2 years, 5 months, 19 days.

That's the last time a man
Looked me in my eyes
And told me
He loved me.

Nearly one thousand days have passed
Since someone looked at me
Like I was his whole world.

And now I'm at the point
Where I wonder if I'll be alone
Forever,
Not like the cliches,
The woman who chooses a career over a family,
Or the crazed lady who clings to her cats...
No, just a girl
Growing into a young woman
Who doesn't even remember
What it feels like to have someone
Love her.

Not sure if I've really ever even been loved,
At least not like it happens in the movies.
I've continued to pine hard,
Chasing the affection of conflicted souls
Who never bother to appreciate me,
Those cliched types who are
"Too damaged" to really love someone.

Sometimes I wonder
If I'm gonna be able to accept love
If I finally find it,
My fragmented soul having grown
An allergy to kind gestures,
Compliments,
Or anything that actually might be deemed
Indicative of affection.

Slowly sinking down to the baseboards,
Rotted and gnarled roots
Clinging deep to the underground,
My body dissolved into an anterior realm of
Cynicism
As I grasp the realities of my own
Unrequited love,
My yearning to demand more,
******* and twisted with my
Fear to stop settling
And actually obtain
"better."

2 years, 5 months, 19 days.
I'm just hoping it doesn't take me
As long
To look at the
Golden brown eyes that I
See in the mirror and tell me
I love me
Enough to not care who
Else might.

I planted flowers
  Fixed the floor
Worked for hours
  Painted the door
Re-grouted the tile
  Sowed some seeds
Rested a while
  Then pulled the weeds
Painted the halls
  The carpet is new
Washed the walls
  And baseboards too
Removed the clutter
  granite counters were bought
Replaced the gutter  
  'Cause the old ones were shot
I stand back and see
  the results of our work
mumbling softly, Gee
  You're a stupid ****
Shiny and new
  The house is a show
Prepared for a view
  By people we don't know
Our home's at it's best
  And everyone can tell it
So now we can rest
  And the realtor can sell it!

The setting of traps
has always seemed
like a tacit endorsement
of the mice.

Acknowledgement.
Validation.
Admission of failings as a homeowner –
(cracked baseboards or an unsealed gap in the door.)

We are usually responsible
for our own infestations, after all.

The relationship with the mice is codified
“you are vermin,
I am not.
I will ****.
You will die.”

Thus the mice are transfigured,
Christ-like.
Frozen in fear,
frozen in time,
laid bare
on a sticky, chemical
altar of sacrifice.

Saviors
giving their lives
so that we may preserve
those unwanted crumbs
in the vacant space
between the couch and loveseat
where the vacuum won’t reach.

Love is blind but please, watch my back - I can think of no death worse than a demise brought upon myself from being too lost in your eyes. I was starving and trembling in your wake as though you'd locked me in your basement (and I would've fettered myself to your baseboards if you told me to); how could I not get chills the size of mountains on my spine when the wind was blowing your rusty ribs like wrought iron gates? I spent many a night wondering if your heart could weather the storm. I spent even more time listening to the ticking of my clock until it started to sound like you, and I bet no one told you that my heart will simply beat like a metronome on your time until the conductor waves his baton. On some Wednesdays, records will skip and mock me like you do. On this day, there will be cataclysms, and they will look just like you.

I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person.

I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person until the day his smile began to look like the welcome mat to his eyes, and his fingers running through my hair felt like they've never belonged anywhere else.

I've written about love before him.  

I've written about hands on my skin and lips whispering the sweetest of words into my ear.
I've written about tongues that ran down my neck like honey.
I've written poems describing the motions of falling in love; comparing it to storms, and then comparing it to a summer day...

and then comparing it to pain.

I've written poems about April turning to June and winter turning to spring;
but I've never had a favorite poem of mine.
I've never had a favorite month or a favorite season or a favorite sound or even a place that felt like home. 

 But now I do.

We wake up to the sun slipping through the shades of his window; it's routine.
Time doesn't exist between him and I.
I turn to him, forcing my eyes open so they can trace the line of his jaw, the curvature of his lips, the frailness of his eyes slowly awakening to meet mine.
At this moment, I've found the one place that's home; and it isn't made of bricks and baseboards.
Home is curled hair, deep brown eyes, and a crooked smile.  Home is the hand that holds mine. Home is his voice when he tells me he loves me.

I thank July for bringing me love.

I'm thankful for the goosebumps he leaves on the surface of my skin. I thank the sound of his laugh for restoring the life in a part of me I thought was dying.
I've never written about love before him. I've written about hands that have touched me just to take parts of me with them when they leave. I've written about the motions of losing myself in someone who destroyed the most innocent pieces of me.
Love has never been so hopeful, so consistent, so pure.

This is my favorite poem. Home has soft eyes.

"Home is where the heart is."
Gaius Plinius Secundus.

Around the time I turned 9 years old,
the word "home" became a puzzle.
Where was it?
Was I supposed to go and find it?
What did it even look like?

You see, I grew up in an unhealthy household
with few friends to surround myself with.
I grew up calling my house just that--
a house.

I searched for a safe place to rest my tired mind and heart
for longer than I can remember.
But on a seemingly dull November night,
where I was completely off guard,
completely unaware,
you walked into the room,
and suddenly,
I saw a porch light.
I was so scared to walk in because,
How was I supposed to know a home even looked like that?
Disheveled, almost ashy brown hair.
Eyes greener than the pines that
we've been surrounded by our whole lives,
a smile reminiscent of the sun itself.
A month later, I finally let myself in and
I feel as though I made the mistake of getting too cozy.
You see, the floorboards had chips and cracks,
The foundation had been growing weak.
I insisted on staying as the roof caved in.
I had to crawl out of the rubble,
alone,
and try to build some makeshift shelter of my own.
A shelter of empty liquor bottles and cigarette butts,
Crumpled up papers and broken pencils.

I was sure the light was out for good.
I was sure I was left to find another home,
or at least wander in the nothingness,
when I heard a slight knock.
A knock on the door,
and I went outside.
I was confused--
nobody was there.
No one was home.

I followed the knocking as it rang in my ears,
and came across a familiar,
unkempt shanty.

The porch light flickered as I approached.
You came back into my life,
and while all I wanted to do was step inside,
maneuver through the wreckage,
I stared.
I couldn't even look in those stain glass windows,
those rich, forest green eyes,
because I felt it.
As I stood beside you,
next to you,
I feared for my sanity knowing
you were still my home.

The conversations were almost as unstable
as the remaining scaffolding and stilts.
As the drops began to pattern my clothing,
you reached out, gave me your hand,
and pulled me inside.
You pulled me into your arms,
and I cried.
I cried because I was home again.
I couldn't tell you that.
I cried because I still love you,
and we simply cannot mingle.
We cannot use the old baseboards
of the places we've evacuated
to rebuild a home together;
I'm yet to find my heart.
I think I left it with you.

When I pulled away from your hold,
I felt lost.
I looked to your eyes without thinking,
and I saw every moment we spent together
as though it were today.

I saw the little country market where you
demanded I get out of the car,
because I was crying and you knew I needed
someone to hold, and you offered.
I saw the look in your eyes when you asked to kiss me,
because you knew that I'd been hurt so terribly before,
because you wanted me to feel safe enough
to fall into someone's arms again.
I saw our matching shoes on our first date,
the nerf guns you came running in with,
heard the playlist in the car as we laughed at
how young we felt, and how it contradicted our actual age.

I saw the box I had to put your things in.
I saw the screen of the phone reading 'call ended',
the last time I heard your voice.
I saw the treeline as I shouted at it,
cursing at the wind for reminding me of your touch,
for sending chills down my spine when
that was your job,
cursing the trees for being so lively,
so close to your eyes,
I cursed you for being everywhere I went.

Like a 'Vacancy" sign on my front door,
I felt as though I was evicted from my home,
and I cannot go back because
it's not safe.

I know it's not safe.
Not right now.
I know the foundation is weaker than ever.
I know there's not room for two.

Instead I lie in this bed,
thinking of you.

I'm lost.
I miss you.
I just want to go home.

I'm in a small living room with beige , sheet rocked
walls and wood floors , contemporary artwork and a Vox
amplifier
A MacBook Air for keeping my diary , a ceiling fan forming
a tune with a busy wall clock
Dust is collecting on white painted baseboards , occasionally
tumbling across the floor
A front door secured twice plus two windows with venetian
blinds , trinkets on shelves , the faint odor of pine , paper flowers ,
fragments of glass glued into containers
Peripheral shadows are moving to and fro , images are stair stepping
before me , heart racing , hands cannot find their home , memory
racing mach one , telephone is nothing but noise , windows are for
guarding against potential predators , flipping in synchronized repetition from Facebook to Outlook , from Hello Poetry to Musicians Friend
Flying with one eye closed and hoping to eventually land* ...

The Party’s Over

First Ray of Sunlight bangs on the front door,
mop and bucket, green disinfectant, God knows
she’s seen much worse.  Start with Giuliani
broom his shriveled heart, pour bleach in the dank dark
corners of his soul, load Newt onto a cart but
come back for Christie, got to watch the back.
Spray all the baseboards, maybe tent and bomb,
bag up all the empties, filthy bottles of ignorance,
butts of hate floating in the dregs.
Open the curtains, let in the light, watch them scuttle
for the drain, don a hazmat suit and head upstairs
“The Donald” lolls in bed tangled up in stinking
sheets of free media coverage, bedding soiled with a bladder
full of lies and self-regard.
The rest of us will slink out the back, Lord knows
we enjoyed the bread and circus, we love a good carnival
geek when he bites the heads off chickens.
Sunlight is the best disinfectant but this
may require gasoline and match.

you told me that I resembled the battered, cracked baseboard
that ran along your concrete room
clearly suffering years of irrational abuse, and torment,
a foundational error maybe,
and chipped paint.

i can't say that I disagree.

but i can tell you that me and this baseboard share a lot in common

you see we both started out with a simple purpose,
sit still and do our job.
granted, my foundational friend had it slightly easier,
but only due to the that fact that you only kicked the baseboard accidentally;
in a drunken stumble or a game of indoor soccer.
I, on the other hand, was bruised and chipped away on purpose.

whether i said the wrong thing, or laughed too long, or wore the dress that you didn't like--

as if it mattered

you rattled my mangled bones with your lion heart and wanton ways,
my lips, red raw and quivering

you shook away any doubt of my worth
and smiled at the inflicted galaxies on my skin
you always saw yourself as a god

you watched the rustic liquid trickle down my thighs
from your own incisions
on my already scarred hips
and I almost felt beautiful

you ripped apart my innocence
and drowned out my screams with bad music with nasally singer and repetitive melodies

I thought I at least deserved better than ****** music

despite your absence I still sit
in concrete rooms
with cracked baseboards
and caving ceilings
because that's where I feel at home

among the broken and the abandoned,

among the walls that soaked up as many terror stories as me

among irreparable damage

and oddly enough i want to thank you
because now i have a home
within the vacancy

it takes awhile
but the carpet depressions
in your room, eventually fade
even gravity cannot hold forever
your markings
they reside in curtain folds
behind loose baseboards
evidence exists in photographs,
our shadows,
locked, in silvered paper
exhibits to what was
and what we were .

if you hoovered the world out
of people and only the good hearts
were left along the baseboards

the sun shined only on good hearted
ones, the rain cleansed the soil,
of all their detritus

the rainbow's end would alight
on you and prove you are golden
days would be parties

then the stars would get in alignment
shooting comets for you
only, as signs

that you are a good heart
and that the world needs more
just like you!

Baseboards lined with spiderwebs
That shimmer in the slanted sun
Next to worn, wooden chairs
Feeling sturdier than ever
Shelves and shelves of
Outdated textbooks and encyclopedias
Crinkly and brown and yellowed
How many trees went into these pages
This forest rearranged
And defaced by movable type

it's when the dust gets as high as the baseboards
or the rust corrodes the pipes
and they start leaking
I get buzy
whip my swiffer sweeper and knock the crust off this
apartment
grab my pipe wrench and start tweaking
on the leaky faucet
it's when the electric gets cut off
I can't see the dust or the water
dripping
is when I get lazy
set still
I don't care
a **** bit

I’m considering breaking;
something big and essential and shared,
like a four-way traffic light, or a water tower,
or smashing every lightbulb I’ve ever used,
and letting the glass shards spread across
The grocery store aisles,
And I’ll shop for spinach, and caramel, and greek yogurt barefoot,
To show everyone how tough I am.

I’m considering disappearing into the November winds,
I’m untying my apron as a walk across the yard.
I’m already forgetting what the dishes look like
and when the utilities are due-
I’m already exaggerating what I’ve got, and
intonating superstitions toward where I’m going.

A gaggle of humans fleeing the tolerable
should push, should glow and guess,
should smile while they walk away,
shaking off their receipts and sunken science, gratefully.

Ahh, it feels good to decompose -
so good,
so, so good.
Have you tried it? Really tried it?
Anything anxious, or stiff, or sad
sprouting inside of you is severed-
pried out of the baseboards with the hammer’s claw,
and flushed down the toilet leaving a rusty stain on the porcelain.

But then,
then,
you become radiant.

You become a mystery; searing and traveling,
wrapped loosely in oils and gauze.
You become an emblem;
the blackest sun, the proudest eyelids, vaguest plans.
You become a fable,
picking scabs off your fingers, roaming sweaty markets,
utterly dissolved.

This new room does not hold me like the old one once did
Lacking the cracks in the walls to count and memorize
And the old children's stickers peeling up at the corners on the baseboards
But it's mine, and I'm on my own just like I've always wanted
(Right?)
A cupboard, a fridge full
Yet all of the food rots away like my insides
As I'm laying in bed at night
Fluttering my lids at every sound
At every footstep
Of a reminiscent spirit that clenches at my chest and pulls me back into this godforsaken bed
Where I grasp aimlessly at dreams out of reach
No longer dreading waking before the sun rises for work
But relieved to leave the heaviness these blankets.
People say I look good, I seem like I have my energy back
Did you lose some weight?
(yes)
And words come pouring out of my mouth so quickly they trip over each other desperately
(I am desperate)
And I lie
I tell my mom, I'm sorry I've been so busy
When I haven't left this house leisurely in weeks
And she can clearly see the dark concaves under my eyes.
My mom gifts me food to take home
And I have to deny
Knowing I'll be unable to eat it
Unable to fill this body so hollow
And now so frail.

You’ll be 34 this year, you remember as you take a sip of wine,
the same wine you drank before it was legal to do so.

You struggle to decipher which parts are yours still,
and which parts belong to the girl who indulged
Before her time.

You tried to paint the moon tonight, on the good paper,
it doesn’t turn out. You attempt to capture it on your phone.
Despite how clear it was, it just escapes you.

There is dust collecting in the corners of your dining room floor.
You tell yourself that real women have clean baseboards.

They don’t attempt, and fail, to paint the moon when their children fall asleep.

You admit that you have not met the standards of your mother.
She never looks at you with disappointment,
she’s just scared the others would never understand your heart the way she does.

The record on the player needs to be flipped over,
That’s a compromise you’ve made,
for being able to indulge in the past a little longer,
once again.

It’s 2 am, a bookmark for sleep, that’s when adults
are allowed to go home.

You clean your brushes under cold water,
make sure to turn off all the lights.

Biting back bile like
When I believed I could be born again and the bible was a buoy
Floating on whiskey breath.
I never could "be good" then.
The only absolution
Is slow execution
Dying the same way baseboards turn brown
The way cobwebs climb corners
Forgotten
Until they're ***** enough
To need attention.

There is ink spilled
on white worn linen
well scrubbed wood
railings smooth and worn
tremolo sounds across baseboards
and cabinetry of cypress

These grains in wood speak
as if they were twirled
on a song and open smile
and i wonder what isn't
twirled across time and faces
nothing

My little brush with small dustpan
Is called a Table Crumber.
But I do not do fancy meals
That worry about bread crumbs

Instead it often sweeps behind
The Kitchen cupboard baseboards
For all the bits that fall that way
While I’m preparing dinner.

The standard broom is way too big
To get into those corners
To find the crumbs and bacon bits
That fly off of the counter.

So while its job is alternate
And not in fancy settings
My little brush is valuable
A fact Im not forgetting.
                             ljm

I was hurt beyond measure, beaten, bruised,
shut down, sinking beyond mountainous
stones, closed chambers, saw-slashed syllables,
whip-smashed vowels, dry rotten, abandoned,
sashed up, floating on dank shores, ax slapped,
crashing below burned hallways.  My heart was
shifting in unstable positions, squeaky baseboards
and blackboards, screeching sounds folding
and unfolding around my broken soul as I stared
around the empty bedroom seeking serenity
from this lost love lingering inside my cells.
I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t falling
in love with you, your dark passionate eyes
reaching deep into the layers of my labyrinth,
thick lips filled with incandescent rhythms,
widening in my sight, sparking my horizon
as I longed to embrace your landscape.
soft bones of freedom and hope traveling
within your wild nature, seamless treasures
revolving in the air, wavy hair everything
I wanted and more, wonderful arms a stream
of poetry, a dancing mix drumming through
the cracks of my creation, awakening my universe,
your rapping soundtrack of romance headlining
the cityscape, shining like flashing stoplights,
like crystal china.  And as I paced back and forth
around the shadowy space, the green-walls
starting to close in on me, all rusted and ragged,
hardened, splintered commas snapping away
from subjects, damaged verbs and run-on
sentences, my shrunken shoulders trapped
in hollow holes, dying, dim, slim,
shattered stems encompassing my limbs,
sour vowels burning in my mouth,
squashed maggots and bedbugs dissolving
down my throat, spoiled milk clouding
my windpipe, huge cockroaches crawling
all over my flesh as I took in the gratifying
touch.  I was losing my mind, shotgunned,
stunned, uncolored depictions stealing
away my serenity, jagged letters scrawled
in sharp swords across my blackened belly,
stained mirrors facing me in every direction,
my bladed hands lashing at every stained image,
feeling the fire flames from each cracked glass,
sizzling slopes, crazed hallucinations, dazed places,
raw-scorched galaxies, my crippled fingers
bleeding in saddened songs, smoked, undone,
unready, diminishing beneath slippery creeks
as I wondered why love could hurt so **** bad,
why when every time I thought I had found the one,
it was just another mugshot melody shattering
my system.

Freedom is
A wooden floor with a nest of blankets
And snuggling up to the baseboards
To keep my pride warm.