I want to take apart my skin
when the sun is too bright
and the world is too full
of people who will never know me.

I want to open the rivers
inside my wrists and empty them;
to pour myself away
the way I pour whisky
into my empty stomach,
and my hypothermic limbs
into stranger's beds.

The world is made of crisp clear lines.
It’s nice when things are clear and clean, but
Sometimes the lights brighten and the lines grow sharp.
Sharp enough to cut.
When the world is made of sharp and bright lines,
Things start to hurt.
Everything is too loud.
It’s not crisp or clear because everyone is talking
And it hurts.
My head feels fuzzy and the lights are still too bright.
When everything is sharp and fuzzy and loud and bad,
I take off my glasses.
It doesn’t stop the lights from glaring,
Or the people from talking,
But it makes the lines a bit less sharp.

living makes me want to die
while the sound of the river keeps playing,

and my privilege will soon drown it out
as the river trickles down my ears,

but i keep hearing the same song.
I dance in the rain

people start to believe my lies
and I splash in a puddle.

i laugh with grief

there is no me anywhere, anymore
My clothes are soaked with protection.

I run and run and scream and play,
Waist deep in my little river,

it's thick
must be the polution

no one hears my calls or wishes.
I let myself float care free.

I hold my breath everyday
I feel it slosh in my brain

I won't wake up from this dream
I'm sinking

drip
drip

I hear the river stream
as it moves past my body
as it moves through my body

it goes on
     it goes on
          it goes on

what goes on when i can't?

drop
drop

silence.

Spring comes
as grasses leap forth
and emerald hues are added to the landscape,
with wildflowers peeking up from the
dewy roadside.
The world smells
fresh like worms and earth,
while birds drift down to finish last year’s
seeds.
Yellow rain boots hop
out of shelves and into the puddles,
while mud gathers and plays in the road,
gurgling with mirth at passers by.
The badminton net is resurrected,
regally looming over the lawn,
as the swings squeak joyfully in the breeze.
The fireplace gives a sooty yawn
and falls to sleep.
And in the kitchen, fiddleheads unfurl upon
a hot pan
as the old and sour scent of the earth
settles upon our plates,
spring steps lightly
onto the world.

~Yuka Oiwa
May 6, 2008