I am 22;
staring at the mismatched cups
arranged in my kitchen cupboard,
wondering if I'll ever have great big matching sets
of plates, bowls, forks, knives, spoons
and cups

I am 22 and in love,
wondering how I got so lucky
-throwing myself backward,
through time,
to the person standing at my front door
one whole year ago.
Heart-hammering in their chest,
a fresh-cut key in their hand,
still raw with heart-ache:
An empty flat,
and a new life
behind a locked door.

I am old enough now
to recognize the shifting cycles;
to know that every August
is painted rose gold like setting sun
-and to know that February
cannot claw and tear at my ribs
lest I let it.
I am old enough to know
that I can start over -
without fear, without shame.
But young enough to leave bigger things
to chance:
                 love
                 happiness
                 hope
                 promise
these are answers I don't have

And I don't need to.
No,
I am 22,
brewing coffee in chipped cups,
planting kisses on a forehead,
arms, hands, sides, cheeks, lips,
dancing and jumping
when the world lifts around me.
I am 22,
and the world lies open before me.

There is something undeniable about this new aesthetic:
Barefoot and barely presentable
as I slow-dance in the kitchen at 3am
Nobody but me, my shadow and a gentle grey kitten who patiently watches me pour another cup of coffee.
I stir in cinnamon,
a taste that's heedy and all too sweet against the roof of my mouth.
So strong it makes me want to gag,
and yet I sing under my breath:
old tunes I have no business remembering
and lullabies brought to me on the wind
[singing] all you have is fire
-and the place you have to reach.

My mother wanted a girl she could put together like a jigsaw.
A girl who would sit still and patiently endure
the effort it took to construct
the perfect plat, perfect updo
perfect winged eyeliner, perfect blush
perfect poise, perfect dress,
Perfect daughter.
Instead she had me
a muddled and confused thing
with a tangled mess of curls and eyes that couldn't quite look away.
Something with ***** fingers that knew the give and take of every leaf and blade of grass
something that couldn't sit still on creaking church pews
because for all the beauty they pursued, she'd seen the unmatched grace of rolling thunder
and the indisputable life of the ocean.
While other girls watched the boy chase the girl to a perfect kiss
she worshiped the women who took up their weapons and refused to keep their peace. - A child raised on a steady diet of Victorian poetry, Greek myth and poison. Stitched together with images of Artemis, Scottish women and a heathenish name.

My mother would lead me in prayer each night before bed, hoping against all hope to change what was in me. But my father made me wonder if I could be a knight one day, taught me to sing their vows of honour and justice during those ungodly hours when sleep was far.
The hours when his blood called to us both in its ancient tongue. The hours where his stories became my Bible. The hours when the smell of lemongrass and rain filled the house.
The hours when I would be barefoot and dancing in the kitchen
Barely presentable yet undeniably free.

There is broken stone under my feet,
toppled pillars, their carved surfaces
reduced to dust now filtering through
the stray rays of light.
The windows now wide open
like wounds, like the skies and seas.
This fallen cathedral is a signal,
this is holy ground
you may never tread on.

These ruins are my birthplace,
the dying light, my mother.
These stones are my bones,
the fractured columns witness
my recreation.
I am new,
fresh,
unbroken,
untouched

And as I open my eyes for the first time,
the wind fills my lungs and kisses my lips.
And I am in love once more.
I am in love with the light
breaking through the clouds,
in love with a warmth
that I've never felt before.
In love with the seas beyond my walls
and the ivy beneath my feet.
I am in love with life
and what I am slowly becoming

Fiercely in love with the breaking
and the tearing: the shedding of old skin.
And I am happy
I am wild
I am free

I am home

I would claim that I've been lied to
say that I have been wronged
tell you that I didn't deserve it.
But I did.

I was born with hooked claws
and sharp teeth. Black eyes
and a scaled hide
the chains around my neck clink and tap
against the spines I've grown
If you look close enough I'll sprout horns
perhaps lightning will crackle
in the corners of my mouth.
Can you see me for what I am?
A miscount, a fatal error
something bound for hell mistakenly wrapped
and hidden in human skin.

I still smell like smoke, and I still taste like war
I deserve no mercy and kindness will **** me.
What a stupid thing I have been,
to convince myself that I was anything other
than a car crash and a hurricane
In human skin.
My sin was to love and break with the same hands
to admire that which I would defile
and to trust those who promised sanctuary.
Under the guise of friends
they penned my story,
gave me my name, cast my role:
A Villain
A devil
And so I'll stretch my blackened lips
run my tongue over my teeth
and smile with the tears running down my cheek.
"hail satan"

There is so much you don't know
as I wring my hands in my lap,
helpless and pinned beneath your glare.
And yes, I call it nothing,
because that's the only word I can think of
that won't cut my tongue
when it falls out of my mouth the way tears creep down my cheeks.

Nothing.
I held her hand and felt her strength wane.
Nothing.
I saw the fear in his eyes,
whiskey bottle half glass, half self-loathing.
Nothing.
They stutter in a corner.
She looms at my door.
The phone screen lights up.
My heart aches.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.

You fear a million things
that have never come close enough
to hurt you.
But darling, I fear myself,
because I turn against my nature
to love those who have tried to drown me.
Their hands are still wrapped around my throat
when, exhausted, I collapse
into the cool embrace
of my crisp sheets.

And then I rise again,
tug on my boots and lace them up tight,
shoulders squared like I'm off to war.
Not a wrinkle left on my shirt, my sheets, my brow -
there is so much you don't know.

There is so much you don't know,
about the trembling in my voice
when I answer the phone.
About the shake of my fingers
when my mind tells me to run,
yet I walk further down the corridor.
There are things I can't explain
about captivity because you've known home
to be warm, to be held by a mother.
To be swept clear of sharp words
and weaponized walks
against which you simply want to shut your door.

Nothing.
She wishes she'd aborted me.
Nothing.
He hides the plate he broke and I take the fall for it.
Nothing.
My muscles ache.
He pushes himself over the edge.
They waste away in hospital rooms.
Dark corners frame their eyes.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing is wrong.

"Enjoy home and drive safe"
I say and turn to walk back upstairs,
mentally crossing off the days I have left
before I can't say no to another
"are you coming home this weekend?"
I don't complain about weekends
left alone in an empty house, silent,
because I'm used to it.
Because this silence is far softer
far kinder.

Darling there is so much you don't know,
so much I cannot explain.
So much I cannot show.
But I am weak, I am shedding, I am hurting,
I want nothing more that to hear
that sometimes it's okay to not be okay.
And still it echoes back to me:
Nothing.
Nothing.
Say nothing.

I still care
I care so much it hurts.
I care so much that it rips me up inside because I know that you're not okay. Not sleeping. Not feeling. Not smiling anymore.
I care. And that's why it burns when there are no texts. Why my heart sinks when you feed me empty responses and half-truths.
I feel like a ship untethered in the heart of a storm. My sails stretch and tear. My mast bends and breaks. The ropes and knots unwind and come undone, whipping about, wrapping around my wrists, my ankles, my throat.
I care.
I still care.
I care enough to drown. I care enough to stand in your place in the heart of the fire. I care enough to scorch my hands if only it'd mean that I could hold you and tell you that you'll be alright.
I care too much. Even when you push me further and further away. Because the harder you push, the harder I push to stay.
I refuse to give up on you.
So keep pushing. Keep hiding. Keep running. Keep lying. Keep making me feel like ****. Keep telling me I'm worth nothing. Keep shutting me out. Keep me at arm's length. Keep breaking me. Keep your secrets. Keep away from me.
And see if I care.
See if I give a ****.
Because I do.

"I'm okay" "I'm okay"
whispering to myself, hanging upside down
tears dripping down to my toes
when I break down mid stretch.
"Just breathe darling"
I coach myself, nearly rocking back and forth
on the wooden floor
while the clock reads 12
and everyone else is asleep.

The muscles wrapped around my chest
and my back draw tighter still
-like piano strings:
they wait, poised for the merest sound of footsteps.
And the air doesn't quite find my lungs
my mind won't come off high speed
and I thrash through piles of *******
to find the water-stained, warped, ripped notebook
and a gaudy pen.

Then I begin to scribble, compose,
quietly wail and rage
as stroke for stroke
I map out my traumas and my guilt;
            slowly tattooing my hurt
            like poetry on my skin.

And I'll run until I can't remember
the weight of your hands on my hips
until I can smell your shampoo
and not wish to run my hands through your hair.

I'll run until I forget
what it was like to stand still and be held
so close to your beating heart.
Until that afternoon
where I was pinned underneath you
fades completely from my memory.

Yes, I'll run and scream and fight
until I can walk beside you
without a heart of lead carving ruts in my wake
without casting glances
and admiring your beauty.
I will rage and burn
until I can see a bougainvillea
without immediately hearing your voice;
your careful singing in my shower,
your laugh, your low, stolen whispers.

And I'll keep weeping and wishing
that there were no kisses to forget,
no notes to burn or keep,
no flowers that crumble in my grasp,
no shirts that smell like you,
no jigsaw hollows where you still fit perfectly.
Wondering how long it will be
before the songs don't make me think of you
before the kitchen is just the kitchen
and my bedroom is just a bedroom.
                               before I fulfill your wish
                               and we are just friends again.

Friends who once snuck off,
held hands,
talked at midnight,
shared a bed (albeit only once)
shared favorite memories,
played guitar in the dark,
laughed at their own shy ways,
almost kissed,
almost became more.

Almost made it.

I will grind myself to dust,
if only it makes it easy to swallow
the bitter break of a first love,
a stolen heart, returned only to shatter
in my grasp. We hugged quickly, spun apart
when all I wanted is to cry and hold you
the way a dying man clings to the lifeboat.

I lay awake
hour after hour
while you did the same
in the very next room.

You've told me before just
how apprehensive you become
when the page is empty
and the stakes are high.
You have high hopes,
but when you bade me
"good night and sleep well"
I did see the flicker
of doubt-insomnia-excitement
hiding just behind your tired smile
like a candle in the wind.

It is near impossible to sleep
when you lie awake,
when love lies awake
in the next room.

But I am a coward,
afraid of losing you
long before I can call you mine.
And so I while away the hours
wondering if you want me
to walk down the passage
and crawl into your bed
just as much as I do.

We lie awake instead,
praying that sleep takes us
and carries us across the boundary
separating yesterday and tomorrow.
To take you to a bright tomorrow
me; into another lovesick Monday.
But sleep evades us
It is near impossible to sleep
when I know you lie awake
and love lies awake
in the very next room.

I am still me.

Still me.

I want to shout it from the highest places, just so that you can hear it and understand. Hear it and believe it. Hear it and trust me.

Still me.

Because that girl who dug around your garden and nearly ate night shade berries still exists. The one who crawled around on the carpets, playing with toy cars, she's still here. The child who sat cross-legged on the counter tops licking icing off her fingers is still alive.

She's still in here. Waiting for the day she sees the entire world. Pretending that she can fly even when the world has clipped her wings time and time again. Watching rain streak down the windows, admiring the ladies who traipse around in Victorian dresses when we watch those films you love.

She still awws at every sweet thing she stumbles across. And still hopes against all hope that she will live in an ancient forest. Who still adores Joan of Arc and loves to read poetry out loud.

Still me.

Still over watering plants because I have no idea when to stop giving.

Still up in the middle of the night dreaming.

Still singing.

Still here.

Still me.

That simple truth shouldn't change your opinion of me. Because it doesn't change who I am.

Some days I go from top speed to a dead halt in the same amount of time it takes to unlock a door or flip a light switch.

And when I'm standing still, it's hard not to feel like everything around me is crashing down and shattering. And it's loud. It's in my face. Etched onto my skin. Burned into my memory.

But somehow, I'm still here. After the thundering collision and the screeching of tires. I'm still here. In the middle of the crossroads. Still breathing. Still standing. Still here.

Because there are a few strings keeping me from crumbling. And here and there an iron rod that will not let me fall. Small truths and sentiments that shout louder and whisper sweeter than any of my thoughts ever could:

"someone cares" "you matter to me"

"don't walk alone" "careful" "would you like a hand?" "how was your day?" "you're smart too" "I like your face"

It brings me back. Back to that crossroads: my past behind me. A vast future ahead. Calling, beckoning the same way you do with that smile on your lips, your hand outstretched. And even in my clumsy fingers I will grasp it.

And follow.

From 0 to 5, to 10. To 20. To 30. To 40.

Slowly propelled forward yet again, out of the darkness my mind pulls up and around my shoulders like a shroud. Out of the ******* currents that pull me down. Out of the shadows where my bones grow cold.

Into the light and glow of countless stars. Each perfect, each warm. Each far away and watching from their perch upon your shoulders, your arms, your cheeks. Each inviting in the way a warm bed calls on rainy days.

Let me follow. Let me fall. Let me sink into your embrace and tell you how afraid I was today. Let me bare my soul, and make me strong. So that one day. If you should hear the collision and smell the smoke, I will be there to lift you out of the wreckage and hold you to my chest. The way you do now.

That one day I won't need saving from myself. But love fearlessly instead.

I have finally found it
a single switch to cure all my ailments.
Led by old heartaches whispering new phrases
and ancient fears with different faces.
Wary looks and tired eyes
aching bones and empty rooms
that rend my hopeless heart
and scar it afresh.

"You're not suited for each other"
and "you will fall out of love"
echoes down these dark halls
like an ominous sea
rearing back and baring teeth
before it swallows me whole.
And though I promise to walk away
should it ever be too much to bear,
I know. I know. I know.

I know it in my heart
that I will break with every step that carries me away.

And I am not sure what it is
that I feel anymore
because lost, hopeless, substandard
are the only words I can make out
among the deep ruts in my mind.
Even when I know
that once the words lovely, splendid and beautiful
were written on my skin.

Though I have no way of knowing,
I agonise, I rant and rave.
Could I do it? Would I be brave enough?
To shut down every thing I feel?

My tongue and my heart have betrayed me.
And though I curse
these wondering and doubts,
I do not regret
saying those simple words.

We lay together in bed,
and while I showed you all my scars,
you counted all the things
you loved about me
on the tips of your fingers.
You moved closer-
close enough to hear the hammering
of my hopeless heart.

Your elbow brushed mine.
          and I allowed myself to remain within reach.
Close by, where your still-damp hair
begged for my fingers to caress,
reach out - tenderly touch.
It would have been so easy
to weave my fingers through yours
or to rest my head on your shoulder.
But my mind wouldn't leave me
and before I caught them;
my words had betrayed me.

"I really like you"
slipped out somewhere in the dark
and the echo returned to me.
You threw your arm over me then,
pulled me close enough
to breathe the smell of rain and earth
you carry like a perfume.

You let me let you hold me
until we could bear it no more.
And I fell asleep listening
to the rhythm of your breathing
singing sweet songs in the dark.

Fluttering about, they crowd the skies,
their wax-paper wings catching warm breezes.
And my stomach does the same,
the way the earth falls away
when you walk too close to the edge
-giddy with anticipation
of a moment that will never come.
Never be mine.

Your hand brushes mine-
and accident I know,
but my heart can't help;
it leaps and sings for joy.
And once again I churn over the thought,
the possibility of perhaps
letting you catch me staring
at the way the light settles on your shoulders.

If I were to let my eyes wander
across your jaw, skip across your lips.
Let myself admire the stardust
scattered across your cheeks
and the gentle ***** of your brow.
If I only had the courage
to explore the endless depths of your eye
like a sailor at sea.

I'd drown.

You are far too wonderful
and I have no answer
as to what I must do
when the need to weave my fingers
through yours overtakes me.

So I pray to Artemis, Sappho, Persephone,
any who would heed my call:
that you might look at me,
and perhaps grow to love me
in that same way.
That when I summon up the courage,
they might soften my fall
and slow my descent.

dear heart of mine;
What you desire is something I cannot give,
since her words, her gaze
must never be mine.

To want for nights in her arms
softly composing verse
is futile.
And to wish for her lips
to seek out yours in the dark
is foolish,
beyond hope,
beyond reason.

She cannot be yours.
-will not.
Must not.

Because on a feeble ledge you wait:
her as your counter.
A single step
and surely you will let her fall.
Speak of your affection only to tear apart
the careful stitching of time and fate
that brought you here in the first place.

Be careful foolish heart
not to undo such bonds
for you are not as heroic as you presume.
You would perish
if you were to walk alone again.

Para mí el futuro es una página en blanco
y yo agarro el bolígrafo.
No es seguro donde vaya o qué vea
y no se quíen encuentre en mi viaje.
Pero caminaré y esperaré
-al bosque donde soñaré.

Tal vez cambiaré mucho
y no reconoceré la persona en el espejo.
Puede ser que ore por días y años
y al final reciba la lluvia.
Me imagino que muchas cosas podrán pasar:
buena suerte, congoja, victoria y derrota temporal
Pero el futuro es mío
y es mío para crear.

To all the ones I've loved before:
Your lives were as road signs
swimming into view for but a moment.
-I have yet
to lose a love
to distance or quarrel.
And not once
have I misplaced my heart.

God forbid that one day I wake
to find that I have begun to un-love.
Selfishness, lust, vengance,
these I have not known
Only the sweetness of your eyes
your face
your nearness.

I have yet to lose my love
to any other
but to time.

To all the ones I've loved before:
Your lives were far too short
-and while you've crashed through my door
-though you were but a small part of my life...
I am glad, for a time
I was your whole world.

You once told me
that Monday was Thursday,
Tuesday was Friday
and Wednesday...
-well Wednesday was Wednesday
and I believed it to be true

You were the force
that pulled the sun across my sky
and brought rain,
miraculously placing laughter
on my parched lips.
You wrote the maps
and formed minutes into hours
-letters into words
And when you smiled,
I believed it was just for me.

Your wish was my command
and my truth was your word.
I happily danced
when you pulled on my strings.

You vanished in a storm
and the blur of October, November,
February
Here one moment, gone the next
-with no goodbye,
apology or promise-prophecy.

But my world kept flowing
and the sun traced its arc
across my sky without your help.
My chest rose and fell
and Monday was Monday again
-the rain poured of its own accord
and my cracked lips found song.

Perhaps you have returned
from time to time
to your empty temple
-found it void of worship
and the voids filled once more.
Perhaps the legends are true
and you have become
deaf and blind
-unable to find your way back to me.

I should like the rumours
to be true
because my world turns
just fine without you.

I watch as you stir
beneath the covers - they are not silk
like you deserve,
yet you wake stretching
and smiling a crooked smile.
And like the deity you are,
you clamour through the kitchen
for a cup of tea
and sit atop a desk
where you speak with the sun
through glances alone.

I like to believe that you are
looking for something
in that red glare of morning
-hope, perhaps love.
And yet, I love you so:
I love the way you unfurl
the pages of a book
like moth's wings
-I love that you know
where all the lost things go
and your habit of brewing a second cup
for breakfast when you laugh
around bites of buttered toast.

I love you most in those moments
when you seem
to hold all of time in your hands.
Before the day begins,
when you are most yourself
-and at your most wonderful.

You are without excuse
-and so am I.
The pinpricks above my fertile veins
are finally starting to heal.
You wanted something of value
and I offered myself willingly.

You lent me your Icarus-wings
and I flew too high
-too far.
I believed that I could soar,
but your wings melted,
seared into my skin
and wax-dripping,
I fell through your fingers.

Your fingers,
so willing to touch, take
-they were never stretched,
never waiting, never there
And my arms, my chest
my throat, bared and battle scared.

I traced their lines
in the mirror this morning,
and felt the frightful push
of a final scream,
still trapped in my lungs.
My heart doesn’t beat
-it hammers in my chest,
surrounded by arteries
cold and void.
I never did stop falling.

And I fear the ocean,
fast approaching, vast and dark.
Will it shatter me like glass,
or swallow me with that final
scream clenched between my teeth?

I choke on it,
bite it back
-if I choose this one thing,
all else is lost.
If I break my silence
your face will be blurred
from my memory
-rendered red and screaming
as the day you emerged
into this world.

Sun-kissed red
you watched this myth unfold.
You beheld the work of your hands,
the final Icarus-fall,
the plunge toward a hungry ocean.

A cry of rage-fear-freedom
met your ear and birthed tears.
You mourned my death
at my rebirth.
And I found myself in the waves
freed at last,
my self-imposed slavery to gravity
at its end.

Envy blinded and deafened
by rage, you cannot know
the life I have found
when your grasp slipped
on the tether of my soul.

Allow yourself to
let things go,
and to let things change.
Some things may not be
what you'd imagined them
a year ago
-and that's okay.

Hearts break
for different reasons
and they each heal
at their own pace.

You don't need
to have it all figured out
-a dozen he's will leave
and more she's will break your heart
than you planned.

But that's okay,
because when you feel
like you can't sink lower;
an unexpected breeze
will pick you up
and I promise
-You'll fly.

My stomach rolls at the thought of you,
it is a feeling as pleasant as you are-
You with your sharp eyes and upturned nose,
you who has no flaw.

A man named Frankenstein made something much like you;
a creature so perfect
-and yet, when it rose, ghastly and disfigured
there was some beauty in it.

You- you are no such creature
you are a hollowed shell
void of love and understanding.
You have not known rejection, loss
      self-loathing
and to see my brokeness was a shock.
To watch me crumble appalled you,
-you turned away
and rejected me as the creator - the created.

Though my heart is fashioned
of borrowed and broken pieces
I am not your monster.
I raised myself from the dead
-and after you- from the dirt.
You- you my dear doctor;
parading the flaws of others
as a grotesque banner
-it screams:
"I am perfect"

Was I more satisfying to break?
Did my will to fight terrify,
inspire such hatred,
that you could no longer stand the sight
of a girl set ablaze?

My stomach lurches - you stand at my grave
dear Frankenstein, do you regret?
She is not there.
She died.
It is only I who remain