I.
Identity?
For so long, I've felt like I had none.
I am a piece of college-ruled paper
ripped, torn, taped to a back alley wall
with names and dates and places
all written in a rainbow of Sharpies
by people with faces I cannot remember;
my handwriting with the cursive "f"s
nowhere to be seen,
words I'd written so long ago
buried beneath the influence of everyone else.

Who are you, when you're no one
except everyone?

II.
I'm sick.
I am years of not getting out of bed.
I am missed school days, late-passes,
a truant.
I am doctor's notes.
I am a pile of handwritten prescriptions.
I am one white
two orange
one pink
and two multi-vitamins.
Misdiagnoses,
tests,
exams.

My feet melt into the blue and grey carpeting,
my arms turn brown like the worn-down stain of the armrests,
the receptionist knew me by name
until "next week's appointment" slipped off the calendar.

I am episodes of crying in crowds
or crying alone.
I'm haunted by mistakes remembered only by me.
I am up or I'm down
without knowing what's between.
My brain leaves my body and I can't feel my hands
so the bottle of Advil moves up one more shelf.

I am told to lie on my medical forms
so I won't be held at arms length,
or treated like someone who's different or strange;
but that's just how I'm treated at home.

III.
I am nothing more
than the result of years of torture.
Two bra sizes too small.
Four dress sizes too big.

I am nothing more than a waistline,
which would be fine
if I had one.

I am not pretty enough.
I am not beautiful enough.
I am not good enough.

And I will not be joining you for dinner.

IV.
I push people away
but long for them to come closer.
I run, keep my distance
but, when you're not looking, lean in a bit closer.

I text boys 300 miles away
but pretend he's right there beside me.

I'm gullible, I'm weak.
I fall for anything, I fall for everything.
I forgive too quickly and I love too much,
I set myself up for the fall.

V.
I'm a disappointment.
I'm wrong.
I'm wrong.
I'm wrong.

I forget my chores.
I forget responsibilities.
I forget rules, I forget deadlines, I forget lines in the play.

I forget numbers and facts and formulas.
And when the grades come back
I remember
what a parents' giving up looks like.

VI.
I'm difficult.
I'm needy.
I can't drive,
can't make my own appointments.
Can't sign my own papers, can't run my own errands,
can't buy my own dinner,
can't call my own shots.
I'm difficult.
I hear myself say that I don't have a choice
But the sigh in reply says,
I'm difficult.

VII.
I love the wrong gender.
I swing the wrong way.
"I always imagined my daughter walking down the aisle
with a man who reminded her of her father," he says.
"I'm just disappointed," he says.
So I bring home a boy
and Mom says,
"Thank you -
I promise, it's easier this way."

Some girls tell their families when they find their first love,
but mine will stay hidden
in the box with the K
filled with letters and gifts and "thinking of you"'s
collecting dust between the wall and my bed.

VIII.
I am numbers, and numbers, and numbers.
Weights, heights, exes, mistakes -
too high.
Grades, standardized tests, word counts and successes -
too low.

IX.
I'm deluded.
Always telling myself that if Mom really loved me
she'd put me before the glass of wine.
Convincing myself that it's my fault
and that I'm selfish, petty, judgmental.
I'm hurt.

I'm hopeful.
Waking up to the overhead light in my room at 10
when Dad comes home from work -
asking me how my day went
and closing the door before I can reply.
I'm silent.

I'm lonely.
Clinging to the siblings of friends and partners
desperately wanting a family.
Constantly jumping from partner to partner
desperately needing a hug.
I'm alone.

X.
With all my shortcomings
with all I do wrong
it's hard for me to find when I do something right.

But of all the things I'll never know,
I know how to feel, I know how to care.

I'll show you passion like you've never seen passion before.
I've seen gods in mortals and mortals in gods,
I've felt fire inside me when it's icy around me,
I've painted the Sistine Chapel with the notes of F. Doppler,
I've sculpted the moon and the stars and the sun with my heart,
I've loved with the urgency of the wind of a hurricane
and I've forgiven like the sand did the Atlantic high tide.

XI.
I forget so much,
but there's so much more to remember.

I'll remember your dreams, your hopes, your ambitions,
I'll remember your tears on the sleeve of my shirt.
I'll remember the days of the sweet uncertainties,
bus rides and text messages and scarves and "good morning"s.
I'll remember the day my heart fell for yours
(ticking, ticking, like the bomb in the birdcage).

I'll remember the album with the songs named after planets,
and I'll remember when you couldn't meet my eyes to the lyrics.
I'll remember the confessions from the football field bleachers,
even next year, when there's an empty chair in the orchestra.

I'll forget all our fights, even the ones you never will,
and I might lose some of our laughs,
but I'll never forget passion at 4 in the morning,
or slow-dancing like middle schoolers at high-school dances,
or your body against mine to old SNL re-runs.
I'll always remember the times you let me in
and I'll be here in silence for the times you still can't.

I'll remember our promises
of dreams and forever -
plantations in Greece, Italy, Spain.
Love letters and presents hidden around our camp cabins,
four years of love, friendship, promises
dissolved in a haze of disdain.

I may not remember the quadratic formula,
I may not remember Newton's third law,
but I'll never forget how you make my heart hammer,
even when you forget me.

XII.
I am
forgettable, only wishing to be remembered by someone, someday,
sad, looking for joy in things big and small.
A hypocrite, begging for proximity then crawling far, far away.
I am miserable, but passionate.
I am identical, but a glaring mistake.
I am what-if's, maybe's, and might-have-been's.
I am quoting Jethro Tull songs in my confessions.
I am words in my head that will never escape my lips,
I am words on my lips that should never have escaped my head.
I am things I'll never say and stories I'll never write,
I am singing in the shower, dancing in the halls,
I am running across busy streets in April
and sleeping in screened-in porches in June.

XIII.
And every time I wake up alone,
I'll stand in the yard, look up to the sky
and remind myself that the sun, too, is alone
but can still warm the earth with its love.

Memory comes quickly and goes faster still.
Childhood blurs and bends from the action
to nostalgia to nothing to a surprise visit
and ultimately, back to nothing.
It's never formal, opting out of knocking
before entering with muddy sneakers
and corn-butter-dribbled chin.
The hues of a late, summer afternoon
filled with fireflies and barbecue smell
connect the doorbell circuit
and make itself at home
before ears or legs can bid welcome.
Smile and greet one another breathless
only to depart at a moment's notice
as if the nomad suddenly realized
that no crop or solace remains.

So distinctly different
than that of a severed relationship,
which typically takes its bitter, sweet time.
For months, that fracture can stay and continue asking
for another Earl Grey and bowlful of discontent,
adding in spurts of lonely self-conversation
every several, silence-ridden hours.
Eventually, ever so carefully and quietly,
it tip-toes away with lip-marked cup and peacoat
at the moment when you've unwillingly returned
from the kitchen to fill pained guest's requests
but the only thing that remains
are indents in the leather armrests
and moisture gone cold.

Flashed across mind's eye and on its way.
The hollow fills itself endlessly with present
and distantly connects with past to find
that neither can be here while the other exists.
Start again and re-ember remembering,
drifted away on a silent plane
of glazed eyes and wide smile.

Sick fluttering sullen imagination, I can call you a safe house no more,
You are a diseased heart, acidity burned into your beating flesh,
Tears heard as screams, from the mouths of tortured smiles grasping at the air,
As a sun, set still with jazzy oranges flying in every direction,
You are so still, but move as the twitches, of a silent shock treatment gone wrong,
Tick tock, I can not hear the time pass by, thunderstorms without rain, full of crimson fog,
With this electricity in my veins, I wonder if this is blood I hear, or acid and tar,
My legs move as weights upon tongues that can not speak truthful words, awake but so slowly asleep,
Burning and left black as night, the dripping blood of these eyes that have been open too long,
I am tied down to a chair where I see the same image upon every view, the lips that whisper,
These lips sting a sour poison to see the side of my ears, and tighten ropes,
My neck screeches, hands as squirming spiders flee but squish into armrests that are nothing but pain itself,
Dreams drift, not as monarch butterflies, but as insects upon a corpse, my lingering joy rots into the air,
This reality is but a nightmare, nothing as the films with kissed upon cheeks and moments with eyes that smile,
Grins that open wide through cheekbones and lips a light with amorous memories stained upon them,
What do I trust, the dreams with my mind open, or the reality with my eyes open, eyelashes scratching against me,
There is an itch upon the words, like matches that ignite these terror filled moments, an ivy twisted itch,
I fall into a hope, as deep as the warmth beneath the earth, a wish to keep sleeping,
To be dragged into an eternal heat of dreams that seem more normal than mobid reality, a sense of normalcy,
Sweat surrounds me, I am coated with a layer of fear, swung up against reality, awakened from a night terror,
Am I back, back to see and hear kind voices through unfaltered velvet lips, am I here again, not in paradise,
But am I back, to hear the touch upon my skin, the scratch of teeth tenderly with whispers of sunlit joy,
Here again, not paradise, but not a kin to hell, let me stay, and not fall my eyelids shut again,
Please, I could beg you, I live for these sights, of lilac, rose, and gladness, breaths sweet with candied wind,
Help keep these eyelashes from meeting and staying together, strangle this ungodly imagination, keep it from sleep, keep it awake, and don't let it breathe.

Justice is unjust,
When it merely imposes,
The will of the state.

_______

Justice
Time: The all too near future
Place: A courtroom
Setting: Final sentencing of a prisoner convicted of the last remaining capital offense on the books of a kinder, gentler, fairer world in which equality is no longer a mere aspiration.
________

The prisoner stared impassively into the camera. The bright lights causing beads of sweat to form above his eyes and forcing him to squint, his perspiration-soaked thinning hair flattened unflatteringly against his forehead. No sound could be heard other than the faint hum of the air conditioning whose airflow was directed from the high ceiling above the high seats of the three judge panel, towards the three judges, keeping their immediate area comfortably cool. The camera trained on them remained a respectful distance away, and no harsh lights illuminated their somber countenances.

All three judges stared at the camera showing no emotion, their hands folded in front of them on the surface of their capacious bench on top of three equal stacks of paper placed before them. Everywhere on earth citizens watched the unfolding drama over the neural net that provided a fully immersive experience indistinguishable from reality, effectively placing every citizen on the planet in the courtroom as the Chief Judge began to speak in a deep, resonant, clear voice.

“The evidence against you has been examined. This tribunal finds you guilty of the charges against you by a unanimous vote. Have you anything to say before we pass sentence?”

The camera cuts back to the prisoner. The lights brighten around him and the heat rises perceptibly, adding fresh fuel to the trickle of sweat flowing down his flushed face, causing a bead of sweat to form at the end of his nose that he is unable to swat away because his wrists are restrained by metal bands at the armrests of his metal chair, outside the viewing range of the camera’s tight zoom on his face.

“I am guilty of no crime,” the prisoner protests in a low voice full of palpable weariness and resignation.

“You are guilty of the most heinous of crimes,” the Chief Judge contradicts, raising his voice and causing the prisoner to cringe.
“That is not open to debate. This is your final chance to make what amends you may to those whom you have harmed through your selfish, deviant act. It will have no effect on this Court’s sentence.”

“But I have done nothing wrong,” the man emphatically protests again, as ribbons of perspiration roll down his neck and deepen the growing ring of dark sweat absorbed by his bright orange jumpsuit, leaving a collar of dark moisture around his neck.

“Silence!” the Chief Judge hisses through tight lips. “The record will show that the prisoner is unrepentant. This Court finds that he willfully, maliciously and without justification removed his neural connector with the purpose and effect of severing his connection to the neural nets. We further find that the motivating factor for this most egregious, malevolent and repugnant crime was the attempt to abandon the Common Consciousness and establish his individuality separate and apart from the Communal Mind. We further find that the subject is in full possession of his legal faculties and capable of understanding the criminal nature of his acts, and, perhaps most tragically, that he fails to see the enormity of his crime.” The Chief Justice faltered slightly, delivering the final words of the Court’s sentence with a slight tremor in his voice. After stopping a moment to compose himself as his learned colleagues looked on impassively, he continued. “It is, therefore, the judgment of this Court that you will forever remain disconnected from the nets from this day forward.”

Upon hearing the Judge’s words the prisoner’s eyes opened wider, attempting to digest their import. Could it be? Might he finally be allowed the what he believed to be his unalienable right to be an individual for the first time in his life? The opportunity to live in a world in which he could have original thoughts, genuine emotions, privacy and the opportunity to be different from everyone else? The joy he felt nearly made him faint with relief and unbridled joy, allowing him for the first time in his life the possibility of hope as tears welled in his eyes.

He found he could not speak, could not express even the simple words “thank you” to the Court. It was as though he were emerging from a life-long nightmare, as if. . .

“The prisoner’s IP address, 999.999.999.999, shall be erased from the Nets,” the Judge continued as the prisoner’s tears now flowed freely. “His existence shall be forever stricken from the Collective Consciousness lest it germinate there and once again grow sedition in our midst.” The prisoner wept openly now while smiling broadly.
“The death sentence for this most heinous of crimes is hereby commuted so that the prisoner may be allowed the individuality he craves for the rest of his natural life, devoid of the comfort of our collective humanity or the distracting influences of life.”

The Chief Judge then paused and took a deep breath, as the prisoner shuddered with relief. He then continued in a slow, resonant voice. “It is further ordered by this Court that the prisoner shall have his eyes, eardrums, tongue and olfactory organs surgically removed that he may not taste, smell, see, hear, or speak with any other human being for the rest of his natural life. Thereafter, he is remanded to a hospital where he shall be restrained to a bed and tended to by robotic life support aids that he may be denied the comfort of feeling another human beings warm touch upon his skin. The sentence of this Court shall be carried out immediately and shall be witnessed by all the citizens of Earth as partial reparation for this most heinous of crimes against humanity.”

The prisoner’s screams lasted only a few moments as an anesthetic was administered and the cameras were re-arranged in preparation for justice to be carried out.

(C) 2011, 2019 Victor D. Lopez - All rights reserved.

What’s this?
A relic from my childhood.
Long forgotten.  
Memories spring forth from nowhere.
My imagination is brought forth front and center
And history is repeated
For me alone.
I watch the movie
Every emotion (such joy, such fury, such sadness)
I feel again with renewed vigor.
Cringing in childish embarrassment and smiling the way children do.
Every motive (children are really such fickle creatures; innocence isn’t something learned)
Is held dear again in my heart, overriding my ethic, my values.
My senses are overwhelmed with old, dusty film reels and stale popcorn.
I grip the armrests of my seat; I cannot take my eyes off.
I laugh at every cereal-box quality joke and cry over every scraped knee.
I even feel the relief and comfort the cartoon-character Band-aid brings.
Sandboxes and freshly cut grass.
Bright, warm sunlight and the rabbit hutch.
Vacations with Mom and Dad together.
The movie ends but lives on as I walk out of the theatre.
Like a tattoo on my shadow, it walks with me home.
All of this in a blink of an eye.
I remember.

It was going to be a beautiful Saturday morning - and the wind was still. Wind mattered because Peter and I had borrowed a friend's lime green Fiat and trekked 30 minutes north to play the Lufbery (frisbee) disc course. We teed-off just after sunrise. It’s a beautiful, wooded course. I used to be a frisbee-golf addict and I’d brought my gear to Yale - but only managed to play twice. I finished 8-under (for 18 holes) and Peter earned a little participation, something or other, to be awarded later.

Peter lives in a doctoral frat-house they call doc-house (the 8 guys who live there are all doctoral students). It’s a typical frat house, remarkably dark and filthy. Every surface seems carpeted and there’s a dizzying cocktail of smells - old beer, dust, pizza, cigars, whisky, popcorn, cigarettes and *** - ugg! Yes, If you need to carouse, this is the house. You hear, “You’re in the DOC-HOWWSE!” (said like dog-house) when a group of new girls show up.

In the basement, there are arm chairs that I’m sure haven’t been cleaned since someone in the class of 1955 spilt beer on them. If I sit on one - and I try not to sit on one - I keep my arms crossed in my lap so they don’t even touch the armrests. Peter’s room is clean - I had a service come to clean it (and the shared 2nd floor bathroom) before he moved in. I got him a new mattress and topper too.

My favorite of his roommates is called “Melon” (His real name is Milton). He’s a big guy, 6’3”~ish and probably 450 pounds. He’s the sweetest guy but a slob in the classic, Chris Farley mold. Peter says he already has two PhDs (One in ‘computational mathematics’, a second in ‘mathematical modeling’) and he’s working on a third in ‘decision sciences.” He owns doc-house, having bought it when the owner hinted at moving to Florida.
“Melon makes a bag-and-a-half consulting,” Peter explained, admiringly.

The house is on a wooded hill and the driveway, about 400 feet long, goes straight uphill. One time, I’d brought a couple of bags of groceries and Melon, as usual, came bounding out of the house to help me. The uber could only get half way up the crowded drive and by the time Melon got to the car he was completely out of breath. I half expected I’d have to give him CPR, but he rallied after a couple of minutes - talking non-stop, all the while - and leaning heavily on the Uber which ran up my bill (I found it endearing).

Back to my story (a lot of that was background). Peter and I were going to Geronimo’s (a Mexican restaurant). I was sweaty from golfing, so I decided to shower. I’m showering away and I hear the bathroom door open (I’d absolutely locked it). So, I assumed it was Peter. The next thing I hear is someone taking a loud ****. Then the guy starts humming - and it wasn’t Peter.

There I was, shower running, behind a flimsy, opaque-plastic, flowered shower curtain. What now? I was thinking. “Occupied!?” I said loudly, like a question - standing stock-still naked.

“Fukk” I hear him say, “Sorry, sorry, SORRY - I thought you were one of the guys!” he said, flushing, dashing out and slamming the door.

I waited a moment, killed the water, wrapped up, climbed out of the shower and wrapped my hair in a second towel while leaning against the door. It had been locked - well, the little *** was pressed in anyway. I picked up my stuff and dashed across the hall to Peter’s room.

Peter was propped up on his bed with his laptop as I rushed in, closed the door and leaned on it. “The lock on the bathroom door doesn’t work,” I said in a rush.
“Did something happen?” he asked, looking up.
“No,” I said - thinking about it, “Not really,” and I started to towel dry my hair.
That’s when I noticed that his index finger was turning back on itself in a “come hither” motion. Then it occurred to me that, wound as I was, in a small white towel, I might look like a loosely wrapped participation trophy.

Sometimes you face an army of desires - without armor.

A girl kicks her legs while sitting on a swing,
unable to coordinate her young body to move forward.
Her small hands are wrapped around the chain links,
holding her high so she can only touch her toes to the ground.
Her stomach hurts and she frowns.
It always hurts when she tries to play, so she stopped trying.

A teen kicks her legs while sitting on a swing,
not having the energy to move herself forward.
Her bitten fingernails pick at the ridges of the chain links,
holding her now that she is far too exhausted to do so on her own.
Her whole body hurts and she can't even frown.
It always hurts when she tries to breathe, so she stopped trying.

A woman kicks her legs while sitting on a swing,
too sleep-deprived to move her body with enthusiasm.
Her hands that have written millions of words wrap loosely around the chain links, gripping on for the sake of formalities and tradition.
Her body doesn’t hurt anymore and she never has any expression.
It always hurts when she felt sympathy, so she stopped trying.

A mother walks up to a swing,
allowing her own child to tug her towards it.
Her actions are careful as she pushes her precious cargo,
cradling it yet letting it roam far enough to find happiness.
Her whole body feels light and she can't stop smiling.
It always was a struggle to keep going, but she never stopped trying.

A old woman is pushed to a swing in her wheelchair,
Her daughter urging her forward as her granddaughter skipped beside them.
Her hands rest lightly and carelessly on the armrests of her chair,
Relaxed and gentle as she teaches the next girl about her battles.
Her whole body feels rewarded and she always wears a small smile.
She never thought she would, but she succeeded.

She stumbled onto a stack of mossy grey rocks and looked into a perfectly eye-shaped crevice in the rock formation which gave view to an absurdly apt vision of the swathing valley below, furnished with incredible glimmering foliage under a masked crimson sky that echoed thoroughly her desire to live.

She had grown obsessed with her own teeth, waking every other morning to an incessant thumping pain that rang from molar to medulla. The first thought that entered her weary mind on interim morning bleariness was one of suicide and regret. She'd stumble lackadaisically from her wrinkled bedsheets onto the hardwood splintering floor of her bedsit solipsism through a minute passage and into the molding cracked-tile bathroom, pulling the light cord and inspecting at great length the chasms appearing on four of her bottom teeth, mentally noting the size and shape until the next sultry morning pawed her crimson pillow case ravaged face awake with another dull toothache.

It was a January morning, the date was irrelevant, she woke to the sound of fighting in the neighbours' house, slamming doors and vase smashing antics on a dreary dewy morn when the sun was hiding and cars in the back alleys still bellowed smoke. Her routine went uninterrupted, moments of silence in the next rooms whilst she examined the damage of another night's superfluous drug use and alcoholic torment, she eyed the razor on shower shelf and reasoned to end her life, finally.  That ingrained image of childhood abuse lay dormant until these types of mornings and she reached toward the glimmering raz-
Knock Knock
He was at the door and she was flustered, pulling wrinkled jeans around her hourglass waist and rushing to greet the stranger. He told her to-

She was perhaps seven years old, maybe younger, and the hazy day drew closed through rain battered and silty windows in the tenement building by the murky river, the one that slunk through midnight streets like so many lonely and wrinkled old men, searching for drugs or ****** or love or money. The beige armchair with worn out padding around the armrests was creaking under the weight of her mother, the tilting wilted wine glass that stood delicately between yellowing fingertips was almost empty now and she watched as it grew ever more horizontal before leaping up to save the carpet from another stain and her behind from another beating. Her mother awoke with start and threw accusations at her, thieving little swine. The beating was instantaneous and even in aged memories was enough to resuscitate her consciousness, in enough time to see him come and go.

It was a January morning, the date was irrelevant, and she made a cup of tea as she looked out at the schoolyard distant but ahead. Waves of screaming and rambunctious playfulness swelled and entered her kitchen window (the one with a larger than acceptable crack running the length of the pane) as she washed half a sink of dishes before drifting aimlessly to the black but yellowing nicotine stained stereo, leaving water trails on the buttons as she pressed play on the CD deck and Old Blue Eyes began to sing.

She was five years old and saw her father dripping with sweat on some halcyon summer day. He lay roads by the night's chill and slept on long afternoons. By the radiant late morning rays he would fix shelves and rewire the apartment, drinking gasoline smelling liquids that bloated his inerudite head and he would take regular breaks in the bathroom, door ajar as he fixed, belt tight, breathing heavy, eye-contact with her and she cried every time. He played Sinatra and sang along, her mother would wake and he beat her again. Over and over again. Sinatra still sang, he never stopped, he never cared. Beating. Hearts were beating. She was five years old and she feigned unconscious by her mother's side until his final fix and to bed he stumbled.

The date was irrelevant, this January morning when she gave up caring and the sink of dishes went unfinished and the bedside lamp flickered and buzzed.

its now apparent
there is in my midst
one who seeks to usurp
a throne built with my own two hands

not to rest comfortably between
inlaid and intricately carved clawed feet
but to see it empty
for nothing more than the sake of watered down bloodline

yet calmly i tap toe
half impatient and watching
as a small axe hacks away a mighty oak
but not the roots

of the next growth
boughs spring forth more mighty
than the last
from which to fashion not one more but two replacements,
imperial palisades and a porch for a palace,
rocking chairs with armrests,
a mantel and mirror frame

so that we
my queen and i
can be seen together
as we should be
with no hovering specters

monkey DNA rules the landside
multitudes of dudes
rally around the ranch hands
planning to take stands
against stands of trees
standing tall
light refracts
bending ever so
giving the low lying foliage
full spectrum—
apelike in their motions
and communicating only in grunts
suspendered stewards stake claims
on the Sycamore
for more money
moreover,
eyes shine on the falling pine –
mannish flexing
droplets of sweat
stack rack of sweet smelling fir slats
binge drinking between filling bins
train cars destined for ports
shipping the soil's children
to the impoverished and underdeveloped –
aged tycoons
rest scabby elbows
on traditional oak armrests
seated near the mahogany footed desk lamp
just to the left of a little cedar box containing cigars –

I had a dream once
You were driving, your last love in the front seat.
I sat in the middle.
Your hair looked different.
Suddenly you met across the armrests
and I had to watch as you kissed passionately,
speeding down the interstate,
totally engrossed in her lips.
I woke up:
chest pounding,
face flushed,
heartbroken.
But it wasn't real.

I had a dream once
We were in a room with a congregation
They began to pray for a fallen Knight
who passed away two years ago.
I bowed my head.
Suddenly I felt your hand on mine.
Your head was low,
you didn't look at me,
but you grasped me like a lifeline.
I placed my hand on top of yours,
and you covered that one as well,
more relaxed but still distraught.
We held each other.
We prayed together.
I woke up:
chest pounding,
face flushed,
heart swelling.
But it wasn't real.

The corner of the room

The corner if the room
The writing table
A cloud of imagination hovers
Cast over the halo of the desk lamp
The journal lay open
Calling upon the atmospheres
From the ambiance set
The genesis of dreams waiting to be plucked
Like a swarm of butterflies
Hopes waiting to be painted
Wishes waiting to be told
a corner if the room
The helm of an imagination
An empty chair
Headrest faded with miles of pondering thoughts
Armrests look like bridges
Leading back to the sanded surface
Of the pine
Treasures channeled , and a river if ink inside the pen
An ocean of odes already poured
And more just over the horizon.
The corner if the room
A passage to a universe
Were love perseveres
And nature has a voice
Emotions are teleported
From soul to soul
Hearts are won over
And some of them hurt
From the corner if the room
On the face if the writing table
Another moment lays in wait ....

dont be disgusting
you say
like i had a choice when i spoke
like that thought wasn't
rotting within us to begin with
it isnt like that at all

im thinning
youve never driven me this far before
not in the dark like this
a sticky
sugary
dark
where cavities are opened
and emptied
and what you say isnt quite true
even when you say it twice
it isnt like that at all

i want to use you and she
interchangeably
so there can be more or less distance
between us
not armrests
or elbows
or six months
but a world
a breath
a ******* butterfly epiphany
it isnt like that at all

and i think even to this day
you are no more grown up than i am
but now youre driving
and youve suddenly decided that
i am the innocent one
it isnt like that at all
how disgusting

Weeks spent battling inside,
Fumbling with words,
Looking for the right tone,
So you knew that you hurt
My soul, and the soul
Doesn’t recover so easily.

We sat down on the loveseat,
Pressed into the armrests,
And I found the right time
To speak my truth.
You listened with ears
On edge, ready to argue,
Never conceding an inch
So you could win.
And you won
Because you know
I won’t fight.

You walked away
with shoulders held high,
And a crooked smile on your face,
While I’m left alone to
Bottle everything up,
So it never comes out again.