You don't deserve my tears,
but I cannot stop crying.

We discovered that this thing is a date.
Thank God.

His body is covered in words.
From head to toe.
Etched into his palms.
Blanketed his chest.
Down his thighs and
around his rib cage.
They are everywhere.
His body is the canvas for
Every word and phrase he has ever spoken.

Rain.
It.
Big.
Blanket.
Her.
Finger.
Like.
Leaf.
****.
S­aid.
Cat.
I.

Millions upon millions of words
Carved in 2 point font.
They just appeared.

Every word he has ever uttered.
There is no shying away, no hiding.
They are there.
Forever.
Some make him proud.
"I'm glad I said that at that moment at that time at that place to that person."
Some make him sad.
"I regret that I said that at that moment at that time at the place to that person."

Words make up his body.

They shape it.
They define it.
They build it.

and together,
they form his story.

I have been challenged to write my story.
It's beautiful.

And suddenly,
it dawned on me.
My lack of feeling.
It was because
He wasn't You.

'Soon it will be over,'
she said into the silence.

Only when you can't sleep
do things begin to unravel.

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.

You look at me like you're dreaming.
Like I'm your personal Jesus.
Like I've been sent to begin you,
to start you again.
You look at me like I'm a ray of sun,
like you've never seen something so
transcendental.
Like, 'I could die right now.'
Why?
Why am I that to you?
How can I be that to you?
I'm not that.
I'm pretty, but not Natalie Portman,
smart, but not Stephen Hawking,
kind, but not Mother Theresa,
talented, but not YoYo Ma.
So why are you looking at me like that?




Quit looking at me like that.

Clutched in grizzled Hands
Grasped tight
the Hands seem to swallow
the bead.
Lips slowly flutter
Concentration and lines plague the page
Anticipating.
Expecting.

Knees weak from kneeling
Eyes tired from seeing
Mind tired from thinking
Simply hoping.

Yet the Process continues
On to another bead. and
another              and
another              and
another.
until there are no More beads
to save them.

As I looked into her glazed blue eyes
I suddenly became very tired.
Every inch of my body
felt weighted;
heavy.
I had been doing this for
13 years,
hoping, waiting, trying, believing.
Most of the time, I succeeded.
I saved them.
But when I didn't,
when I
failed,
I can't take it.
When I go out with my husband for dinner with friends,
or at parties,
I get asked what I do.
A furrowed eyebrow, a gentle easing voice follows,
"Isn't that hard?"
It's all part of the job, I say.
Taking care of these babies,
making sure they are healthy.
You get used to it, I say.

I wish that were true.
I wish I could say it were that simple.
When my work is dragged, forced in
unannounced like a estranged aunt
in
in
into my personal life,
my husband grabs my hand,
gives me a knowing look.
He thinks he knows how I suffer,
how it pains,
how it rips at my soul --
he has no clue.

Most days, my job is not overwhelming.
Is even rewarding.
Saving lives,
keeping parents' new-born, struggling miracles safe,
trying to make them perfect
like parents always imagined they would be.
On days like this,
when I am forced to look into my responsibility's
eyes
and realize I couldn't save and perfect them,
realize that blank stare will be with
me forever,
I hate my job.

They rise from the treetops.
Black, hollow, plain.
Looking like black snow
falling from the sky.
They are silent and beautiful.
Against the grey backdrop of
the sky, they are ink drops--
ink drops that
move with the wind.
And just as suddenly as
they appeared,
they are gone.