i cannot tell
if what falls from the sky and
                           hits
my eyelashes
are snowflakes
or flower petals

I painted my nails pink yesterday.
I thought the color would be nice.
I was careful and meticulous and I tried very hard.
It looked so strange on my fingers
up against my skin;
my hands looked darker
and the ripped ****** grooves surrounding looked
all the more open and sore.
It was unsettling.
That was yesterday.
Today, my pink nail polish is gone.
My thumb bears the smallest chip.
I want to pry it off but
I want to remember what happens when
I think to myself that some color would be nice.

I don’t like crowds.
I don’t like the buzz that comes with them.
I have trouble with the sheer energy of the people surrounding me
an energy
that I
just
can’t
match
Crowds are hard to leave, too
all the screaming
the singing
the moving
the hum of life
a life
that I
can’t
have
(andstaringiswrongbutIcan’thelpitlookatmelookatmeI’m­lookingatyou)
I am one of many
I don’t like the buzz
and until I do
until I
             capture
that energy that life that stares
and trap it like a butterfly in my hands
I never will like crowds
or the hysteria around me
the hysteria
that I

I had a dream the other night
that I held my heart in your hands.
I stared down at in grotesque fascination
watching its pumps and shudders.
The pleasure I felt was never so great
in savagely squeezing
and feeling the blood
trickle down my hands
hearing the far-off scream in the distance,
a sweet sound of agony
as I imagined your gasps and splutters,
as I wrung out your heart for
everything you had ever done
and threw it into the dirt,
watched it shrivel into itself,
before spitting in the general direction
and walking away to find
your body, cold and lifeless, pale,
your chest still ****** from
where I shoved my hand through.
I watched the life dwindle out of your eyes
as I began to laugh,
laugh
as God help me I laughed,
with excitement and cry with anticipation, waking,
knowing someday I’ll hold your heart in my hand,
and stare at it, and squeeze.

Could you? Maybe? Would you? Leave me. Slam, solo, crash, whimper. Dimples. Scream, shine, gleam, whine. Squeak, mumble, sweat, drip. Drop. Fall. Slam. Crush. Not so hard. I once had what was hard. Does it? Scream. Swirling, swirling colors, trapped, staccato, rapid, *****, roar, right, music, scream. Whoosh. Collapse. Ice. White. Scarce. Tangle of sounds. Scream. Louder! Again. There now. Aren’t you happy?

A cold read should not be that hard,
I think to myself for the umpteenth time.
All you have to do is read the words.
I can't comprehend the difficulty.
But, I remind myself, they’re not all actors.
They don’t read text like you do.
Still, I argue, all in my mind,
They’ve been reading for as long as you have.
The voice will pause as they think this over.
Yet, it tells me finally, gently but firmly,
You get the better English grades,
It just comes more naturally to you.
“That’s true,” I murmur, mistakenly out loud,
But what makes me so different?
Maybe, whispers my mind,
You’re not as good as you think you are.
I dismiss the thought immediately.
No really, it persists, you’re not as good –
You’re never as good as you think you are.
Silence.
I guess you’re right, the part of me mumbles
The one so frustrated before,
While the other half smiles in satisfaction.
But even so, I interject –
(I’m losing track of who is who
they both echo so clearly and
they sound so alike)
I know my words flow better than they do.
The voice concedes to that.
For all your mistakes you’ll never fix,
Your words flow better than theirs.
A cold read isn’t that difficult, I mumble, just in my mind.
My thoughts answer: Yours flow better than theirs.