I'm not the prettiest girl in the room.
But you better believe
I'm the most
clever,
confident,
comfortable,
compassionate person you'll talk to all evening.

"i love you.







but you're with her."

why does
my mother assume
when i write in first person,
the words on the
page
automatically
make up
a biography.

in this case,
however,
she probably should assume.

I want to run across the street.
Bag on arm,
hand hailing a cab.
Successful.
Confident.
Secure.
A green jacket.
Long hair.
A knowing smile.

Somehow,
to me,
this seems necessary.
Don't ask me why.
Don't ask me to explain.

You smile at me,
you tell me that I'm pretty,
you tell me I'm different.
I think I like the words you say,
better than I like you.
Its hard when the flattery and the warmth of you
engulfs me and
makes me feel wanted.
So you cuddle me in closer
and the closer we get,
the more I know
that this
--
this
thing
--
is not what I want.

There is much to be said for swing sets.
An impenetrable fortress that sits atop a mountain top.
Stoic,
solid,
it rests like a pigeon before the first due fall.
I listen and watch it rise and leave,
carried by the wind.

Oh, how bitter grief tastes,
like the saddened bubble gum,
chewing until you can chew no more.

'I am sick and tired of this,' she says,
mouthing the lyrics to her favorite songs.
She is little, yet large,
with a beak of gold and an air of haughtiness about her.
She is ridiculous --
a blue bird full of life and substance,
characterized by her emotions.

'What is to become of me?' she wonders aloud.
'What can I say?'

I am hypothetical today -- hypothetical and sad.
Characterized by my emotions,
and the color of my dress.

Table,
chairs,
silverware,
and a dying wish.