Forward is a difficult direction to move towards.

Walking away from him is moving forward
But staying with him is moving backward
And ten steps towards the bottle is moving backward
And ten steps away from the bottle is moving forward.
So how do you know what way to point your compass when the direction you're told to go in  is completely arbitrary?

When I was younger moving forward meant success.
Getting A’s and B’s and staying out of trouble.
But as I grew up the little details that used to be irrelevant started twisting the path and what was once a straight shot is now a complicated maze of dead ends and trolls under bridges.

Moving forward was put on hold when puberty set in and the idea of body image made me obsessed with every mark and shape of my skin. When boys were no longer gross but objects of affection. When friends became more than friends and best friends was synonymous with jealousy.

Moving forward became more fuzzy when a new substance was introduced to me that made walking in a straight line more difficult than usual but when it got dark I wasn’t so scared of what lay on either side of me.

Moving forward became more interesting when you could inhale giggles and laziness or melt rainbows and dreams onto your tongue.

Moving forward was stopped completely the second time my best friend was ***** and I had to leave my path to hold her hand as she tried to move forward on her own.

Moving forward slowed once I made it back to my own road but checked behind my shoulder every few seconds because I now understood that there are really ****** people in this world.

Moving forward complicated itself when love became the ultimate distraction.
When I stopped mid journey to take the scenic route in another human being and thought I was still moving forward but actually was getting hopelessly lost.
Then he left me in the thickest part of the forest and I started to move backwards to retrace sunken steps in a ground I was too naïve to realize was muddy the first time I had walked it.

And I have to come to the realization that moving on and moving forwards  are not the same thing because my feet can place themselves one in front of the other all day long but it does not mean that my heart drags far behind in a state of helpless nostalgia that moving due north will not solve.

Soon enough distractions no longer sway me from my path.
My surroundings are a blur because everything that makes me full of light I have already passed and I am told over and over again to keep moving forward.

So I will no longer stray.

I will keep my eyes on the horizon and hope the soles of my shoes along with my spirit do not wear down before I arrive at my destination.
I have no idea of where I am going but maybe if I keep moving in the direction that is “forward” I will get there
And maybe one day arrive somewhere that makes me feel whole again.

Speeding down paths I never knew existed.
My troubled mind and troubled heart always had you for company. I could have died in your arms. I was at home finally when I was close enough to your heart that I could hear its beats.

It seems odd now that I have to stay away. That your arms are a shield around the very heart I helped mend, which was as much yours as mine. That I never took back my heart from your *****, where it will always stay.

And though I may become bitter, or I may try and erase you from my head, you will always be there. Like a meteorite on earth, you hit me at full speed, right down to my core. I was changed in ways I couldn't have imagined possible.

I'm homesick now. I try find you in other people. I try building new homes. But I buried my heart near yours and that is where it will always stay. I could have died in your arms. I was at home. Finally.

Lost at sea
Alone in my fears
Everyone has gone to bed early but I stay up for days on end
Tortured by day.
Solace is in the silence
That night brings
But it's dangerous or a
Woman to walk alone at night.
Funny how my genitals are an excuse
For everything I try to achieve
Cotton candy bubblegum
Doesn't fill my veins.
I am also not a closeted
*******
Just because my face is pierced
And my hair is bright.
I am not an object.
I am not a thing to be taken.
A thing to poke at with sticks
To see if I bleed sweetness.
No one cares.
No one takes the time to look
At my face without noticing
My chest first.
I bleed the same as you
Sir.
Please don't touch me
Sir.
Stop
Sir.
SIR.
Get off my appearance.
Care for once.
Not about my looks but
The flesh and bone
You are prodding
With sticks.
I only have so much
Blood to show you.

So…***.

I don't have it. People never seem entirely surprised by this, I don't know.
Maybe my tell is my general blushy-ness around any and all cute humans, or maybe it's the way I yelp when they hug me too hard…

But it's not for lack of trying.

You see,
I am an extremely intimate person until my skin gets involved.
Then I'm all turtles' shells and touch-me-nots, shrink away, shrink away, hide, be small, be tame, be timid.
Or else like a wild animal - claws sharp, bite back, all fight and flight and defense.

I don't have *** - *** has me. Caught by the throat, a deer in headlights, no way to get away, stuck.

Stuck in his basement, seven years old.
The magician next door tricked me and changed my meaning of the word magic forever.
Never again would I put my faith in illusions.

But now, there's this girl, and she is so beautiful -
When I look at her, I can't see straight.
But she is no illusion.

She tells me she wants to help me carry my baggage,
But I don't want to tell her my baggage is a body bag
And it's me inside-
Choking for air,
And I wish it was because she takes my breath away, but it's not.

But sometimes, she does take my breath away.
And when she does, I want to tell her
Everything.

I want to tell her that if she holds me
Close enough,
Long enough,
I won't dare shrink away.

I will grow into her until we are bursting together,
Until we are bold,
We are soft,
We are free,
We are
Everything-

I never imagined I could be
with another person.
So close,
together,
We could be more than magic.

he loved my craziness
even when I had these mood swings
even when I had depressed thoughts
I took him with me on my bipolar ride

I would love you till the end of time
if you stopped breaking my heart everytime you saw me
if you stopped being this human that you are not

I love you for who you are and for who you are not
we were meant to be together, it was written in the stars
but thats were I made a mistake, thats were I went wrong

I shouldnt have let you go so fast
but maybe opening my heart wasn't something I could
I waited for you to speak the three words I wanted to hear
the words, I love you

but he never did.

I love you is not a mop you can use to wipe up the messes you made when you left.

I’ve been conditioned
like freshly washed hair
for years
do not offend
unless the end of the sentence is “im sorry”
let the shoes and boots and heels of many make indents on you
like blueprints of demurity swaddled in insecurity
kept alive by the blurry ideas i once held about femininity
because i couldn't be a girl if the words that flew from my chords
were anything but rosy
ring around the Josie, pockets full of suppose he was to compliment your ****
when walking down a thorough-fair
busy people back and forth and grandmas with wrinkled sweaters
thank you
muttered from chapped lips and an even more chapped psyche
why must i keep my wits about to not risk making him angry
that was not complimentary but i am fearful he might spit my words back onto me
in the form of fists and slurs and honestly
im tired
of being the sidewalk beneath the feet of creeps
i am the sky and the trees and the moon
but i do not speak with the wisdom of travelling seeds
i speak with the warmth and subtlty of freshly microwaved milk
like soft silk i wish i could tatter
i wish venom soaked words could be spit in response to your “compliments”
but i would rather let you diminish me for the few moments it takes to objectify me
than to risk angering your inner beast and suffering the consequences of meninism or masculinism
whatever the word is this week
i will not be another number
ink soaked paper red with the monthly bloodshed of the sisters
every second is another unspeakable act
i see women
with tongues as round and large as planets
and tonsils the size of solar systems
birthing new galaxies in the words they speak
and shooting comets like fiery ***** of comebacks
when that slack-jawed fool sat and wished and drooled
into his monthly issue of mens rights magazine
she tore down the even minuscule belief he could have had that he had the right to comment on her body
in three seconds his pride, and entitlement
shifted into shame
and embarrassment
and i envy these women
because the only time i can take back my power
is when i am standing in front of a room
speaking rhymes and metaphors preaching independence and strength
to a group of people who now think i am a hero
i am not a hero
i put my shoes on one foot at a time
and i still manage to forget a couple days of birth control here and there
and i cant stand up for myself
in the moments after an attack i retreat into my latte and pray today will not be the day the male dominated society takes my power away
because i am small
and though i am growing every day
i still can only pray
that one way or another
i will be able to be as strong a woman as my sisters
my mother
and take back my power
and speak not with the beauty of a flower
but with the sharpness of a bumblebees sting
and one more thing
your compliments
are not complimentary

.        In a thrown back setting of yesterday year. I sat and listened. A varying degree of items decorated the walls. A confused but organized look, this place embraced me, like a mother holding her delicate baby for this first time.
       The round stone table that I sat, held this feeling of cold steel. Hundreds of bottle of wines lined one wall, they reminded me of ranked up soldiers coming home from the battlefields of the world. The pinot noir from California to the sangiovese from Italy, all waiting to be greeted by their fellow countryman and I loved them all. The warm lighting was soft set, taking me back in time when life was good and simple.
       Across the room, a small group gathered to reminisce about times forgotten. Sharing drinks and food, laughter was plenty, with smiles inviting conversation. More drinks would follow, which meant more cheers. Drink to the bottom of the glass, I'd say. Then, there was this couple, sitting in high top chairs behind me. Well educated and enchanted talks from them, would wonder through the air toward me. Surrounding me with family stories and by gone times. Ado about nothing I would say, but for them it was their life. So I had another drink of wine, often interrupted by ladies walking through the small place, book club members I was told. They could never seem to close the door either. Because every time they opened it, the cold bone chilling wind from outside would whip through the place and smack everyone of us so hard our lips froze to the very glass we were holding.  Let's just say it was a frozen kind of night outside in good ole Highwood.
       Once the evening settled inside this cozy little joint, voices started to ring. From behind me, to the side of me and in front of me. Like the bells of Notre Dame rings through Paris, these hollowed voices enveloped my lonely soul. Encapsulating my senses with each syllable. I sat stone faced and amused at the same time. Here I was at my very first slam. Watching the Speak' Easy Ensemble take over time in a bottle.
        Poetry about life experiences, Chicago, and an Ode to Students chilled and warmed the very hearts that sat before them. Soft voices, loud voices, funny voices and serious voices and that was just the beginning. Laughter, smiles and cheers filled the air with every word spoken. These very simple poets drew on my very existence. I had never felt so enthralled and taken in from these words of spoken values. I saw poetry in its raw true form. There in front of me, so close I can touch their words. Names like Sully, Sherry, Joel and the woman in black, to whom I could not remember her name, are the professional poetic performers called the Speak' Easy Ensemble. My very first poetry slam in front of small and subtle crowd of everyday people.
Take a bow poets, well deserved.

Always... Always, the contradiction with you. Why is that? Both ugly and beautiful, And so very human. Creating art one moment, then burning it the next. Fighting wars to forget what for.
What is the point?

Raised in wealth or in the slums. Both born on earth, but two from two separate worlds.
If you have the means dropping a grand for a one year olds handbag, is good training for an early fashion sense.
While out there, kids starve, who have never had even a drop of clean water.
And which do you think is blown up for the cover of your favorite magazine?
But it's all good. Fill your house with pretty things. As long as you don't have to wittiness the deforestation.
Pumping the earth dry of its resources to use without conservation.
Using animals to test the latest hair treatment without reservation.
It seems... It seems so meaningless.

That we can waste our cash on such petty things, diet pills and diamond rings.
That some will never learn to read, because another's deluded belief in a high power.
But we won't have to pay, not yet
But someday someone will.
Future generation would condemn us.
That we can have the capacity to love so deeply and to **** so needlessly.

Born to die,
in a world of contradictions.