I am stuck
in a rutt
the identity
which no longer feels like me.

She doesn’t clean
is hardly ever seen
making a healthy choice,
so when she does they rejoice

clap and cheer
supposedly sincere.
She knows they care,
but it’s because of that she doesn’t dare

change her ways
in all of her days.
so here she sits
digging herself a deeper pit,

of low expectation
low appreciation
no admiration
just pure desperation,

to get out
so she can shout
‘I’m free
and there’s no one here to see!’

A place of her own,
a carefully curated home
where there is every chance
of a little spontaneous dance,

or kitchen karaoke
okidokiartichokie.
Anything goes
an endless prose

of dreams,
finally redeemed.
Tidy places
and new friendly faces

which have no clue
'cos they’re new
and there’s no one here to skew,
the way in which they view

the life she created
and now holds sacred.
The food she eats,
the place she choses to sleep.

She is kind
and likes to find
hidden spots to go
and let the ink flow.

And she can share
her work with care
because she doesn’t have to care
who is going to care.

If they think
she is starting to sink,
or not doing enough
behind the endless bluff

then go
you're not someone she has to know.
Nobody new
will turn her blue.

That doesn't mean the people she knew
turned her blue.
She put herself in that box,
but then forgot

how she got in,
as under her grin
she started to grow.
Beyond what she could show.

So go,
somewhere unknown.
Be new and sparkly,
find someone to kindly

sparkle with you,
and never allow the gloom
anywhere near
wherever you steer

together.
Find a new forever
that is not set in stone
and will allow us to grow.

Never get stuck
in a rutt,
the identity
is now forever free

We're moving house— he takes you a-
Part, piece by piece, picking, pulling, long thin
Steel supports from your joints. He holds you together,
          unforgiving tenderness in steel arms as you crumple into a
          pile of wood.

It's done— he waves a *****-
Driver, drilling in reverse, you watch him work
Metal out from your bones, skeleton  scattering limbs about the
          floor, which he meticulously collects and arranges, good as
          new, unassembled.

Thanks for the help, you've been— it's alright, see you soon.
Next time, I'll take the bed.

We're moving house— you are driven a-
Round, missing a turn, new place, unfamiliar
Sights you do not see, your eyes on the frame in the back (of
          your mind) as the van stops and your skeleton is
          unloaded onto a trolley.

It's done— you pay a hundred in two fif-
Ties, broken like the bed tugged through the new
Doorway and left in the living room, with the parts laid out
          neatly beside on cold marble, readied for examination and
          elimination, remnants

          of a time past—

When can you collect your stu— next week at the earliest,
One evening, Wednesday. I'll bring a van.

There was suddenly sun spilling all over,
and suddenly hyacinths everywhere.
I have watched everything change so slowly
that nothing ever seemed to move at all,
and in my obstinate blindness, I didn't notice
that the ground had thawed, never mind that it had begun
to bleed spring.

I have never seen spring.
In all honesty, I have never lived
in any sort of weather –
only the starched, air-conditioned bedroom
in my parents' sickeningly stereotypical suburban concoction
of a house, where nothing –
not the dusty closed blinds or even
a blade of grass – ever moved at all.

Here, there are magnolia trees that move,
swaying in soft rhythm.
They have peeled themselves like vinyl stickers off
the backs of my windowpanes, and they really are
alive. I know because they wave to me
in flurries of dip-dyed pink petals –
like a good diaphragm-laugh,
or maybe like a good cry.

I have never laughed,
or cried.
But I cry at everything now –
now that I see it is all alive.
It must be what happens when you start living
alone – growing pains –
I imagine the hyacinths must get growing pains, too,
from exploding like purple fireworks
out of the frozen soil in
no time at all.

I sat in my car
Wanting to leave
But just for a minute
I put on a song to make me cry
And I shed a tear
A stupid tear
For moving forward
For not being the person
You wanted me to be
So I cried
And let my tears match the rain
Pattering on my windshield.

I sometimes wonder when I leave this house
Will there really be a hole that can't be filled
An absence of this mess I've left
Will I miss the taunting?

When im flying above this state, above this country,
I live for the moment I see how small my problems are
And watch as they fade away and disappear under the clouds

Will I feel fear or relief?

The remote control looks different
Television has 20 new channels
The side table is not on the right side of the long bench anymore
Her favorite mug is now a vase
Her spoon and fork are not in the drawer
No cookie crisps in the cupboard
No kimchi in the fridge
Things were different from when she still lived here
Things were different from three years ago

Everyone is soundly sleeping upstairs
Her old room is now her cousin's
Her old bed is now her sister's
She will sleep on the floor
But she couldn't find the mattresses
She doesn't know where to look
But she looks everywhere
She couldn't find it
Exhaustion and frustration seeps in
“Where are the mattresses?"
She screams in her head
Tears start streaming down her cheeks

She wants to sleep now
She wants to rest
She wants to feel home.
But she doesn't. She couldn't.
She doesn't know where the sheets are
She couldn't find where the sheets are.

“I don't live here anymore. This is not home."