I stood on the side of a mountain
And screamed, once.
My sports bra was soaked through
And the skin on my lips ached
And my thighs burned and burned.
I'd climbed two thousand feet
And heard the wind bustle in the trees,
Birds holler and screech,
Branches creak and leaves crackle;
But no one was there to hear
Me but me.

When I was young I thought I'd lean in
And help everyone I saw.
I'd take on troubles and burdens and
Cares like a postman scooping up today's
Mail from a big blue letterbox.

But I found the metal singes my fingers and forearms
And the envelopes leave paper cuts.
My blood drops in crimson drips
On the letterhead you carefully crafted.
The stamps unstick and amble, impotent,
Down the sidewalk,
Blown away from me
On the slightest breeze.

It took me too long to learn--
Other people's troubles are their own
To pass along.

Imagine a world in which
you lived in a little house
in the middle of the woods --
an itty bitty cabin with creature
comforts and small necessities,
and paper and ink and tables and chairs --
in it
you slept and wept and dreamt,
and would walk and walk
never finding anywhere else...
always returning to your teeny front door.

The cabin sits in silence,
in semi-darkness most of the day --
the path of the sun moves
l a n g u i d l y
through the sky
and the neighboring trees
cast puddles of shade.

You wish for
companionship,
though you
aren't sure
what that means.

Sometimes,
along your garden fence
you find little bits of paper
or tissues
or wind-swept bottles
butting up against the slats.

The papers have names
and bits of stories:
of shootings and stabbings and
conniving schemers,
of donations and creations
and family boat-races;
and you wonder who these people are,
or if the pages are ripped
from some book you don't own --
and if the wind blows in
toward your tiny little home...
mustn't there be a way
to get out?

Your absence
laps
at my shore
like a
f o r g e t f u l tide;
some days
it stays
                                   out,
letting me
breathe,
letting me
be-
other days,
it makes up for this,
swamping me
in a
tsunami,
and all I
can do
is
keep my
eyes
trained on land.

You are the moon.
Please return soon.

I live in a vacuum.
I exist in a fundamentally
misunderstood airspace
inhabited only by a
lonely soul
who is
shouting and stammering
senseless pleas,
thinking,
"Who can this awful,
lonesome creature be?"
Never realizing,
"Oh,
it's me."