i am grateful for stretch denim on days
when
          **** it
is a fashion statement
for lavender laundry detergent
because that smell reminds me of the home i've built in my head
for tea at
2 a.m.
when all the things i've done race in my head
because the next morning, i usually get my **** together
for colds
because they make eating an entire roll of cinnamon buns
completely justifiable
for the mountains that surround me
for NPR and good, rated M fanfiction
for def poetry when i can't find the right words
for finding a pack of cigarettes when it is only
11:30pm on a thursday night
and i am well past drunk in a slightly damp armchair
for harry potter and neil gaiman
for when twenty dollars fills up my gas tank
for my grandma's potato salad and biscuits with honey
for feminist zines that make me want to smash the patriarchy
for burts bees chapstick and jasmine-green tea
for friends who let me cry on their
bedroom floors
for books that keep me entertained
(even if that means me crying in my bathtub while reading them)
for courtney love and joan jett because those *******
have ridden in my car with me over many
heart-breaks
for well-water and sulfate free red wine
for johnny cash and new orleans and whiskey
for salt-- because that **** can wash away anything
for farmer's markets and co-ops
for bottles of water  and for cookie dough
when my mouth
is the consistency of cotton  and my mind is a little bit gone
for warm days in January and cold days in September
for breakfast and for hikes that begin at five a.m.
for summer nights drunk on wine and a little too much fire
for friends who call me 'momma bear' and for friends that call me 'baby bird'
for poems that give you cold chills
and flowers stolen from my neighbor's yard
for skin that smells like the sun and sage
for beeswax candles
and the smell of clean laundry
for days when i wake up and realize
i could have died on a bathroom floor

These days drag on
while I drag on my finely
rolled cigarette of relief
But the relief is only a hazy
mask, fading with every lash
that falls on my cheek
My hair is too weak and
unkempt, for days spent
inside enduring darkness
take a toll on one's
mentality and physicality

I am a shell of who I used to be
Lips stuck together, crooked spine,
fingers jammed from carpel tunnel
Apathetic eyes grow weary from the
vast toxins that reside behind them
seeping through like an absorbent napkin
and rung out with listlessness

These days drag on and on
I hear the same songs
and make the same motions
I miss the fresh air and
the sound of the ocean
I almost miss the faint
smell of burts bees on
your lips--I'm sick with
nostalgia and dying for the future,
hating the present, wishing these
days would drag to an end

The rain pours down
and my hands feel each drop
as my frown gets drowned out in the storm
my happiness burts like the sun threw the clouds
I embrace the thunder and the lighting
because I know this storm will pass
and the light will bake my skin
God has my life from here on out
and I'm perfectly okay
being swept away in this flood
of emotion.

Burts bees mint lip balm, I can still feel it, smell it, as if it were on me,
And I sit there and watch her overly apply it on her lips, I can feel the presence of
Innocence and bike riding up the winding trails towards Kensington and
there should have been a sign that told me to stop where I was going, to prevent
me from traveling to a different state of mind where affection was insignificant
and where losing myself was a crime

I made a bet today.
If I came home
To a gloomy, empty house,
I'd say it's over and end it all.

But today was different.
I saw my father
Sat on the table
Eating his lunch.

He was never home early.
He spends the night here to sleep.
And the rest of the day at work.
Never had time to talk.

He called me over
"Son, let's eat."
With barely a smile
I take my seat.

He says "You're home early"
I nod and chew away.
A spoon or two later, he asks
"Tell me about your day."

It was lazy, the usual,
And spent alone like any other.
Is what I'd say
If I could be honest, father.

My father finished his meal
Gave me a pat on the head
And went back out to work.
"Goodbye son, stay safe okay?"

It was weird to me.
We barely ever talk.
But It felt warm for a second.
For second, then I brushed it off.

I thought I was alone again.
Time's about up, right?
But the bedroom door opens.
And out comes my sister.

She slept like a rock.
She woke up at noon!
But she's a grown up, older than me.
That's bound to change soon.

But like a child with a request,
She says "I wanna watch a movie!"
"You're old enough to do that yourself."
"But I can't decide which."

She says "Tell me what's new."
"The Greatest Showman?
You really wanted to see that."
Her sleepy face lit up, "Yes!"

So I play my copy of the movie.
And watched the logos fly.
The intro plays
The minutes passed by.

A young P. T. Barnum sang
My sister tries to catch the song.
So I sing alongside her to help.
And she got the chorus before long.

I swear, she's two years older.
But she's like a precious child.
She stared at the screen with glee
And a smile so wide.

I felt oddly warm to see her that way.
Like the smile was my doing.
"I like this movie!"
"I knew you would."

"It's weird though," she tells me.
"It's weird to see Wolverine singing"
She burts in a heap of laughter.
I couldn't help but feel warmer.

I came home with a bet today,
Like my life was on a coin toss.
But now I feel stupid.
I wouldn't miss out on this.

So maybe I'm depressed.
And maybe the world's a bit rough...
But days like these,
They'll keep me happy enough.

Listen
the waking grass singing
a hymn
of spring
look
fish in the river
sketching a picture
with colorful inks
the sound of spring
carries a beautiful dream
the ancient laughter
blue gentle skies
soft calm breeze
shy flower buds
decorating a desolate forest
on the quiet
windowsill
there's sweet story
of swallows
burts of intoxicating jasmine
the heart is like
a kite flying
around in the sky
in search of it's
own share of clouds.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
As I would for you.
As we are one. As we are unity.

As we enjoy the same fruit.
As we enjoy spinning,
As we enjoy twirling,
Our eyes blind to the direction of the world.
Our eyes blind to the walls,
The ceiling.
The floors.
Every step.
Every turn.
Not afraid of where we'll end up, or what the world thinks of us.
Alas, we are blind, our eyelids dropped.
As we cannot see the world, the world cannot see us.

We enjoy closing the page, we enjoy the story.
And as the words may be over, the way we perceive them still exists.
Swelling,
Inside us like a growing storm.
Trembling.
Waiting.
For the time to pop out, to flood our thoughts and perceptions, Trickling down our ideas,
like dew on a pure and calm morning.

We enjoy the pigment staining the canvas for the last time,
Until the next.
Until the next time our creativity burts out of us,
Until the next time we have something to say.
Until the next time our brush subtly scraps across the cloth,
Not making a sound.
Until the next time the colored gel glides across,
Transforming into whatever we perceive it as.
Until the next time a smile is plastered across,
Until the next time a masterpiece is completed.

We enjoy stepping onto the grass, the day having been done,
Our toils having been endured.
Our house just ahead,
Our home.
The place we feel safest.
The place we belong.
The place we read.
The place we write.
The place we cook.
The place we sing.
The place we dance.

The place the rooms combine to make our home, just as
We combine to make one. Just as we combine to make unity.