I plead for you to listen to me,
Just this one request,
With that my request is useless,
my feet are like bricks of concert glued to the floor,
with a heavy step forward and back,
nothing seems to ever change,
my decisions leads to disappointment and the impossible,
I feel so far from everyone,
I miss what I've lost,
But I know there's always an expiration data for everything,
why can't I accept that?
A lost cause and burden,
Unreasonable thoughts linger like smoke,
I can't sustain  that my visual state of mind is no longer colorful,
from my heart and soul,
I can't walk away,
no place can hold,
like no other I would know,
Black and white,
Why are you so hard to reach?
One day I'll be able to see colors change within the seasons
with out the unnecessary  movements of sadness,
Only grace and peace,

it's a lot harder than you think.

you have to be from the South, like me
or the North, like I want to be
or somewhere entirely more interesting than Dallas
and you have to have the ginger gene
(because there's no way I'm having
blonde children)
and you have to like aquariums
specifically the seahorses

don't wear too much cologne or
pastels and don't ever smell like
frat parties, barbecue, or beer
and DON'T ever say that ballet is stupid.

you have to ask before we choose
the restaurant because I don't eat Italian
or Thai or Greek or Subway
and you have to hold the door open for me
even if we're in my own room.

listen to my monologues for class
and rattled-off to-do lists
as you lazily push the basket
and I grab it from you because you're going too slow
and mockingly call you a princess

know that I am busy, VERY busy
in fact so busy that I may not see you
because I am an independent woman
and there are stories to be built, dragons to be slayed,
and there are things my hands must finish
before I can start on holding yours

make fun of my Crocs
and the way I hiccup out of nowhere
and the days that I don't have time to eat breakfast
so I bring a Fuzzy's cup to class
full of off-brand Cap'n Crunch
shoving handfuls into my mouth between
snide remarks about Morrison
while you laugh inside your eyes
about what a cynic I pretend to be

hate me when I tell you
that I don't need a hug
and that I'd rather be dating Hemingway
or that I have rehearsal
painting cities, building histories

ignore my comments about you needing to shave
or on how I think I'd rather I'd never get married
and live the rest of my days writing stories
with organic vegetables and rainy days and
walks in the Carolinas

call me a ***** when I'm being one
(because I know I am about 97% of the time)
and tell me you would help me
if I would ever let you
whether it be Christmas lights or
physics lab or the gnawing pain
of lonely lonely lonely

let me read my books, propped up on
my pillows and nestled into a glaze
and let me have my expectations
of Rochesters and Darcys
even though I say I don't
and when I have to sew a blanket for class
and I say the stitching looks awful
tell me no, it doesn't
because I desperately want you
to know that my favorite color is lavender
and I love watermelon and stationery and
online shopping at 2 am
and I desperately want to know
your elementary school, your favorite song,
your middle name
even though I pretend I don't

and sometimes when I say I'm right
and you know that I know I'm wrong
just pick up your spirals and turn to leave,
then stop and say
"my favorite book is Gatsby, too."

and smile and call me crazy.

it's a lot easier than you think.

Four blocks down,
A man who never gives the same name
Stands every day selling condoms
With Tiger’s face telling us to “Protect Our Wood”,
And next to him is the vendor where
I just bought my new favorite scarf.
His name is Lorenzo. He’s 6 foot 4,
Old school Italian, and after two months
I’ve yet to see him wear the same shoes twice.

Natalie played softball in high school.
She now owns a hot dog stand just outside
That I’ve seen fifty people wait in line for.
After a heartfelt conversation we had
On a certain rainy Thursday morning,
Natalie now throws me a free Polish sausage with peppers
Once in a while when I open my second story window.
She hasn’t missed once.

My one neighbor is a Latina grandmother named Sofia.
She brought her kids here illegally,
And they’ve since used their success
To cut all ties to dear old Mexico
And to her.
I eat with her once a week,
And we share cooking recipes
And small tales about life BNY
(Before New York).

There’s a homeless man downtown
Whose sign says “A quarter a day
Keeps my teeth off your leg”,
And ever since he’s proven it to me
I’ve dropped fifty cents a day,
Hoping for extra protection.

When my friends from college come to visit,
They were all curious about Lorenzo’s shoes
And Natalie’s pitching arm
And when Sofia’s daughter would show up
(Tyler had a thing for hispanic girls).
I never tried to explain, because
I never felt the need to know the answer myself.
All I cared about were Natalie’s smile,
Sofia’s homemade tortilla chips,
And how a guy like Lorenzo ended up in New York City selling scarves.

I carry the pain she feels
Every time his voice finds her face
Every time her small body hits the bathroom floor
Every time her face is wet with tears,
Ten year old eyes should never produce.
I felt these things once too.
But that was long ago.
Too long ago for me to help her now.
Her pain is still fresh while mine sits beneath my skin,
Boiling every time he speaks to me.
I had an out – once or twice every few months was my charge.
She lives in that bathroom –
That locked door between Mortality and Hell - Purgatory.
We aren’t even Catholic.
I wonder if she will share my hate in the end.
He ruins me – like a band-aid,
Continuously being ripped off my scarring flesh.
How scarred is her skin?
Can her friends see these marks? Can mine?
Hers are worse, I can already tell.
Six more months until the consequence of a divorce I didn't choose
Will be forever behind me.
She has eight years.
I pray for her every day.
I do not pray enough.
Do you?

So let's add another numbed night to this comatose plight.
Searching for something meaningful at the bottom of bottles,
And striving for amnesia through entangling bodies.
This is the dance of the dead.
A decadent display of flesh and famine.
A hunger so primal that we've lost our appetite for
The more filling of feelings.
You're tugging at my heart strings,
But she's ripping off my clothes.
And the opposite embodied is a worse torture than most
Would care to know.
But I do have a thing for pain,
And you're the object of my infliction.
In this scar making moment, I'll succumb to that addiction.
But your mark is growing thin, love.
And the evidence will fade.
Your territory’s waning and you have no stake to claim.
These are the lies we lead in this life or something like it.
Barely scraping by until the day turns to night.
My calendar is filling and yours is bound to burst.
You can pencil me in if you're bored enough.
I'll accept through the hangover and give you sleepy eyes,
Knowing full well we'll both end up in another's bed tonight.
She'll touch my chest though it does not heave for her.
And I'll take a shot to make this feeling better.
She'll want to spoon but I'll push her to "your side".
And I'll say I'll call tomorrow, but when I speak, I tend to lie.
I'm taking up your offer on this latest lifestyle,
Where cowardly nonchalance is the most fitting attire,
And the heart that's been hemmed to my sleeve,
Is the most out-of-date accessory.
This game is treacherous, this game called "love".
My only wonder is: when we will stop playing ourselves.