who am i?
what am i?
is my identity determined by my actions?
so that makes me a girl who'd rather write than live
and takes in life about as well as a siv
but is that all i am?
because that excludes the laughter
the offkey singing
the mediocre horn playing
and my lack of praying

or is the only me who matters
the one who is seen
through a million other eyeballs?
she says i'm a talent, a bottomless pit
a good friend, one you'd want
a girl obsessed with times new roman font
someone who's all the best parts of salty and sweet
but tell me, if that's the truth
then how come my phone isn't blowing up with calls?

am i little else than the me in the mirror?
two little tired chocolate truffles
unruly dark hair
skin that doesn't know what to be
all contained underneath a makeup mask

it's difficult to put a label on a person
while also taking time to imagine them complexly
to call me just one name ignores the best and the worst
the person in love with language
also uses it as a weapon to attack
the girl with a chip on her shoulder
never wants to look back

inside of me is a multitude of ladies
pretty preppy ladies
singing show girls
nifty nerd chicks
to choose one and ignore the rest would be a sham
so maybe i don't know who i am
and maybe that's okay

i wish i knew how to put some pretty words together;
in a way that you could read me and cry without realizing it,
in a way that you don't know how it all suddenly made sense
but it all fell together - so right - till the end.
with the steady hand of a seamstress and the persistence of a theorist,
i would string together wispy letters, carefully taking away
and holding all the guilty, lukewarm feelings of self-romanticized nostalgia,
with those hollow, deep pangs of shamelessly missing you
from the somewheres and over theres beneath my ribs.
sometimes, i really miss you - and all of those times, i hate it.
sometimes i stare back at you longer than i should,
but i'm beginning to think that even looking your way
is much worse than a waste of sweet time at this point.
i don't want you inside of my mind anymore.
my wants and needs and maybes of tomorrow are foggy and furiously blinded with
what you used to make me feel. will i ever want anything that much again?
i see you a lot in my mind, smiling handsomely in a way that kind of ****** me off.
in some way, i am overwhelmingly upset in a way i can't describe, in such a strange dialect that
i've maybe only begun to understand when you spoke it to me with watery eyes and an offkey tone:
"i can't do it." i think i know what you mean now.
you were trying to say something deep, i had thought all along,
but i think you were just trying, just simply trying to go along
with something that was safe; you know, i forgive you for playing it safe.
we're just trying to protect what little good we think is left.
i wish i could have tried just as hard; tried harder/ to be with you
because i'm just so tired
(i need to rub my eyes clear)
that i will exasperatingly admit that i am lost after you.
i'm so ruthlessly childish, in a curious way that i refuse to let these warm,
painful feelings for you go.
ruthlessly, still into you, i'm so hardheaded that i will even ignore myself
to forget you
over
(this is the last time i'll look back on you)
and over
(i swear his name won't come to me tomorrow)
again.
you replay in my mind;
maybe one day i will
forget that you ever really meant everything to me once
anyways.

The Silence Is Terrifying.
A creak from a chair or the rustling of paper is all that breaks it.
My thoughts are so loud.
I pity those who are not alone.
I feel scared to think,
for I might sound a whisper.
The Silence Is Terrifying.
Should I speak?
No...
I would startle myself.
Maybe the others hear it too.
The silence,
I mean.
It is so loud that my heart is like
the beats of drums.
My thoughts are the words to my lovely song.
The creaking of the chair and the rustling of paper are the offkey note.
The Silence IS Terrifying.

We were in your dad’s truck. I am so endlessly in awe with you. I am putty in your hands and thought nothing of the vehicle. It was then I remembered that I hadn’t been in a truck since my father. The man behind all of my trauma.

I was wearing my sunglasses and lip syncing to Weezer with your brother in the back, no one would know about the tears streaming down my face as I remembered the abuse and the sleepless nights caused by a white pickup truck and a tall man that gave me my blood type.

No one but me will know the terror I felt as he ran red lights with rage. No one would know the pain in my legs and arms as he dragged me out of the truck and onto the hot pavement on a sunny day.

Your golden smile as you sang your favorite songs offkey (because you know it makes me fall for you more) couldn’t distract me from the flashbacks. No one can calm my busy mind, not even a boy with blue eyes that gives you his heart. You will only know love from the man that showed you nothing but pain.

in the gutter, she lost herself in waves and echoes
she found colors in their noise
brought her soul out as a brush
and let herself be free

building off of the whispers in the air,
she tangles herself in the wires of headphones much too silent
her hands wailing with her: offkey but peaceful
making art of a dartboard rather than a bullseye

she hears the texture, hears the emphasis, and the contrast
she paints notes, paints not so pitch-perfect progressions
bathing until her eardrums shake
and the canvas leaves no room for silence

when i am gone
i will miss the body,
its aching and its cramps
shoulder blade clicking
warm fat resting on my hipbones,
smoothing out over my thighs.
i will miss this,
the struggle of a breath,
the sound of walking,
organs desperately fighting for life.

when i am gone
i will miss the
smell of the morning,
of the rain,
the feel of page against palm,
fingers dancing delicately over ink.
i will miss hugging,
pressing bodies close
to remind bones of what it is to
be together, to be born again.

when i am gone
i will miss the
feel of cool glass and metal
against my skin
my eyes will yearn for the sight it used to take
so easily
to see the storm clouds roll in from the horizon
and the lights flicker on in the
dusk-dim apartment complex.

when i am gone
i will miss singing,
offkey notes on
green stricken afternoons
and shimmery dusty dawn-lit moon nights:
voices are born to make art, make music,
make noise,
i will miss holding my mothers hand,
rough and cool,
speckled brown with years of loving me,
will miss when my dna
did not forget
what it is to be loyal
to itself