Eureka
My thanks to the man who tasted
cyanide and voiced his last Eureka.
“Almonds”
To the man who saw dragons
to be slayed with pen and sword
in windmills.
To the Danish Prince who said
“What a piece of work is man.”
Well, man’s a piece of work alright.

Did you ever think about how
men wear their ovaries on the outside?
Or how you can always win arguments with yourself
in the shower?
My boyfriend traces the edge
of my chewed nails as he asks
me what I am thinking about.

I’m thinking about the consistency of jellyfish
and how it compares to human brains
and the taste of nectarines, overripened
drawing fruitflies to picnic tables.
Maybe I see colors differently
and will never know that my blues
are only a midnight shadow of what they
could be and if I’ve never truly seen the color red.

And how after nineteen years
I still can’t tell if I’m a good person
or just faking really well.
And if that Chinese Emperor
who strapped rockets to his thrown
to find dragons
ever found any.
Did the chicken getting crushed while crossing
the road get him to the other side.
If I died young, could I motivate people
to be nicer to each other?
When did my grandmother die
and when can I ask my mother without her
crying?  There was a little girls skeleton
found next to her donkey in the ancient ruins
of an earthquake. There were several
different species of human alive at the same time
and my favorite color isn’t really blue
And I’m really glad I couldn’t ****
myself when I was 13 because I tasted
my first plum last week.  AND FOR THE LOVE
OF GOD
WHAT
AM
I DOING
WITH
MY
LIFE.
My happy moments will always outweigh the bad
And are my ***** uneven because
when I look down—
What are you thinking about?
Almonds.  They
taste like cyanide.

Maybe the reason I'm afraid to go back
Is not because I'm worried things will be different,
But that things will be exactly the ******* same.


                                                         ­                                                                (w.n.)

You never really notice
How big your tiny bed is
Or how little space you take up
As you try to fill the emptiness next to you
Until you're craving somebody to fill the space for you.

And then you realize:
Only that person can.



                                                                                                                    (w.n.)

it's 5am and my bruised and tender ribs are crushing down on my even more-so bruised heart like they are aware of the feelings I possess and are attempting to compress them all and keep them caged inside of my soul to refrain them from making their escape and ending up into the wrong hands, hands who would rip them to pieces and make me choke on them six months down the line.

I feel them dig into me heavily like they know what's best for me, like they are saying "we know we are hurting you right now and we know you can't breathe but we're doing this to save you - to save you you from even worse pain in time to come when you'd stop breathing altogether and your tears become such a permanent imprint into your cheeks that people ask who your tattoo artist is and if he would do similar work on them, but you would look them in the eye and tell them they don't need needles scratched into the surface of their skin to attain the permanent scarification you do and instead you'll pass them the number of the boy who did this to you."

The more responsibility I gain,
Further away I want to run.
Life pushes on my shoulders,
And it no longer seems like fun.

My back yearns for the ability
To sprout wings and fly.
Escaping from the chaos within
Is the only way I'll get by.

I'm  scared that this mundane life
Will ultimately  be my torturous end.
How can I escape from this road,
When I can't even see where it bends?

I sit and stare at a photograph
Or two or three
Or every picture that he saw fit to gift to me
And my gaze lingers in those hazel eyes
Losing myself in half-awake dreams at 4 a.m.
What if, and then
So let's say we are fated
Pulled and connected like the strongest of magnets
Mind to mind and heart to heart
Knowing that there is a freedom in that kind of unity
Believing, without choice, that we own the best pieces of each other
Still, what if isn't what is
What is isn't what could be
What could be is just another
What. if.
So I stare into those hazel eyes at 4:22 a.m.
And I wonder, if for him, I could overlook the cigarettes and stale coffee
Remnants of a history that has been unkind
Leave it to me to love a man
Who smells like the first one to **** me
But here at 4:30 a.m. I can believe
I can believe he smells like the earth after a winter rain
And I can believe, that to him, I smell like heaven
Lost in that sweetness
Captured on a phone
A thousand miles away
I can feel his skin on mine
His breath in my ear
Saying nothing and everything all at once
Here in the dark at 4:38 a.m., I can know beyond doubt
That he is where my heart is
With no rhyme or reason
I know, that should I ask
He would give me all of him
And I know this
As I sit here
Staring at a picture
Or two, or three
Or every picture that he saw fit to gift to me
As I stare into those hazel eyes
Losing myself in half-awake dreams
at 4:43 a.m.

Early minds turn to the sunrise
Wandering souls turn to the map
And the downhearted turn to the knife

Everything I hear is a blurred whisper
And everything I see is so distinct