely, when I saw you
(with her)
when every meal I ate was a plateful of screws and nuts and bolts and slowly my energy escaped from my shell of a body
when I was pinned up against a wall and swords were thrown at my body by my best companion,
my soul mate,
this blanket of darkness pulls me further back,
it grows arms and legs and claws and grips and seizes me
but I see this light,
this aura,
it is unclear of its shape but I see flashes of myself in the future
in a city where no one knows my name
but where I have found myself
surrounded by faces new and old,
who have lifted me above their heads and are passing me along, in a crowd
until I see you,
whoever you are,
you are so opaque
but I can see your smile from this darkness
and beside you, whoever you are,
stands me:
buoyant, vibrant, clear, strong
my head no longer swivels on my shoulders but is ******* on tight
and my eyes are fixed on one point and breathe life into whatever they are fixated on
I look so sure of myself,
I look like me
and this light brushes my right hand,
and my right temple,
and my right thigh
stroking me gently,
summoning me
she is so vivid and kind
but this darkness,
he is so strong and rough
I have been back to the umbra many times,
****** back into the blackness until the light disappears
it is the only home I’ve known and where my mind wants to go
but this light is so new,
I can stand in front of her,
move into the antumbra,
move in front of the darkness, escape the grasp and shower myself in her
in this new me,
who I want to be,
the struggle persists,
he is my serpent in the garden of Eden,
the Jekyll to my Hyde,
the strongest bottle of absinthe,
and so I am stuck
in this penumbra
shadow clutching; light washing
and I must turn my gaze inward and decide:
which force will I allow to win?
which force will rule me from now on?

there you are:
brown mop of hair,
glasses you refuse to keep on,
teal green eyes,
broad smirk,
thin body stretched over 206 bones
a man
not my little brother –
no,
when you were little
you sat in that carriage and I read to you:
hours upon hours of stories you probably don’t remember,
but that I cherish
and when you were little
I would ask if you were a boy or a girl
and because I wanted a sister you would always say the opposite of what you are
and most of all when you were little, I shielded you
I carried you
I picked you up
but now you are a man
trapped inside his head
I see this shell of you, my brother,
but sometimes I can’t find you
sometimes all I see are your teal eyes
and not behind them
and there are moments where I wish I could peel back your skin
layer by layer
and go into your mind and see the chaos
like a busy city,
your mind,
cars honking
smog emanating from the tallest buildings
people milling and shouting and cursing
there is no pause
there is only go
one man in your brain carries in a black briefcase your fears
those worries that stop me from seeing you behind your eyes
and this man with a grey cloud overhead,
cloaked in a hood,
wanders your mind
and passes this fear from one person to the next
until slowly,
and gradually,
your whole brain is filled with grey clouds
and cloaked figures
and black briefcases
and shouting and whispering and laughing
and you disappear
from right here
back into your mind
“come closer”, they say,
“why live in this world when you can live in ours?”
and I hate these men; these people
distributing your fears
when it started, it was simply a fear of food,
but then it was
a fear of the world,
a fear of an illness,
a fear of yourself,
my little brother,
who smiled so brightly and vividly it was distractingly beautiful,
who draws so intensely and maturely and incredibly,
paints pictures of wisdom at sixteen,
who has rules and standards to the depths and validity of music
my little brother is trapped
and my stomach sinks when I ask:
“are you okay?”
and he only replies
“…yeah…”
and I feel so helpless when he looks so tired with his sunken eyes
because those men control him
they take all of him away and leave only a shell of my little brother
my bravest brother
my inspiring brother
my strong brother
whom I wish I could wipe clean of all the briefcases
and cloaked figures
and men
and fill his mind with a string of white lights,
Christmas lights,
and layer it with the smell of brownies baking in the oven,
and screens on which are projected his favourite shows and movies and videos of him,
my little brother,
who fights these men every day
and he deserves a medal of honour
because there is a war in his mind
and he battles incessantly
and I know, very soon,
even if only for a little while,
he’ll get a break from this city of his mind
and he’ll win.

today,
while waiting for the 8th Avenue train
a woman with a straw hat and a shopping cart told me:
“Today is going to be a good day for you”
and for once,
in a long time,
I believed her
I believed I no longer had to sit alone with my thoughts in my Davisville apartment
I believed I could walk down 9th to 34th and 35th and 36th and not shatter into a million pieces
I believed I could finally find myself as a whole
and not pieces:
my upper lip on Queens Quay,
or my right elbow on King,
or my grafted skin on College
no,
here, I am one
I am everything that has happened to me
and everything that will happen
I can speak uncensored at the little ******* the train with a yellow sundress
I can leave my laughter echoing across Brooklyn
and my breath floating on my favourite rock in Central Park
I can pass people on Lexington and not break eye contact –
because I want them to look at me
I want them to see me, all of me
and all I am worth
because no one knows me here
and it is so exhilarating to know that they can know me
all of me,
uninhibited
not carrying ten or eleven or twelve bags’ worth of past anguish on all my limbs
they see me here
my soul is alive here
amidst the millions
for too long I have searched for a place of solace and strength
and if you had asked me three years ago if I loved it here
I would rip my hair to shreds and close my eyes and think of home,
Toronto,
but now
if you asked me:
where is home?
if you asked me:
where are you yourself?
if you asked me:
where are you the most happy?
light blue and yellow light streams across my face
and I breath a little easier
and I sit a little taller and I say:
New York City
because on hundred year old streets
clustered with thousands of strangers
surrounded by words from all over the world
I have found myself.

a sea of green
and we are swimming in it
some drowning, others floating
this park
full of bright, full and illustrious green
and we are scattered,
finding our way
searching for that one tree that calls us forward
the bench that will cradle us as we cover it in tears
the penumbra in the open space
this park holds us
a hub of nature in a metal box
the centre
surrounded by equal bursts of laughter, a chirp, a ball hitting a mitt, a hush of wind through trees, the rumble of a streetcar
once I believed and wished I could bring someone to this park
like this couple, intertwined on a yellow towel,
hands and feet so tangled it is as if they sit in a cocoon,
I used to wish that I could take someone through the green,
swimming until we find a shore,
a space for us,
instead I watch dark haired men kick a ball
back and forth,
back and forth
under the backdrop of that tower
and I watch five girls in grey and black be immortalized in a camera,
leaning on trees,
and smiling vividly,
and I see a white dog be consumed by the thought of catching this tiny ball,
it is his world
and as I watch these people.
I wonder if they watch me
if they watched me that day I fell
that day I stumbled to that bench by the diamond
two people sit on it now, surrounded by bikes
but they don’t know that I melted there
I dissolved into a pool of salt
I still can’t remember my trajectory through this park, but maybe they do
maybe I should ask that broad shouldered man what my breath sounded like
or that woman with the toddler how I walked
or that purple haired girl what I was doing with my hands
I don’t remember
but I continue to return
this sea of green
is where I drowned
but where, amongst the brush,
I pushed my way through
I dived through those leaves and pushed back those branches and let the thorns scrape my skin
and I emerged
near the marble arch, on the cobbled streets
I rose to the surface of that arch and I floated
and I must remind myself
every time I come through that entry
not to sink
to swim,
to float
in this green
to look up and see the surface, dotted with clouds
painted with blue
and see the yellow smile that brushes its way onto my face
and feel safe
I am found in this sea.
I am me in this sea.

I am reflected.
every day, I sit framed
or stand,
or walk past
a frame
reflected,
me
at times I pass this frame and see all of me
other times, I am missing
other times even, I recede
to a former self
I see me at fifteen:
brown haired, blue eyed
starving for love behind the pane of a computer screen
I used to watch myself framed
and dissect every feature
too many hairs out of place,
metal upon metal inside a mouth that either spoke too much or hardly enough
no mind of my own
sometimes I see her,
fifteen,
through the reflection of the subway doors
as a couple tenderly caress each other behind me
fifteen whispers softly through those doors:
“love me too”
as the train pulls into the station
and other times, I see ten reflected
ten,
rabbit teeth and soft hands
a burst of fireworks
disappearing between pages
once I saw her by the harbour
floating on the surface of a body of water holding three islands
the sun was gone
she saw me crying and said:
“don’t leave me”
ten,
and rain fell on her cheeks
I couldn’t tell if they were my tears or the sky’s
and other times,
rarely,
I see five
blunt bangs,
shining smile,
brave spirit,
she was the beginning of my strength
hearing very little but feeling it all,
seeing,
I saw her in a jewelry box,
five,
bold and brass
strands of pearl and gold and emerald might have clouded her otherwise
but she s h o n e
she said, as she always did,
“tell me a story”
I used to tell of a mermaid lost at sea,
or a doll brought to life,
but all I could think of this:
a woman is trapped in a mirror
twenty-two
fixated on this face she has witnessed evolve
she sees the specks of blue laced with green of her eyes
documents the crackled skin on her lips
breathes in the musty and city smell of her hair
she sees the lines and cracks on her hands
and the way she hunches and fidgets
but she cannot move from this mirror,
this frame,
because she is afraid to move forward without looking back
in this mirror lives
twenty-two
fifteen
ten
and
five
and she loses herself in them
trying to lock in all their features
once, before becoming trapped,
this woman walked by the window of a vintage store
and when she turned to catch herself, she saw nothing
she wants to see everything
always
catch glimpses of
twenty-two
fifteen
ten
and
five
everywhere, always
but she wants to be reminded
and not haunted
“show me your teeth”
she wishes,
“let me see you smile”
and now I am – the woman – is coming to realize
that maybe she will never be free from the trap of the mirror
maybe she will always see herself reflected
but that, in itself,
is a gift:
to see oneself reflected
to know where you have come from,
and where you are going.

unfortunately for you,
this poem is based off of real events, places and people
for you: D.H.
to look at your name makes me sick
physically incapable of breathing
keeping down the rise of poison in my lungs
infiltrating my veins,
slowly cracking my bones
this poison is a gnarly concoction of anger and guilt and hurt
for you, D.H.
of which all of this should not be wasted on
but alas, such is love right?
love is willingly letting someone wait for you as you walk the streets of this city with another
that’s love, right?
love is letting someone waste away, miss meals, sleep for days and never have a dry face
that’s love, right?
love is sitting not a month later with someone else on a streetcar while I watch you hold her hand
that’s love, right?
if that is love, then so must be
promising not to hurt someone
telling someone to stay when all they want to do is go
cooking too many meals for that person
too many salty meals
I never told you this, D.H.,
but your first potatoes were too salty
as was that coq au vin
and so are you:
too salty
not enough sweet
I have never wished ill will on anyone
but I wish that for you
I hope one day that you see someone that you believed you might have loved,
if given the chance,
walking down the street with someone else
not a month later
and your heart stops
and you try to breathe
and calm
but your left side goes numb,
as did mine,
and your heart hurts,
as did mine,
and I hope that you fall over
and you gasp and you clutch the Queen West sidewalk
and you look for help
but no one rescues you
no one saves you
because if you don’t use your heart,
why should you have one?
if you don’t love anyone, why should you still have that what makes you love?
that what skips two extra beats when you run a hand down a spine?
that what aches when that person is gone?
that what stops when it’s over?
if all you do is keep and gather and amalgamate secrets that others give you
willingly
and all you do is store them on your hard drive to save
but you give nothing in return,
why should you have a heart?
truthfully, it makes me sad to see you without one
falling from one person into the next,
slipping slowly but gaining nothing but secrets
and giving nothing
but I give e v e r y t h i n g, D.H.
I never forget what is said to me
I never forget what your touch feels like
I never make promises I can’t keep
but evidently:
you can
and if that makes you happy
(which is ******)
and if you can continue on as such
(which is ******)
and if you can live with yourself
(which is ******)
then good riddance
because although an earthquake erupted in my chest
and black crows swarmed into my eyes
and I tasted nothing but too much salt
and I almost fell back into the arms of my former pitied self
I remembered something:
one was that your tattoos are stupid,
two was that I missed your cat more than I missed you
but three was this:
I may love too easily,
but at least I love
at least I let my heart shine through my chest and beam
at least I let it be ripped out again only to build the muscle around it stronger
at least I can say I have loved and I am loved
maybe not by you, Dylan Hopman,
but you missed out on this insanely resilient
and endlessly beating heart of mine.

hands
clasp
grasp
yours, mine or a stranger's
line of life, line of head, line of heart
it is said that the hand is the map, and the heart is the guide
but how come whenever it is that you hold my hand you also hold my heart?
(in your hands)
feeling the strength of your hold
on my heart
and my hands
letting go
of my heart
but please,
not my hands
I need to keep that clasp
and grasp
and hold I have on you
I need to feel your roughness
and clamminess
and softness
between my fingers
yours fit so perfectly
what if I never find another fit?
what if the next fingers are too short, too long, too bristly, too smooth?
I only remember yours
and what if their lines tell too different a story?
what if they crossed an ocean to find me,
or have never picked up a knife,
or have never lost themselves in another?
and I am left holding my own hands
too familiar
when all I yearn for are yours
I should have never let go of yours
even that one morning when you said it was too cold to hold mine
I should have locked yours between mine and assured you that I would make you warm
now I am grabbing for something in the dark,
a phantom limb; your hands
I wish I had clawed up your wrist to your elbow to your shoulder to your neck
and held on
because my hands are empty
nothing I hold bears weight
nothing I touch, feels
nothing I stroke shudders
nothing I scrape bleeds
my hands hold nothing
my lines of mind, head and heart have blurred
I can feel the reverb of my heart's beat as it left my hands and fell into yours
they are bony and frail and stained and drained of colour
what do I do with my hands?

I dreamt of you last night
my room was bright, bursting with sunshine
my window open, letting in sounds of a match outside
strangers in my room
but you called
"I have to tell you something
I think you're my soulmate
we were meant to meet
that sticky summer
when I burned at the sun's touch
and you beamed with your bright eyes
and I love you
and I want all of you."
and stunned I only said
"you are the same for me."
I asked how you were
and barely made out your response because the noises outside drowned you out
and I tried to find somewhere quiet
because I haven't heard your voice in three years
I haven't placed my hand in yours for three years
I haven't felt you near for three years
it feels like eternity
like time was stretched over the miles and ocean and land that have separated us for three years
and how often do I think of you
the hint of home in your voice
the tightness of your hold
you, leaning across a table to kiss every feature on my face
I was becoming myself
three years
both gaining and losing control
both seeing and shielding my reality
running to and from myself
and you were there
and I became yours
and I was safe,
finally
and sometimes when I walk
without purpose
down College
or Bathurst
or King
or Richmond
I see you
hovering in doorsteps
and watching on corners
and I hear your roots in your voice
your roundedness
and I am safe
and how I wish you could ground me now
my roots are pulling themselves from the earth
my trunk is decaying
and my leaves fall dead on the ground
I am no longer safe from being cut
all I want is for you to plant me again
as you did three years ago
and water
and feed
and shed light on me
because you were a time when I was happy
you were the broadest smile on my face
you were the lightest air that brushed past me
so when the noise from outside my window masked your voice
I ran to the closet and closed the door
because you are my reminder
that I am loved
that I am thought of
that I am whole.

I want you to consume me as I do you
put me in your mouth
chew me up
swallow me to be absorbed in your system
because you have been drained of me

the smell of cooked meat is
too strong in my nostrils to ignore
the sizzle of oil in the pan is
your fingers running across my stomach
the steam from that *** is
the way my heart flurries when you look at me
I can’t consume anything
because I want to consume you

and you can control the temperature of the pan
and you can check the doneness of the meat
and you can whisk the homemade gravy until it thickens
but can you find me hidden in your meal?

we marry together
like pork and apples
like steak and potatoes
like crepes and dulce de leche
but my shell is cracking
and my form is melting
and my alcohol is evaporating
I am being sautéed, julienned and sous-vided by you
I am losing my flavour

do you promise your pigs you won’t hurt them
before you carve the meat off their bones?
I don’t wish to be hung in a cellar with all the other carcasses you’ve left
hanging by a hook and swinging,
the blood draining from their bodies

I can’t cook
but I would cook you:
reheat your stock,
and rehydrate your fruit,
and flash fry your heart
so your colour returned
and you were mine,
on my plate,
at my table,
holding my hand,
and I could consume the only thing I want:
you
yes, chef
you.

a letter to myself:
(a reminder, rather),
I know it feels as though you are now in the trenches
the mud clinging between your toes,
the walls too inevitably high to scale,
the rain beating and pouring down on your body,
and you see everyone above the surface hovering,
watching you as you try and clasp the sides of this hollow grave, frantically trying to escape
and you want to just lie in the mud and have the rain drown you until you are nothing
but you must remember this:
you will be fine.
And I know it feels as though you have been butchered, gutted and cleaned
ready to be thrown on the grill by he who so carefully flayed you open over time and space
only to have all your guts and bones trailing behind you, and thrown into a stock *** to boil away
and I know you miss his furrowed brow
and his incessant organization
and his frigid room
and you want him to call and say
"go to where we met and I will hold you and not say anything more than I'm sorry and I want you and you're all I see"
but remember this:
you will be fine.
And right now, I know you want to cover yourself in paint
all colours, but especially red; Tabasco to be certain
and slather it on until all the marks and scuffs disappear
until you disappear
and you want to refuse to let it dry; apply layer upon layer of every shade of blue from sky to navy;
from lime to forest green,
from sunshine to mustard yellow
and all variations of pink,
and your brush becomes heavy because this paint is caking your skin,
a cast of plaster holding your true self in
until you are as frigid as a statue; you are clad in stone
immovable and impenetrable;
your shield
but please remember this:
you will be fine.
One day someone will see your statue in a square or a park,
the sunlight beaming off your sheen,
and will see past that paint:
the layers of Tabasco
and emerald
and ocean
and canary
and pink
and see you
because you are a light
you are the last piece of pie that you know you shouldn't have, but take anyway
you are a phosphene that never disappears, even when their eyes are open
and he or she will approach your statue,
in a stance of utter uncertainty and self-doubt
shoulders hunched, spine pulled in and face blank and wanting
and will see you
and will take a chisel to your stone
and break off the layers
reduce them to dust, surrounding your pedestal
brush, blow and wipe it clean
and they will suffer from the heat and labour
but they will see you
and they will chip until finally you emerge
that light
and all will be gathered in that square or park
and as you look around you realize that they are the people you love the most
and the person who has broken your mould, your shell
is the one you love most of all: you.
Because you look in the mirror and you love you
you want you
you need you
and I know it's dark
and I know there are drills and hammers and saws
and I know when you sleep you are erased
but remember this:
you will be fine.
you are alive.
you are here.
you are better.
you will rise.

possesses a stillness I am jealous of
it is, simply
no questions or concerns as to how or why it came to be
it breathes freely,
"here I am, take me or leave me"

if only I could be what water is:
rapid, brave, moving with purpose
most times I sit between states of movement and stillness
and even as it changes, water,
it does so unapologetically
it is so sure of itself
as it transforms to snow
or boils under pressure
it makes the choice to move
to constantly transform and shift

I want to be as clear as water:
open and vulnerable
not vapid and transparent
when people see water they can see what’s beneath the surface,
but not far enough to the bottom
leaving the sand or swamp or pool tiles to conceal the truth
I wish when I held water between my hands
that the truth would stay behind
everything else would fall away
and I would hold that small piece of truth in my hands

water is cleansing and pure and uninhibited
and so I want to be the same
smelling like rain and winter simultaneously
to burn and yet also wash
to freeze time and space
to fill every vessel I inhabit and be safe

now I feel as though I am a
waterfall,
a riptide,
a tsunami,
raging and wrecking,
unable to contain my shape
I want to be a spring,
a stream,
or a fountain,
where people look for solace and don’t run in fear
where I am admired and gathered around
and not avoided for fear of drowning
I want to catch sunlight on the surface of my skin and reflect a prism of colours,
not a shadow of darkness and doubt
I want someone to drink me in and consume me,
and not boil me in a *** to evaporate

let me flow
let me course
let me land
watch me transform
but don’t let me freeze.

sweater
sweet
"you taste it"
sweet
I feel it with you
as I am enveloped in this sweater that
smells
feels
tastes
breathes
like you
comforting and warm, like you
woven and fragile, like you
itchy and scratchy, like you
like
you
if I could wear this sweater forever I would
to be held by the very fabric that has hugged your person that has hugged me
that I long for
that I think of as I remember that this is the first thing I put on after you felt me
all of me, with you
that this was the first thing you let me have, and take
that this was what you trusted me with
your Christmas sweater
what I put on for reassurance
that you want me and need me
what I put on for safety
when I feel like I'm losing it
I'm falling now though
in this sweater
backwards into that ocean
and I'm scared, sweater
that as days pass he loses me
that his image of me fades and drifts away
that he forgets the sound of my voice
that my touch on his body has evaporated
sweater, I want to hold him as he does me
this image in my mind of his smirk
his lanky but grand stature
his sturdy hands and brittle nails
his smell of Old Spice
his blonde bed head
I want to hold it all
and I want to hear it all, sweater
how he used to light everything in his path on fire as a child
how he owns a mug with his face on it as a little boy
how he lost it all to one person, like me
sweater I can feel myself falling
I'm losing my balance
I can't stand
I'm trying to protect my heart because I'm afraid to let it go
but a part of me fears I already have
and it's lost
in his arms
bare and bleeding
and yet here I am
wearing his sweater
alone and yearning.

how I fall in love:
unexpectedly and uncertainly
usually under the guide of wine or whiskey, depending on my mood
drowning in a blur of voices and bursts of bright lights
an aura surrounds you; something jumps out at me
tattoos, or a woollen hat
a remark is made,
obvious or otherwise,
about your person
I can’t really see you clearly but I can tell who you are
your eyes are bright
rimmed with red, just like the amber Jameson you’ve downed
but they shine
you shine
I fall backwards into the ocean that are your eyes
I am smiling
when you hold me, I m e l t,
blend into you
I feel stable and erratic all at once
afraid to disappear completely into you
but wanting so much to
your arms are warm, humble and all-encompassing
you hold me
my tongue finds your both inside your mouth and out
it freely expresses how much I need
for once, we are speaking the same language
of patience and comfort and ease
and although I feel free and easy
inside, I race
my heart and thoughts
am I in love with you because you are in love with me?
afraid to
wait,
to give in to your attention to detail to the shape of my body moulded against yours
to the unease and confusion that plagues my mind
to the baggage I am carrying on all my limbs as I am lifted into your arms
to me and what I want
I can’t give you everything just yet
there’s a lock on what I will save until the perfect moment:
when we are laying in bed
yours or mind, no difference
and that secret or feeling or thought is pulsating, vibrating, screaming to be said
and because you are warm
and bright
and a knight of valour
I will say it
all of it
and I will fall backwards into the ocean that are your eyes
and allow myself to be saved from drowning by you.

this room
a room with a view
towering coasters littered with fireworks
a suburban landscape that grew
eighteen years
for a while I thought there was no view beyond these walls
these four barriers that hold
all of me
where I g r e w
eighteen years
from a stumbling child
with pink bows and sturdy white iron
so small in a space so large
I couldn’t fill it
I couldn’t find myself within it yet
this sea of pink frills
but
I curled up with a book every night from what I remember
and I wrote in my first every diary on this bed
and I listened to that prized stereo over and over and over
and as I blossomed this pink palace faded
change
i
changed
so that pink was torn down
and replaced with blue
and green
and purple
and for a while it remained bare
I remained bare
but as I g r e w I was marked
graffiitied
plastered
a rejection here
a death there
I was no longer solid; plain
like these walls, images appeared stuck
who I should be
where I should go
what I should wear
and soon all I saw were these walls
and myself within them
they spoke to me
sometimes in pain
other times in anger; frustration
this cave and sanctuary was my only retreat
writing on the same desk from my childhood about love lost and dreams unfulfilled
I sat in a closet covered in fabric and lost myself in stories
I dance alone facing a mirror, scrutinizing every angle

who was I?

within these walls I found a path
an acceptance
a moment well received and earned
I finally cried tears of joy
new steps, new space
new paint, remove old
images stripped away
from these barriers
red, white, brown
calm
these “barriers” slowly became
arms
they held me
during times of struggle and self-doubt and stress and fear
and I still looked in that mirror and scrutinized
and I still yearned for more of a view
and I still lay broken and heaving in this bed
but I also
g r e w
I left and came back changed one irreplaceable July summer
and
I spoke freely and bravely through the mouth of my pen
and I
smiled brightly at his face on that screen
I g r e w
eighteen years
these arms, once barriers, once only walls
hold everything
all of me
and to leave is bittersweet
for I want to stay
and curl up in this bed
and see my past selves
sitting there with me
to remind me of where I’ve come
I want to sit at that desk and hear
the incessant drumming underneath my floors
I want to hear my mother call me down for dinner
and my father’s hearty laugh
but although these arms hold me
I know they are letting me go
eighteen years
letting me go
to keep on
g r o w i n g
to return changed
but to still see
myself.

In this world I am taught that if I am weak no one will love me
That if I search for it, it may or may not find me
Love, or otherwise
I am taught that to speak loudly or roughly or brashly is unladylike
I must cross my legs and keep my mouth shut
In this world I am told that when I turn sideways I should disappear
That a pile of flesh beyond my hip bones is too fat
That if my bones don't pull against my skin and show I'm not fit
I feel like in this world I have to sleep with anyone who offers just to be touched
To rely on everyone possible because I'm scared to be alone
To say everything, spill it all, to avoid missing a connection
I feel in this world that my brain is too big for my body
My thoughts are lead weights, pushing
That even when silent there is too much noise
and if I wrote down every thought I had, the book would be too long for anyone to read in a lifetime
I wish I could take a flame to every thought, every person, every place that haunted me
enchanting and blessing my brain with a new scent,
a new thought to replace the toxic one
most of these thoughts repeated mean the same thing the second time as they do the first
like on rotation; a rotary
"what can I think of now?"
must keep her occupied
nothing must be blank
think e v e r y t h i n g through
once, twice, three, maybe four times
continue to analyze and dissect and ****
until it is a slab of meat with slices, cuts and bruises over it all
and yes, I meditate
and yes, I breathe
and yes, I gaze
but that does not mean that behind every moment are those thoughts
"what did he mean by 'no feelings'?"
"how can I afford all this?"
"what do I do when I get over there?"
permeating
like black gloves reach from nowhere
take me out of one moment
brilliant and strong and vibrant
and drag me into another so sordid
and destructive
and bleak
back into my head
to the continual rotary of destruction
again and again
"you are not thin enough"
"he won't love you, you're damaged"
"she doesn't like you because you're a *****"
knives and swords
how can  a skull withhold all these punctures?
how can a soul, either?

I feel like a field of land mines are going off in my chest
like a poison has strategically been injected into my veins and my heart is struggling to beat
all I see are splotches of grey and black appearing on my lungs; an X-ray laced with bad news
a wash of thick and viscous sludge poured into and onto my body,
the struggle to push past the gunk
a pile of questions and answers and thoughts and concerns growing exponentially until I
ultimately
e x p l o d e from stress
I sit silently at this desk for a table and hear scattered conversations about dream kicking and the Super Bowl and acting like a zombie
but inside my head are bees creating so much noise I can feel it behind my eyes
and I am checking in with myself,
my outer body telling my inner mind
you are fine
who cares? it's better to sleep alone
who cares? you are working on this one piece
who cares? you can wear your hair however you want
but also I'm coaching myself to breathe, as if I've never learned
one  inhale one  exhale
two  inhale two exhale
three
clear it all
wipe it clean like discarding snow and ice from my mind's windshield
I have never wanted more than to think about nothing at all
to be clear and free of all thoughts
all this noise
whatever happened to silence?
white noise would be preferable at this moment
truthfully,
I would rather be floating in water
the sun shining past my closed eyes and shedding light into my brain
and I am just filled with this l i g h t n e s s that is completely inexplicable and yet so distinct at the same time
as if my outer body is floating beside me
brushing my hand with hers and saying
isn't this just wonderful?
you are f l o a t i n g between reality and fantasy
without a single care
isn't it wonderful?
and it is.

Books
stories lines pages
numbers letters
form
words
words said and unsaid
left whispered between tongues
trapped in mouths
lost in heads
unable to grasp and say aloud
but what if all words were said
all lines were recited as we had imaged them in our minds
what if everything we thought of came pouring out and we meant it
we didn't apologize for the thoughts left in our minds
sometimes I wish I could say everything and anything I feel and mean it
sometimes I wish fear wasn't a factor of life
sometimes I wish we could all be easily loved and could love easily
sometimes I wish the sun shone forever and that
I had naturally blonde hair and
I never bit my nails
and sometimes
I wish I had the fastest metabolism ever so I could eat pizza all the time
and sometimes I wish my little brother would willingly give me a kiss instead of me having to always ask
and sometimes I hope that someone out there thinks about me
and smiles at the thought of me passing through their mind
and wonders where I am now
and wishes me well
and sometimes
I think about where I'll be in five years
and if I'll be more or less happy than I am now
or if something will have happened that changed me forever
and sometimes I wonder what it will be like to outlive my parents
and if I'll be able to go on
and sometimes I wonder who is out there that pulls the gravitational force of people together
and if some guy I've never met knows I'm gonna meet and fall in love with them
but sometimes
I have to let it go
and let the universe take over
and let whatever happen, happen
and let my thoughts run free and just
accept who I am
and what I'm becoming
and be proud of what I do
and who I will be.

We're like two subways passing each other in a tunnel, you and I
There are lights that dot the sides of tunnel,
attempting to guide us through,
but we hardly acknowledge them.
We can see each other in the darkness,
the subtle outline of metal,
the red and white indicators of our existence.
We're carrying so many people in our cars,
people from our past that sit in cars,
each representing different stages of who we are.
And we try and steer these subways through the dark,
searching for one another.
Yours just as full as mine.
The rickety tracks push metal against metal that ring through the hollow of our ears.
And we become distracted by this screeching,
this friction between the rails and our wheels,
and lose sight of each other.
Every station we pull into -
Museum, Queen's Park, St. Patrick -
we expect to catch a glimpse of one another -
going in opposite directions but comforted by the fact that we are in the same station.
We might pick up the same passenger but at different locations,
at different times.
Our paths cross haphazardly.
But I keep wishing that one day
all the lights will point towards me,
and your wheels will stop inches from mine.
And you will look into my cars
and see all those people that have made me,
and I will look into your cars and see all the people that made you
and you will realize
and you will say
"I don't want to keep going from station to station.
I've found my passenger."

Lights are on,
off,
inside and out,
shattered and steel,
sturdy and delicate,
like you and me,
flowing past our eyes as we drive through a tunnel,
as we walk along Yonge and Dundas,
Christmas lights; your favourites,
green and red,
lights that make you want to go out of your way to see
lights that you would be late for work for
lights that shine on this time of us,
this new development,
the next step in this ladder which is built of solid wood
solid,
sturdy,
structured,
able to hold an enormous weight
it pushes down my spine into my sacrum,
it's like all of you is pressing on me,
into me,
and I want it,
not the weight of your body but the weight of your want for me,
need for me,
don't you feel that weight?
it sits on me and it says
"this is what you want,
don't run away,
too long you have tried to run"
but wait
here I am:
in your bed,
my legs tangled with yours,
my lips close to yours,
my heart racing,
and when you kissed me I said
"this is it.
this is right.
I am safe,
I am where I'm supposed to be.
With you."

Ribs close
breathe
heave
and between the spaces lie pieces of others,
memories you cling on to and never wish to let float away for fear that you will never find them with another
that these memories will be the last you have of this nature with this person who knows your ribs,
can feel their fragility and light weight,
who sees the cracks that others have caused and wants nothing more than to crawl in between your heart and make a home, safe, where you know you can always go
but over time they become restless and struggle to break out of the cage,
they have willingly pushed themselves in the cage but now,
oh now, suddenly,
they want out
and they push past your lungs and puncture them
and bruise your heart on the way out until they
lift out of you, squeeze out, breathe someone else’s air
and for a long time you are crumpled on the floor,
a mass of bones and muscle that don’t connect,
that are no longer one but are just a heap of sadness and guilt and pity
and people walk by your bones and kick them and trample them and get dirt on your muscles and spit on your organs and laugh at your disconnected, dismembered body because
they have picked up their bones and muscle or maybe,
if they were really lucky,
they never had to
they could stay together and breathe in each other’s air and have another person live beneath their skin and inhabit their thoughts and be the main feature of their dreams and the hero of their nightmares
but you are not them
you are
bones and muscle and ***** and
discarded, scattered thoughts on the floor who gasps for air and begs for structure and yearns for fusion of her being together,
wants nothing more than to return to being one, to become a solid again
because why should one person push their way out
and walk on two feet
and kiss girls
and wear banana hammocks
and dye their hair red and blonde and brown
and then somehow, so slowly and so unexpectedly and so amicably and so generously
slice back into your skin until it almost smells like him again
until it oozes with his promises
and his words
and his laughter
and his voice
and its almost as if even when apart,
in separate beds, on different sheets,
you are together
and you feel his skin on yours and you can feel yourself
slowly
but then all at once
melting into him
fading back into his breath
fading into his hands
you place every word into his palms with the promise to hold them like eggshells,
“don’t break them”
and he sets his thoughts into your scrambled mind,
words he’d never utter out loud any other time except now, with you
and
does he miss you like you’ve missed him?
he says he’s lonely but he doesn’t realize you’ve never had anyone between your sheets
or
in your bathroom
or
in your kitchen
but you have inhabited those spaces in his
it might be a different place now,
a new air and smell
but he has probably had her there,
not you,
her,
and you think all of the time of what it is –
full of garbage and clothes and his guitar and exactly $100 worth of groceries
and you want to inhabit that space so badly it consumes you
you want to rub your smell all over so no matter where he is, he will think of you
and you want to lie in his bed with no clothes on and just make him stare at you,
watch you
and you want to write notes and place them in unexpected places
like in his couch
and
underneath his sink
or in his leather jacket
notes that say:
“you inhabit me”
and
“I dreamt of you last night”
and
“I love you my first love I love you I love you I love you”
repeated
and he will find them when you are not there,
maybe not in the near future,
maybe months from now he will see the repetition
and it will rattle his brain
and he will wonder why he ever pushed,
prodded,
and pulled his way out of you
and into the arms of another

Benches are wooden or plastic or metal but they allow for a connection, a meeting place for two people who somehow become connected and intertwined and woven, like the branches of trees; they grow on each other, something blooms between them and sprouts and you believe that you cannot live without the other person, they are your sunlight and your water and that soft bird that perches on your shoulder, they see your history, the rings of your trunk, all the years you spent wishing and hoping for that one person and then:

you meet on this bench, a piece of hand-crafted wood, in a park downtown, and you talk and you laugh and you make each other smile and you sit without talking and the silence is good... but then clouds form and the silence is unbearable and you feel like you want to explode and break and smash if the silence continues so you whisper and then talk and then yell and the heat brings you closer, you retrace all of those places, you look back on the map of your connection and remember all the landmarks that you saw and lived through together and it is as if no space existed as if your hearts grew and swelled for each other and brought you back and you lie and embrace and breathe again together and it's comfortable

but then you turn, he turns back, on it all, everything, and you try and search his face, look again on that map and try to remember, you make yourself remember but he sees another path near this bench, near you but not with you, and decides to walk down it and you want him to take your hand and ask you to go but you know deep, deep down that he won't, that he can't, so you try and you say those deadly, poisonous words, those three words that change everything whether you want it to or not
and he looks at you
and he sees you

but he can't take you with him
so he gets up and lifts one foot in front of the other and
he walks away from you.

I know that I will never marry Jimmy Fallon or Donald Glover or Joseph Gordon-Levitt.
I know that despite the myths, Brussels sprouts taste awesome.
I know that one too many tequila shots will automatically turn you into a philosopher.
I know that the sun sets in the East and rises in the West (or is it the other way around?)
I know that I am most happiest when I'm surrounded by amazing friends in the unseasonably warm March sun and a banjo is playing.
I know that a smile straightens everything out.
I know that although you can't forget the past, you can't let it dictate your future.
I know that having *** for the first time is weird, and so is ****.
I know that my hair is golden, my eyes are blue and I will never be stick-thin as hard as I try.
I know that there are 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week and 12 months in a year. But it never seems to be enough time to figure out who you are.
I know that people come and go but those that love and care for you will stay glued next to you no matter what.
I know that as much as it hurts, you will get over love.
I know that I will never have the courage to rap publicly.
I know that Kim Kardashian's *** is most likely not real.
I know that travel truly broadens the mind.
I know that I'm insecure and over analytical and anxious and easily frustrated.
But I know that I'm also passionate and determined and a hopeless romantic and a picky eater and a restless sleeper.
And above all:
I know that when I look at you I see past your eyes.
I know that when you're around I smile wider and laugh louder and flip my hair more often.
I know I dress nicer to remind you how beautiful you think I am.
I know that I forget to inhale and that the butterfly on my shoulder has to fly up to my ear and remind me to breathe.
I know that I care about you more than anyone.
I know that I let you into every pore of my body, every opening: my heart, my head, my...
I know that I am willing to jump in with my whole body and risk being drenched in water for you.
I know that I can make you as happy as you make me
But I know that you're scared and vulnerable and hurt
But if I'm sure of anything (and mind you, I'm not sure of much)
I know that I will hurt and be afraid and breathe with you to make you love me.