It's that knotted ball of frustration that lives just behind my sternum
That drives me to do art.
It's like an itch you can't scratch.
It gets excruciating.
And you claw at other things, outside things,
Because you know you can't reach inside your chest and squeeze your heart until it caves in.
It's... sort of like that.
My art is all a release of this maddening...frustration
That I can't get to what I need to really dig out of me
No matter how hard I try.
The tension just builds up and builds up until it's paralyzing,
And then when I can't stand it anymore,
All this creation comes spilling out of me
In a futile
But at least active
Attempt to release whatever's trapped in my soul, rattling the bars.
It never works for long- I never breathe free for more than a second.
But a second
Is better than nothing.
That's why I never have time for anything:
My time needs to be spent
On those seconds.
Getting them,
Repeating them,
Sustaining them.
I need to devote all of my energy to relieving this pressure.
There is no room for anything else.

The night I met her,
She gave me a necklace.
It's silver. A pentagram. A simple little charm.
Two years later, I wear it still.
That necklace became the symbol of her.
People ask me if it's a religious thing,
And I answer no
But wonder privately if it almost is.
I hold it when I am sad, or afraid, or in need of guidance.
I've taken to...
It's silly, really,
I've taken to photographing it wherever I go-
A little silver chain on a park bench in the sun
Or the velvet cushion of a broadway show seat-
A sort of diary of my life, the places I've been,
In relation to her.
The places I've been
And still thought of her.
That necklace has rested on New York coffee counters,
Hung upon branches,
Floated in sandy shallows and caught the light.
I have held it tight during important auditions,
Felt its cold weight upon my chest during funerals,
Rubbed it between my fingers for luck on wide stages,
And pressed its mark into my wrist on lonely silent nights
(To be sure her impression was still indented in my skin.)
I have quietly kept her with me
Through every important moment of my life
And every unimportant one
As well.
People ask, still, sometimes,
Why do I wear that necklace every single day?
I tell them somebody I love gave it to me,
But that simple little explanation seems to fall so pathetically short.
I wear it because even though I hardly see her face anymore
I want to feel her fingers the way I did the night she hung it around my neck,
I wear it because its thump against my chest as I walk
Is a rhythmic reminder never to let her slip from my thoughts
No matter how far I may wander,
I wear it because there is a space in my heart
Just beneath it, under my skin,
That is that perfect, precise shape- a pentagram cutout-
And when I take it off
The hole echoes emptiness
Like the bell tower of a cathedral.

The evenings cold enough to require a sweater
but still too warm for the biting winter wind,
to cut through our clothing
like hot knives through butter;
these are the not-quite nights,
the dusks of the almost-autumn
and the too-late summer,
with the drizzle dripping requiems
for sunshine longings and July dreams.

These are the nights that I am torn
between walking alone with the chill in my bones,
sedate with the cold but alive,
or begging for a body
to drift alongside,
radiating an unreciprocated warmth;
someone with hands stuffed
into night-bitten pockets,
too cool and stiff to really chatter
but hoping for the shared sympathy
of frozen, rain-speckled skin.

We are gliding across the fallen leaves--
the dying brethren of the trees--
that crackle slow beneath our feet
like summer candy wrappers, drifting.
But we’re still slowly freezing,
shrugging threadbare shoulders
under threadworn sweaters
that still reek of the past.
And we’re still gently waltzing,
disinterested fingers on uninteresting waists
trampling scarlets and golds under
careless heels in three-four beats.

As the twilight fades into ink,
a hollow, whispering breeze reminds
of the clouded distance between us
and the heavy, rain-laden sky.

Breathe.

Inhale deep.
Let the afternoon sink
into your tired lungs
on golden wings of daylight
and ease.

Breathe.

Exhale slow.
Let oxygen, nitrogen,
carbon dioxide and pollution
whisper from your bloodstream
and mingle with the trees.

Purify.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Breathe.

Count to five (for me).

One:
stretch each muscle of your fingertips--
first knuckle,
second knuckle,
third.

Two:
curl your toes inside your shoes;
feel your socks stretch
inch by
inch.

Three:
spell your name until it sticks;
seven letters raindance
just to comfort
you.

Four:
Tell me where you live,
how the squeak-springed couch sinks
under the weight of family
and love.

Five:
close for me your tired eyes;
shifting patterns of stars wrap your dark
in brightness
and calm.

Then breathe.
Inhale deep and exhale slow.
Untie the knots from your shoulders,
and open the cage to your chest.

Breathe.

I am tragedy,
and i carry it with me wherever I go.
I am lost and alone,
at home and in crowds.
Pin ****** on goose-pimpled skin,
barely visible to the well dressed eye,
and less so to the naked.
I am the hopelessness you thought you'd escaped.
I wither with each day,
growing younger,
full of potential to waste.
Full of the potential desire
to finish this cruel tale,
I know now where it is going,
I get bored easily,
and such a story as this
hardly seems worth my time anymore.

I was sad.
So I told them.
I am sad. I said.
Is that so? They said.
Swallow these. They said.
So i did.

I was still sad.
And I told them this.
It's no better. I said.
Is that right? They said.
Well try these. They said.
And I did.

I got anxious.
I told them.
I am scared. I said.
You oughtn't be. They said.
Take this. They said.
I obliged.

I felt nothing.
So I told them.
I feel empty. I said.
Oh good. They said.
We're glad to help. They said.
And I sighed.

i love you as i always have
and as i have not always loved myself
but wish that i had been able to.
many things would've been different
my whole life, for instance,
yours too.
I am sorry that it is not.
and that you never could quite understand
how it could be
that you loved me so much
yet i was still so sad.
and i kid myself,
i lie, hoping i won't realise,
pretending it's all fine;
that it doesn't hurt to breathe in your absence
that someone else will be able to fill the void
and that i will go on with my life.
I am static.
Since you left, I am still.
You said to never speak to you again,
my mind disobeys,
and in my head,
in deep recesses i am able to hold you still.