difficult* is sleeping with you

effortless is making love

shy is the moment after realizing I’m being too quiet in clarity
for you to feel comfortable

clarity is when I tell you the late evening sun lowers its golden tint
on everything and makes the leaves look vibrant green
and if it were to be one of those funny named colours in a paint swatch, it’d be
"I’m Alive! Green"

frustrated is when I see two pillowcases of identical fabric,
one more faded than the other,
and fail to explain why I’m not sure if the metaphor is sad or not

intricate is the way my mind is built

fragile is the way my heart is

heavy is when I talk about how rarely I cry

phoney is when I laugh about crying at a season finale to cover it up

beautiful is what you remind me I am

insecure is when I talk too much

comfort is eating lots of food

comfort is not eating food

disappointment is when I change my mind about your company

horror is asking you to leave

anxious is the way I feel when you are asleep beside me

frivolous is the pillow talk

juvenile is my babbling

fast is my heartbeat

enigma is what you keep calling me

today I didn't do anything but I cried
so perhaps I did more
than the average person did
I watched too many movies
but if I told you the number I might get embarrassed
and I cried when Robert De Niro cried
he reminds me a lot of my dad
especially in the movie I watched with his four kids that move away from home
and constantly lie to him about their lives
oh that's a lot like what my brothers and I do
we just don't wanna worry him, y'know

I spent most of my day in bed
let's say 75%
I went outside
but that was only to buy groceries
with the money I don't technically have

my mother wanted to call
but I didn't respond
somedays you just don't feel like talking and pretending
everything is alright
sometimes you need a day where everything's not alright so that you can figure out that everything indeed is alright
and if you're wondering, I've come around to the brighter side, despite
the ****** weather and my lazy body

my body might not forgive me yet
for all the **** I've put it through
it's mostly to do with secrets and regrets
there are some things I'll easily forget until my body gets sick
and it always gets sick

and I still haven't quite gotten the hang of
sleep
and what it really means
I'll get too little and drink too much coffee
or I'll get too much and eat too much

I have a friend visiting from another city this week
he reminds me what clarity means
and what resilience means
and what inner beauty means
and I think I'd like to have a picnic in the park with him
maybe lay in the breeze and soak up the sun
he's sixty but he looks forty and numbers don't mean a thing
which is why I've decided to admit
that I watched 8 movies today

a womb. *****. an egg. curiosity. a man and woman that love each other. a man and woman that don’t know each other. a man and woman that kind of like each other but don’t want anything serious.

stupidity. a ripped ******. a missed birth control pill. bad fortune. good fortune. an in the moment decision. a premeditated decision. ***.

love-making. *******. pulling out. pre-*******.

old flames. new sparks. excitement in the private parts.

addiction. miscommunication. needing something to feel important. to have a purpose.

mothers and fathers. crack addicts and coke heads. teenagers.

impatience. anticipation. guilt for causing blue *****.

****. accidents. mistakes.

true love.

it’s windy
outside

it’s windy
inside

i gather
in my mind

that you and i
combined

is a tree
in the wind

skin touching
skin

a soul between
twins

the dimples
of a grin

the leaf and
the tige

the lips and
the teeth

like coffee
like tea

the birds
fly free

the song’s
sung true

i’m in love
with you

i gather
in my mind

that you and i
combined

is more than
meets the eye

with you
i feel more alive

than i can
describe

something unexpected yet so ordinary happened
last night
it made me wonder how exactly and
why exactly
the ordinary parts of my life are often so
extraordinary
that extraordinary, to me, has to be more than
exceptionally marvellous and nowhere near far from
outstandingly incredible
some people call it high standards,
like the top step of the ladder

I thought
last night was incredible
because you kiss exactly like how I kiss and the shock fluttered
like bits of confetti and glitter on my tongue and lips and
all over my goosebumpy skin
the cadency of my heart was somehow simultaneously
rampant and rested
my body fully invested
in yours
my body completely suggesting
it’s yours
to touch, to make feel good, to adore
the divine woman, curved and open
eyes and skin glowing
arousal growing
bodies non-existent, spirit flowing

exceptionally marvellous
I jitter in silence, knowing myself
and patterns alike
I try to throw away this burdening muddy stick of
I-always-end-up-getting-sick
of things eventually
but obviously
it’s easier to neglect the fact
that this stick is a boomerang
and it always comes right back

about so much!
like, do you like lemonade more than hot tea and like so many
other people,
are you self conscious about your feet,
and are you still in love with that girl who
broke
your sad heart?

I am curious,
are we still friends,
will we ever be lovers again,
do you still roll joints as often as I brew coffee,
how often do you make love, and what was the
best time;
was it with her, or with me?

I am curious,
what are you gonna name your baby,
is it a boy or a girl,
are you even ready,
do you ever worry about having no money?

have you ever gotten into a car crash, and did it
completely change your life
and do you always drive the speed limit now?
how often do you watch ****, and do you feel *****
afterward?

are you a momma's boy,
were you bullied as a kid, were you the bully,
were you abandoned?

I am curious,
how'd you learn to lie so well, and how'd you learn
to write so well, and are you
fully aware
of the magic you possess, or are you
sincerely
always
not believing in yourself?

have you ever gotten into a fight, did you
throw the first punch,
or did you take it
like a man?

is your devil chocolate or bread and what
halloween candy
did you trade for the candy you liked,
and if I bought you a Reese's buttercup
would you kiss me tonight?

I am so curious,
do I talk too much, ask too many questions,
get under your skin,
make you want to rip your eyes out
or do you love me and just have
nothing to say
because I'm moving away?

Dear You,

You are divine. You are so sweet and precious, if only you knew what it’s like to witness you laughing like nothing else matters but the nice tingling joy swelling inside of your being. Your joy is contagious and it ignites warmth in my heart.

You are remarkable. The pure resonance in your voice meets an angel’s when you speak from your heart. I love the sound of your truth. I love the sound of what you like to share about yourself. And when you feel shy or a bit ashamed of what you speak of in front of others, I still think you’re great, because you’ve got the guts to try.

You’re beautiful too. You’re beautiful when you know it and you are beautiful when you don’t know it. I love it when you know it because you smile a lot more. Your smile is one of the most beautiful things about you. Your nose crinkles and your eyes squint and your teeth are exposed. You look so vulnerable and strong at the same time, it’s mesmerizing.

Also, you are mighty talented! When you do something you love to do, you are creating bits of unique love and sending them into the universe for everyone to enjoy. Your creations are brilliant, because you made something that has never been made before. That’s amazing! Your passions guide you and help you grow in such fantastic ways. When you doubt yourself, you’re pulling away from enjoying yourself. There is so much to enjoy about you! Everything you’ve created has you in it, isn’t that spectacular?

And it’s okay to deny all of these things about yourself, because that’s a very human thing to do. If we didn’t know what it felt like to fail, then we wouldn’t even understand the feeling of success, nor would we try to achieve it. It’s funny though, because you are always succeeding, just by being you! You are even succeeding when you think you’re failing because you’re trying and you’re breathing and you’re living. You are so complete and self-sufficient, even when you forget that you are. You are a whole, unique human with whole, unique thoughts and feelings. You get to be a part of this world and share such sincerely beautiful, wise and joyous things that have the ability to inspire other people and help them heal! Wow. You can help others heal. You can help others create. You can help others grow. Just by being who you are.

It’s mind-blowing really.

if I inch a little closer, it will give me
warmth

I have felt like a million pieces of a human scattered about
in several fields and bushes
like ash floating in the sky
and seashells washed up on the shore

but with warmth,
realness and a true heart is remembered
and the abundance of smeared portraits of 

that sad girl
or that stupid girl
or that crazy girl
or any identity
is nothing more than a pen's strikeout on
a word
that just doesn't belong in
a perfect sentence

I've been told
not to feel
if I can help it
not to deal
with pressing bothers
but they scrape at me like pernicious elves
with honed candy canes,
made spear-like to stick in my guts
and stay there

I've been told to
watch out!
time creeps up and then you're forty
love dries up and then you're forty
crisises emerge and the spear holds itself sturdy
and all you've known is to go numb;
when the spear comes,
go numb;
babies will **** on their thumbs
and you will go numb

I have a cat now
it came with the house I am renting
it's grey and it stares
into my soul like it knows there's a hole
and doesn't stop staring until I close my bedroom door
but it sits outside on the floor
meowing for more
scratching to be let in, to dig her nails in my skin
and tell me with those cunning eyes
*life's not out to get you
but it doesn't mean you won't hurt inside
it doesn't mean the hole in your soul
will be patched, mended or filled or made whole
anytime soon
and sometimes it's just too hard to get out of bed
before noon
but still, you should try or I'll scratch you, deep in
my nails are like spears and you don't know where else
they have been

today is my birthday
******* hooray, eh?
I'm only nineteen years old;
ancient to toddlers
callow to parents.
I don't feel any age
I was only five two weeks ago
eleven yesterday morning
and now I'm nineteen
(apparently)
legal in every province
in my country;
how fantastic! I can get drunk
everywhere except the States
how ******* fantastic!
(I don't even like to get drunk).
I haven't celebrated my birthday
in the last
four years;
I don't think there's any need for a
celebration
who the **** gives a ****
why do we celebrate our lives once a year
instead of all year?

there could be a worm in my head
gnawing away,
like mice do through cords, and then one day
you realize
oh! the toaster doesn't work anymore!;
my mercy doesn't work anymore!
and my patience went dry like acrylic paint does
when you brush it on the canvas, and want so badly
to blend it
but it can't blend
because it's dried already, so
you should probably try oil paint or something -
I'm losing my mind
picking all the weeds out,
standing tall with peaceful pride and then realizing,
they were beautiful flowers;
I uprooted them and then chucked them in a naughty pile

I'm awful! loud in my head
stop being awful! I'm hurting people
again
and
again
and
again

find a better gardener, please never
ever
ever
ask me to tend to your soil
or your fruit
or your flowers
or anything that has to do with
nurturing
your growth
or heart health
or emotional stability
- I pull roots
like a robot; I don't even look at what I'm pulling
until after
it's been pulled out.

I’m full,
there is no room inside of me
every bone has been dipped in a thick coat
of something
sweet or sick
and every crevice has been poured all over,
now bowls of mixed icky stews –
I am full
there is no room for another hand
or fingerprint
or lemon poundcake

I am full, but I feel bare;
and I still don’t want you there

my body is heavy
with gooey webs of ghoul guilt and there is pressure
on my chest to pick myself up,
and get on with it
even as evil weighs me down,
tires me down,
pries me down,
and laughs at me struggling

I feel so full
there is no room to be smiled at
or even looked at;
there is no more room to store your stories
or secrets
or tears
or trust; it’ll all come falling down
like the London bridge
and I’d collapse underneath, into poisonous gasps and groans
of relief
that finally,
I
get
to
die.

I am full but I feel so empty
and I don’t want to die,
but I want to die;
but I mostly don’t want to die;
I just feel so empty
and I don’t want to be around you
because it doesn’t make it any easier
for me
to love me

do I really care about you?

authentically

no, but I would still kiss away a perpetual need
of some kind of

more
I would kiss away the perpetual need of more of my kisses, even
until they became ripe in your circulation

without your tact

like the first time an apple becomes an apple
without knowing it’s an apple

ripe

raw, sweet

without tact

without my tact
would I really care about you?

I’ve been on the floor bathing in dishrags and dust particles
I feel filthy
troublesome and unwanted

I’ve lost faith in succeeding
all I’ve got is gritty tact, sticking to its guns

do I really care about myself?
no,

but still, I would kiss away someone else’s pain to have a purpose
and I would love them in a moment  

even if I wasn’t loved in return

i am incredibly foolish & repetitive
foolishly repetitive
repetitively foolish;
there is a pebble in my heart,
small but firm,
impenetrably set still,
demanding to be felt
coercing the blood supply to soak it all up
as if blood can seep through
a pebble
it cannot; but it won’t stop
demanding attention
it is smothering
and relentless;
i have shortness of breath
and my heart pounds
like a door slammed shut
and then opened
and then slammed shut
it’s almost as if i can feel the pebble
rattle within the walls
with
each
pound,
welting the vulnerable tissue;
open,
slammed shut,
open,
slammed shut;
we all forget how to cry
when we most need to

start a poem;
with what?
I choose a word and think: I always start poems
just like that;
I want to be more abstract
and tralala pulchritudinous --
there's a word for you; I used a thesaurus,
how phoney
how transposed and disconnected from my heart
I write

and I know I can do better than that
than this
yeah, I know that
and I'm a strong believer of
art
creating itself
when it's meant to be created
and that sometimes it's just not meant to be
but when there is so much
filling the heart with wistful agony
and agonizing wistfulness,
creating something pretty
feels pretty good; and you'd think
there'd ought to be something
to write about
if I can feel this much inside of me
if it's that heavy...
I guess
what I'm really trying to say
is that
I'm afraid.
but that's not good enough, is it?
I want to write wilting lilies and papercuts
and stubbed toes and a bit of rage and longing, but mostly
I want to write the truth
and the truth is
I'm afraid
that I'm not enough;

but I know, I know,
that's not good enough, is it?

please
be tender with me
but don’t let me use you
that’s something I’ve gotten the hang of and readily available people
sometimes shouldn’t always be so
readily available ~
I know this because I’ve often been too readily available
and walked all over,
I think I still have the footprints on my little arrhythmic heart
to prove it —

oh
I’m pretty sure though,
you know,
that we all know what it’s like
to be the plant uprooted from the soil
for the selfish purposes of indoor decor:
it needs
and needs and needs
because self-sufficient roots were cut
and it pleads
and pleads and pleads
*please
be tender with me,
for I don’t know what I am doing here
let alone how to live here in this dark
****** pit you call a home — *

I’ve made a new home for myself
every day
because every day, I am not the same
it’s a constant struggle of
head vs. heart
and
holding back vs. art; &
if I’m going to be honest about one thing
it’s that
I’m completely alright … it’s just,
admitting that means
I’ve got to step into the light
and I’m just so attached to this little plant inside of me
that has been uprooted and abused,
I’m dwelling on mistakes and madness and using
a thousand nouns to fill me whole,
I completely forget that playing the victim makes me sick
and to grow,
all I need is water, love and sun for my soul.

what am I supposed to do?
I’m high on ativan
but that’s a secret
and it’s not the kind of person
I am anyway;
I promise, sometimes in life, there are acceptable exceptions --
a big fat scary monster has swallowed me up
whole
and I feel like Pinocchio
in the musky dark,
in the stomach of terror;

did you know
I bought 3 books today,
they’re classics
and were on sale,
"how perfect," I thought, "something to read on the plane; something to read over and over again for a whole year abroad."
but my suitcase is empty
apart from the three paperbacks,
intimidating me
and I’d honestly rather die and never hear anyone talk ever again than pack for a whole year

this is a poem of fear
but that’s a secret, though I’m sure
the consumed ativan
clearly gave that away;
— I’m moving
to the complete opposite end of
the world —

completed finished done folded ended
defeated concluded
aborted                                                         ­                     
terminated finalized killed annihilated dispatched
vaporized settled                     destroyed dropped
discontinued stopped broken shut down cut
off                                   ceased over halted frozen
barricaded desistance executed
dissolved                                                 ­ overcome gone
ruined wrecked crushed depleted spoiled
shattered

it’s hard to see people that have upset you
that have unknowingly made you cry;
to be in the same room as them and laugh with everyone,
pretending like everything is okay
when the uproar of feeling sick to your stomach
is telling you
everything is not okay
because standing next to this person hurts more than
any regular anxiety attack.
standing next to this person makes you want to run away
and stay perfectly still in the same moment.
you lie to protect your pride
you lie well, you hide well, you hurt well.
it’s the wanting them to know that comes and goes
it’s the wondering if they know that never goes.
you’re on your way out the door
feeling the smack of fresh air hit your heavy lungs
and you’re alone with the shame
of never being honest.

there are loose leaves
at the bottom of my teacup
I rarely finish drinking the thing
- instead I stare through the dark transparent liquid
at barely-floating twiggy tea leaves that
escaped from the bag
I am forgetful
and unforgiving of myself
I am too easily entranced by
lights and thin branches that dance above muddy grass
my eyes see things breathe
like marbled floors and brick buildings
I am so enraptured by rabbit fur
and tree bark
rabbits prance along the neighbourhoods
and I love the game of seeing how close I can get to them
before they leap away

when I think of bliss,
I think of not knowing what is coming next
more even, not caring

when I think of bliss,
I think of running after rabbits
or petting a tree
I do these things when no one’s looking
so no one catches the crazy in me

there are loose coffee grounds
at the bottom of my mug
caffeine kills me
and I love the taste
of the cruelty
but my body is hurting
again
like last year
where fainting and falling and confusing my words in conversation
arose every time I felt an anxious feeling
nudge its way in deeper
maybe it’s just way of giving up
my body surrendering in complete so that I feel full effect
of how badly I’ve treated it
it’s hurting again
so much that sometimes I can barely get out of bed
or get off the bus
and walk the trek home in the nippy night

I see rabbits prance along the neighbourhoods
and oh look, I am repeating myself
again
I hardly notice because my head is hurting
like there are a million and one hurricanes
inside of it
less of a crash and more like a rush
there is a difference between headaches
and light headedness
both hurt though
still I’m ashamed I’m lightheaded all the time
there is a weakness in it
that only frail people can relate to,
the scatterbrains, the unconcentrated, the anorexics, the cancer patients
the sick-of-some-sort
what am I?

take off your mask
Halloween isn't every day
you're shy
but you're brave;
I'm still trying to figure out
how
to get over you
I'm shy
but I'm brave --
though I suppose that when hearts are haunted
with feeling
unwanted,
you are less than you can be
it makes it so hard to be free
and I suppose that when hearts are haunted
with feeling unwanted,
there is nowhere else to go
besides a labyrinth
down below.
take off your hurt,
it's removable just like a shirt
and hang it to the side;
look in the mirror,
your mother could not have been more clear:
beauty resides --
yes, I suppose that when hearts are haunted
with feeling
unwanted,
you are blackened to the root
going rotten like a fruit;
and I suppose that when hearts are haunted
with feeling
unwanted,
there is nothing but the blues
so there is nothing left to lose.

i have so much love in me and around me
it is impossible to bathe in anything else like
a ****** resentment or an unlimited reservation of sadness

even though those sicknesses are okay and are always curable,
i feel too alive and sure of myself to cough up a loogie of ill-peace

how can I not be okay - right now?
is there a way to prove myself otherwise?

always - we are
HERE
and nowhere else

if only we'd just take a step back and take a look at the illusions
of past or future we've been rolling around in

those are just stories!
and the essence of who we are is not replicated from any external judgement
because a judgement is just another illusional story
that pries into our belief that we will not make it through another day.
but you can, and i can
and you deserve love and i deserve love

and if you take a step back and really look at where you are,
you will see that
you are okay right now too.

it’s your birthday
but you’re still dead

your brother must miss you
especially today
you’ve shared every birthday
every single one
but you’re not alive anymore

sometimes when I am playing the piano,
I look up to the left and notice your
funeral picture
you’ve got a killer smile
it’s one of the best I’ve seen
anyway,
I look up and see you smiling
and I suddenly have all of this passion
in my voice and fingertips

happy birthday

my heart got sick the day I left

my heart got sick right before the plane took off

lamppost, firefly, sunlight

but I’m shy

I love you but silence is still mine

real life is sad

you lose sometimes

if you ever hear me cry, please don’t make fun

it’s just,

my heart will love you whenever I’m happy

the sun comes up and the sun goes down

but I’m all over the place with smiling and shutting people out

I think

I can miss you and not need you at the same time

but I will never tell you I love you

because silence is still mine

Remember,

people care about you

they think about you far more than you think they do

they see something that reminds them of you on the street or in a store and they smile because you are a great person and they love that they know you

knowing you makes them happy

knowing you might make them sad too, because sometimes people want more from you than you’re willing to give, but you shouldn’t dwell on making them upset because you are still great and you still bring more happiness to them on most days

sometimes people get sad and that’s not your fault

it is not your job to make a person feel better, and changing who you are just to make them feel better is just a false sense of loyalty that you’re showing them; and anyway, it is far more rewarding to nurture other people by being true to who you are because it is simultaneously nurturing yourself.

when you are sick, get as much affection as you possibly can and do not feel bad about it

tell someone you love them because you just do, not because you feel guilty, obligated or crave their approval

it’s not the end of the world if people don’t need you and it’s probably not the healthiest thing if they are constantly depending on you to clean their messy lives up all the time

you will never regret putting “go to the library” on your to-do list, even if you are swamped and stressed with other things to do; there is nothing quite like being among a whole world of books

don’t be embarrassed about your laugh or blowing your nose in public or even turning bright red when you do get embarrassed because there is nothing wrong with any of these things

you can be sincere or you can be manipulative, but remember that you know how it feels to be manipulated too

people ******* over all the time, but that just makes them people and you are just the same as these people because you do it too, so lighten up and see it’s not a big deal, but don’t let them walk all over you time and time again because that is just disrespectful to yourself

learn when to stay and when to walk away

you are awesome

I think people often forget
the big picture and think that everything is coming
to an end
or that they’ve ruined so much in their lives already.
Something really overwhelming happens to them for a few months
and they think all hope and possible
healing is lost.
All they want to do is wallow and wish it were all
different, never accepting
what’s really going on.
It’s that kind of self-absorption that stunts
the quality time in life.
It’s an obsession that stunts our means
of enjoyment.

the sun oozed under my eyelids until I couldn’t keep them shut any longer

I laid there and heard the silence of my house in the morning

there were birds and they sung songs that made me feel heartsick

I didn’t have a hangover

Sam told me, in the most nonchalant way, that he spoke about me to someone I deeply admire and they like my music

first time I watched Tangled and I wanted to punch the mother in the face but I couldn’t because she is a cartoon

Lyra and I both had tender tummies and painted our nails like a rainbow

baths are beginning to feed into my sick games of numbing myself

blatant malnourishment

brash abandon of my self-worth  

my mind wobbled over to the fact that someone I deeply admire likes my music and that I must be more noticeable than I think I am

maybe that’s not true though

I swear my dog died about ten times today

I am a plant and this couch is my ***

Am I noticeable?

when I eat too much and feel bloated, I just pretend that I’m pregnant and sometimes even talk to my stomach as if there was a fetus inside of it

I don't think many people do those kinds of things when they're alone

a french accent is beginning to fit me better than an english one, like finding an old dress in a closet and surprising yourself in the mirror

I talked to myself all day because - loneliness

blue
the colour is always blue
when I want something
when Father won’t answer me
my pillow

my curtains, but they’re swept to the sides and the blinds are up
the sky is white
I’ve never seen the sky so white
it looks sick
the branches look violent, like they are deprived of attention
everything looks sick

that tree I can see, means so much to me
when I feel something, I pretend it is feeling the same thing
like impatient the other day, it must’ve been too
with no leaves come past springtime
it makes me blue

the colour is always blue
when I’m in love
blankets
sometimes my eyes
when I ask Father to dinner tonight or lunch tomorrow and he replies
“maybe Wednesday, not sure”
blue is the cover of the book of poetry I had written
and abandoned
blue is sadness
blue is the colour of giving up
sometimes hope

blue is the colour of people’s hair in my nightmares, when I get so frustrated their hair isn’t brown or blonde and I try so hard to change it,
it’s always going to be blue
and I wake up from thinking too much

most of my wardrobe
polkadots and stripes
shades on my canvases
I use blue
like it’s mine
like it’s me

my favourite colour is blue
it has always been blue

there are amoebas in me
half are black
half are white
black knows the difference between right & wrong
white knows the difference between wrong & right
I am a castle
made of sugar cubes
I am Einstein
as a fetus
I am a trampoline without springs
but most of all,
I am a liar and a square shooter
and often
don't know what the difference is

are not attractive to the man she adores
but that is the only reason she adores him
in the first place

she would not consider him a catch or a man or the love of her life
if he got up early to take a train to the field she lays in

or often called upon her, not only with the
sweetness and charm he retains
but with eagerness and pleasantry, both sincere as a fox craves
a good bird in his jaw, but with spright instead of haste
and with the devotion of rapture without rancour

his eyes are like a tray of a kitten’s sharp teeth
latching onto the pretty bird of his fancy,
and all of her hope infused in her blood only accumulates
as he sinks in for more sorrow
‘til the last grind that never does seem to come

he tries to peel parts of her he doesn’t like
she lets him

a fruit without any husks is not safely kept and often rotten
to grow, you must protect yourself from damage, yet allow yourself
to be bruised enough for simple sweetness
that lays sincerely inside

there is cotton in my mouth.
my fingers become tweezers, plucking, yanking, culling;
but there is still cotton in my mouth.

it reminds me of the time the spooky man from the shadows called me sugar
and then called me over like I was a cheap doxy.
avoiding him was obvious, but then dodging him became obvious and
the moment I felt ***** hands brush my left hip,
I knew I wasn’t safe anymore.

there was cotton in my mouth.
fragile like a pretty doe with a wounded hind leg,
I could not scream or attack; for there was jelly in my bones too.

but tonight, there is cotton in my mouth, again,
for different reasons; though, the same.
fear.
and while there is no bête noire with a knife
clutching onto my left hip, calling me sugar;
there is this certain bête noire I had neglected,
to discover radiant lights dancing above
and rich, resplendent tickles and tingles coming through my heartbeats.

I found a black spot; a hole or tear; rip in the curtain; stain on the carpet.
a darkness, a moon gone missing; a reversion to autopilot; comatose, asleep.

there is cotton in my mouth and my fingers still
cull the plush barrier; but it grows like a monster
and I have nothing more to say anyway.

tongue-tied butterflies, the tickling flutter inside
but it’s not the good kind,
it’s the sucker-punch kind that makes you nauseous and want to stay in bed
all day
looking out your window until your heavy hulk eyelids snap shut
and you dream of the fantasy
where you are not this wretched, evil or confused and
everything makes sense there

all you do is dance with one person underneath the leaf-canopy of a sycamore tree

you kiss and your bellies rumble with laughter, for each other, with each other

and when the other scurries off to do their own thing, you are alone,
but you’re alright
because you’ve seen what you look like in the mirror, and you’ve never been so pleased with yourself

the meaning of love in this faerie land forest is to simply, be, as you are
with nothing but yourself
nothing but your hands,
nothing but your eyes
nothing but your heart

it’s the sparking connection, touching someone else, and seeing their lips curl into the most vivacious grin

it makes love special but it doesn’t make love, for you already are such, regardless of another’s breath

I awaken at the sound of chirping birds, my window still glowing of
shady sunlight
tongue-tied butterflies, the tickling flutter inside
but it’s not the good kind, it’s the sucker-punch kind that makes you sick,
waking you up
to reality

every ounce, raw
legs ******* necks
authentic because this time history
didn’t exist
or the future
just timelessness, innocence and lots of kissing
unexpected like car crashes and so familiar like eggs in the morning
like the feeling of not sleeping in your own bed for a few days and then getting to again
relief, in a way
and sighs
but mostly raw
with passion that draped over us like a canopy of red roses and white silky fabrics
I think that might have been the most connected we’ve ever been
I think that’s because we aren’t attached to each other in any way, anymore
real,
raw,
exactly the same
completely new
everything is all over the place and as condensed as an aerosol can of hairspray
at the same time;
my hair grew
your face thinned
and we are in exactly the same place

I look behind me
& you vanished all too soon,
leaving me to find the proper branch
to spin up a cocoon
& wait
for something
magnificent
to happen
I think you are magnificent
but I know I shouldn’t so I’d better not
& I’m sorry the sun burns your skin
but your hands burn mine
& every time I look behind me
you’re always gone
& if I look beside me
you’re holding someone’s hand
but it’s never mine
& though I understand love dies
sometimes it goes on, hopelessly inside
someone like me
broken and battered and sanguine still
someone who anticipates her empty heart
to be filled
& I keep looking behind me
as if you’ve just slowed down to tie your shoe
but I never pay attention to what’s coming ahead
& crash into cars and walls instead

I think
you could be great
with cinnamon and sparkles in your heart
I’ve always thought that
of you
like I’ve always thought
dresses are comfier than jeans
and the moon watches me
when I can’t sleep.
I think you could be great;
you’ve already got
the big heart
and the “I fall hard” innocence
and passion sits well like a cushion
in every corner and chasm
and artery and vein;
it’s just your head and your hands
that are too busy and afraid
to sit still.
Your hands are hectic; fussy
and your head is too unavailable,
occupied with thoughts of
loneliness underneath starlight
and bitterness and romance,
or who you should love and how much you love
and do you really love yourself
or are you just so used to lying, you’ve forgotten
how to
truly
find comfort in being alone.
I think
you could be great
but you want too much
and don’t give yourself enough and you think
you’ll lose yourself
in love
because you’ve only seen yourself real
in someone else
and that’s always a constant whiplash
between being a great idea
and being a haunting one;
if they leave, it feels like part of your identity is gone
and we can’t have that now, can we.
I think you could be
so great
but you love outwardly before you love inwardly
almost always;
and though you’ve held damp soil
in your palms
your hands, crafty and clever as they are,
are too empty and broken
to know how to nurture a seed.
I think you could be great
I think you could be
so so
great
but your art’s not real
because you won’t allow your heart to feel.

the last time i kissed you,
you didn’t want to kiss me
but did anyway
i know what that’s like
it’s hard to say no
i’ve done that before
on many occasions
you were surprised
or muddled
but you did anyway
for longer than expected
and when i asked you for a hug
because i hadn’t had a hug
in weeks,
you pulled away before i was ready
to let go
and then felt bad and embraced me
again
it’s those things
i am terrified to admit to myself
they happened
in front of my face
but i deflected it
with manipulation

time 2 pack
time 2 downsize
time 2 feel your heartbeat
time 2 lick the chocolate frosting off the plate;
indulge,
enjoy;
and always always always appreciate

time 2 give hugs
time 2 dance
time 2 nurse a hangover
time 2 pick apples off the tree in the backyard
while you still can;
time 2 breathe, don't forget to breathe
always make time
to breathe

time to go
time to grow

when I loved you, I wrote poetry every day
sometimes for long hours at night
I would walk around my neighbourhood in the middle of the night with a cigarette
between *******,
but I never inhaled because I never wanted to get addicted
I was already too addicted to you
and other behaviours that made it so hard to love you

but when I did love you, I’d write beautiful words on my skin
with permanent marker
because I liked the idea of a tattoo but knew I’d never get one
real permanence scared me
I’m the kind of person that changes her mind as often as she changes the colour of her nail polish
(nearly every day)
what a relevant metaphor; you were my untrue tattoo

when I loved you, I’d stay up really late wondering
if you were high or drunk again or ******* some pretty young girl
and when I got my chance, I’d kiss you til the windows of your
parked-in-the-middle-of-nowhere truck would steam up
what kind of love is that anyway?
it was a sport
an always-on-your-toes, merciless game
waiting to score
waiting to lose

but when I really loved you, none of it actually existed
it was just you and me and a long road of ******* ahead of us
it didn’t matter until it did
it came and left as it was
and love was as true as it could’ve been
we happened to each other
just because

leave me stranded in the bathtub
with soap sting eyes and without a cold wet washcloth to rub on them,
do not comfort me but twist rope burns in my lungs
and ten cactuses in my tummy
and pins and needles in my lips, falter my grin and I’ll still try
to grin for you.
I never thought I’d feel you gone
like evaporated waterfalls and great lakes gone green
are you the one that I love or just another
tiptoe on the edge of a cliff just to feel
rather tingled with jolly breezes and tempestuous dramas,
to feel
useful,
to
scream.

I’m telling you, it’s not about the inability to smile
or the bad posture
it’s not about the lack of appetite or the dark circles under your eyes
you’ll get to sleep soon
a good, deep, fresh sleep that’ll nurture you back to sanity
or at least gaiety  
it’s just today,
I swear you’re still beautiful and blessed
the mirror might be making a cruel joke on you
but that’s just today
you’re no rat, okay?
(hell, even rats can be beautiful, but I still do think you are much more heavenly and beautiful than a rat)
maybe someone or something gritty poked a pin in and it’s
draining you all out
energy all out
shine all out
sense all out
but it’s just today and you can get it back tomorrow
or the next day
(though, don’t put it off too long or else you’ll be swimming with the sharks - and I’m not saying you’ll be one of the sharks, more like plankton for a feast)
you’ll get it back
you will
and it’s not about failing to get somewhere or getting somewhere to fail all over again,
it isn’t about failure
it isn’t about success either
it’s just about breathing because sometimes that’s all you can do
until maybe you get that good sleep and can grin again
like you used to

we never write as much when we are in love
and if we do write as much, we never write the same way
we get so much more boring
we could write a sad poem every day
and it would be much more interesting than an
everything-is-perfect poem
happiness has very little substance
have you ever noticed that most mainstream music is
aggressively depressing?
we write when there's something missing
or when we feel cold toward the world
and want to stick it to the man with a good 'ol *******
a writer in love will only produce a masterpiece if who they love
doesn't love them back
falling in love with someone that loves you back feels like having
everything you need
and there becomes no reason to write because there is no need to write
most people feel misunderstood when they're sad
and people only want to soak themselves in art if it makes them feel
understood
so, art has got to be sad too, hasn't it?

my heart still has you in it
or
my heart still wants you in it
out of the blue, I’ll begin to feel blue
I used to be something like a maggot
or a reckless parrot
on repetition
I loved you like learning about the universe
atmosphere, planets, gravity, heartache
and I said
one day
I’ll be something like a lagoon
or a stunning full moon
and I said one day
and I said
one day

I find it funny that the first time we ever kissed,
your lips only barely brushed mine
like light wind upon sand,
moving my heart just a little bit, but not quite enough for me to kiss you back,

it was an agonizing craving 

because wanting to mimic your lips
with mine as badly as I did
had been quietly, yet evidently
suppressed with my palm
pressed up against your chest 

to push you away

maybe it’s not funny after all

but at the time, I wasn’t aware of what it would feel like 

to lose you

when your arms were gently wrapped around me under white fluffy blankets

and your whisper
sent me into
a lullaby of tranquility  
I was safe there, a lucky penny
put inside your pocket

I didn’t know, one day, I would let my head go

and kiss you back
until there were no more clothes or distractions,

the piercing judgments cloaked underneath our timeless innocence 
 


I didn’t know, one day, I’d be as loved as a flower is loved by the sun
and soil
and that my heart would make itself entirely available to be nurtured



I still find it funny the night we held hands 

all the way to the bus stop 

and skipped a little like children on their way to school in the summertime

when the bus pulled up, you kissed me but I didn’t place a palm
to push you away

this time,
regardless of how many passengers
would see us

underneath the moonlight 

it just felt right



and I find it really beautiful 

when you let me cry like a small child that had just lost both of her parents
in a car accident

my snot got all over your t-shirt and all you did was rub my back
and whisper

I love you, sweetie



I didn’t know, one day, when you called
to tell me 

those exact same words,

I would hang up on you

because being that loved would become as
terrifying
as letting go of sickness

I didn’t know, one day, I would welcome you into my heart with
tantric grace,
and another day, attack you with
my own self loathing, 

creating a moat around my trueness so you could never get in again

I think I mostly find our first kiss funny

because I knew you knew
I wanted to kiss you back

the entire time

but waited months instead  

and you were okay with that

I didn’t know, one day, missing you
would make my heart ache
like one million pins were stuck in it

I didn’t know, one day, I’d be as ready
as this
but it’d be too late

this kind of readiness to leave
everything behind
is protruding
as much as I've always wanted my
hipbones
to

it’s not as real
as it feels
that’s how it always goes
attraction
primrose passion
mediocre marvelling
then
I want to leave this city
and
you were never good enough for me

there, your bed is rocking
as it cradles another woman
beneath your chest
lips beneath your lips
I’m not sure if I care or not
I do a little bit
but I signed up for this without hesitation
a part of me wonders if there was hesitation
in your head
when you heard the front door squeak open
and my bedroom light turn on,
then quickly go out as I shut the door behind me
you’re not loud at all
but it’s 12:47
and I knew you were seeing her tonight
I knew you don’t usually fall asleep this early
I knew I would be coming home to this
I knew I’d have to face what I thought I’d be fine facing
but the ativan is kicking in
boy am I glad I brought it with me
and I’m not sure if I can hear her moaning
or if that’s just a car vrooming past my window outside
a lot of people call this kind of situation
****** up
or extremely strange
I don’t feel ****** up
maybe I feel a little strange
I’m just starting to question
so much,
everything
it’s healthy but it’s hurting
not as sharp as betrayal hurts,
because I’m not being betrayed in any way
it’s just the fogginess of confusion  
that makes you not know where you’re going
and it’s that familiar stagnancy and going-in-circles routine
that has begun to wring my head around
and my heart too, ever so slightly
but I’ll sigh instead of cry this time
not because I’m forcing back tears
but because I really don’t need them right now
and I’m okay
as long as I’m still wanting to live
and truth be told,
I am still wanting to live
because I need nothing but myself, really
that’s the truest truth there is
I’m fine, though a bit torn
but I’m fine and that’s basically all that matters

people say they lose people
& things
& that they also lose themselves
and other people say there is nothing to lose
because there was nothing to have
in the first place

some people say their new job
is making them lose
their soul
some people lose their keys
in-between couch cushions

but I think the hurt lays
between
the forgetting
and the remembering

forgetting how to feel the way you felt
once
upon
a
time

& then remembering
parts;
bits and pieces of moments
unable to stitch it back up
in its most authentic form

loss
is just the realization
of change
with fear inside of it

but then again,
some people really do lose their keys
in-between couch cushions.

it is not a lie
I love you
far from you,
yet true
I don't long either
I just am
here
loving you
so totally
it is overwhelming
to want nothing from you
and just love you
you are caged in
by gut feelings
that have been long ignored
and yet to be released
floating around in your ribcage
but you are a butterfly
and you don't know yet
that you can flutter
out & about
through the bars
to the trees

there is light
and the angels beckon you
to watch them dance underneath it,
with it,
between the rays,
in it,
with a wish that after a glimpse
of salubrious sunlight and soulful sways
to the subtle beat of the Earth’s vibrations
and the wholehearted laughter of the Buddhas bellies
you will breathe in
and out,
the millisecond of a pause between
the in
and
the out,
you will stop
you will surrender
you will die for bliss
you will leave your body and fly to the
castle in the sky
toward the light
to dance with them underneath it,
with it,
between the rays
in it