something happened

*and then again
   and again


but it is all just an unfocused merge of subconscious creations now


but it did go something like this




--
oh the
wind and the trees

and the cuts on my knees

..and the running away from whatever it is behind me

away
and again
and a jump and then
i fall

and as i look up, i see me

yes it's me

  and i smile at myself and offer a hand up
'cos there's really nothing to be scared of
  

it's just  **me

I walk pass girls better than me
Skinny pretty tall blonde
Perfect barbie like
my insides burn with hatred
Knowing I can never be that

I try so hard but it doesn't work
Looking like a fake plastic doll
My tears wipe out the cakey stuff
I'm ready to give up

I know I'm not like them
Trying so hard is just useless

Cold
Droplets of water
Small beads
Keeping flesh fresh

Burning oxygen
Dead cells
White huffs
Mouth of snow and clouds

Thighs compact
Skin cakey
Eyes pure

Plump lips red
Irritated and punched
Tongue moist

Saliva

And biting

Pulling

And tugging

Blood

Bitter arms
Harsh words
Death whispers
"Baby it's cold outside"

Whether to have dessert
Is not even a question.
Not to indulge in sweets?
Don’t even make that suggestion.
 
Having no apple pie
Or luscious lemon meringue
Would be a real ******—
As we say in slang.
 
Right out of the oven:
Hot cinnamon rolls...
Or donuts right out of the fryer--
With or without holes...
 
Crepes filled with strawberries,
With a dollop of whipped cream...
When I talk about sweets,
I never run out of steam.
 
Don’t forget about cakes,
And anything with custard...
Chocolate in every form...
And--I’m getting flustered--
 
Fresh homemade cookies
Of any delicious kind...
Chocolate fudge or divinity...
Yikes, I’m losing my mind!
 
Dessert bars, oh, my goodness,
Chewy, crumbly, flaky...
Banana, zucchini, and pumpkin
Bread—soft and cakey...
 
Cupcakes topped with thick frosting,
And filled with chocolate ganache...
Creamy Crème brûlée...
Boy, aren’t we getting posh!
 
A sugary German plum cake,
A Danish butter ring,
And Greek galaktoboureko
Give me a reason to sing!
 
Chocolate frosted brownies...
Lefse with sugar and butter...
My sweet tooth is growing larger
With every word that I utter.
 
Some people say that these sweets
Might be the cause of my death.
Then let me be holding a cookie
When I take my last breath!

- by Bob B

I was seated at the kids table.  Again.  I guess reaching the ripe old age of seventeen has not qualified me to explore the vast mind boggling and stimulating conversations of the adult table.  That or more likely they don’t want me to hear the “curse words” that they would be surprised to know half my teachers use in class anyway and have worked their way into my own vocabulary.  I just don’t understand what would put me in a league with eleven year olds.  At what seemed like the three thousandth mention of a selfie and the obnoxious constant bleeping of their iPhones at Easter dinner, I had been snapped out of my angst filled stupor by my uncles squeaking folding chair.  
My mother glared at me as I looked around the room.  She noticed that my posture was slouched and my arms were folded across my chest.  Again.  Well what did she expect?
As she approached I saw she meant business but I would not let down my well-built walls of being beyond the ******* kids table.  “Rebecca smile for God’s sake.” Ummm no-no thank you?    
I looked her back in the eyes and asked her earnestly “Mom what am I doing here?  I have nothing thing in common with these—children.”  What I was really thinking was You would be slouching too if you were expected to eat chicken fingers while your cousin-only four years your senior might I add- was eating beautifully prepared lamb.  But of course, that would make me seem ungrateful.
“Just TRY, Aunt Lisa will be down with dessert any second now anyway!” she said as if that was some type of reward for dealing with the ******* of being seventeen and still viewed as similar to an eleven year old.  
I resumed my stupor until I heard the clicking of heels (shorter than mine might I mention, I think that should be some sort of factor when deciding seating) coming down the stairs.  I thought there would be something marvelous, something creamy or cakey or some kind of fruit filled something.  The excitement built as I fought against the cracking smile only dessert could bring to my lips.  
There were two boxes. Two tables.  One contained a beautiful cheese cake, topped with fresh fruit.  The other was hostess.  Chocolate cupcakes.  Needless to say I don’t think you have to ask which box was dropped down onto the eleven year old end of the table.  Not even thirty seconds later, the box of carcinogenic cupcakes had disappeared and all I was left with was the bitter resentment of a ***** napkin covered in chicken finger grease and empty wrappers of disappointment.
My mom then had the nerve to ask me to clean the dishes and utensils with remnants of cheese cake and stains from stirring their cappuccinos.  *Gee, seventeen.

insecurities. judgement. fear. shame. criticism. empathy
our imperfections are things we hide and exposed it feels like a great shame the world shouldn't need to see. secrets from our childhood, violations made against us, personality, our appearance.
let me see.
because the very thing that holds us back and makes us certain we are different from all the rest are the things that form bonds between us.
empathy and understanding. the ability to connect with someone else who had the same upbringing as you. the ability to connect with someone else that's unsure of themselves in a crowd. the ability to connect with someone else that doesn't like an artist everyone else loves. connect with the person with cakey make-up because they too have a bad case of acne. the girl that stays in her t-shirt while everyone else get's gawked at in their string bikinis. and larger. the kids that slept in the closet because a parent attacked the other. the little girl that thought her brother loved her but violated her. the one that does what they must to feed their kids, shelter them. the man in love with his friends woman. the young kids not ready for parenthood and visit a clinic. the life that believes they were the key to saving another, but didn't or couldn't. the doctor that made a mistake and cost a family a loved one. the boy that can't confront their religious parent about their sexuality. for the girl that had a fling and caught a sexually transmitted virus, and can't tell her mama. the ones that never have their fill because they sense eyes on their plate and weight.
ect. because the list goes on. all of it are chains that we form with strangers and friends. all of these insecurities, shames, imperfections are the reminder that we're all in this together.
we're human, and that's humanity.
I do not ask for you to reveal yourself to the world if you don't wish to. that was not my initial intention. what I ask is to remind yourself that what we hide is what another understands. so be open-minded and compassionate towards yourself because it'll ultimately lead to the bettering of our world.

my pocket   has     one nickel    &      Mason's has     a dime;
    a   transient,   red rubber ball ping-ponging  deep  faith with    & for  
        carnival             trash   is what    falls from the
raccoon's mouth    past three;      the      midnight   tour, troupe, &
    egret     have plucked    my eyes out     before    petit dejeuner    
         &    have all booked     residence    with   lush   vagabonds from
   some oasis    on the     curb of Suburbia,   the ottoman wet       where
        lore      slumps the backs of the        fairest;   where,  
  beyond     equanimity   there  boons & beckons  
            tightropes,   slacked tension;     and where     folklore  swells
     arteries       like   King Cake;    the  swamplands  have my    pocket
            picked;   pock-marked    truants    (BOY)    fiddling in fours
  during    school hours,   cakey     margarine  spread all
       over      their    legs         as they      eat grilled cheese and
become,      ****,
           in the    ambrosian   daylight fogged out with    figgy shade
   by thick,   carpet-fondling    curtains, sagging with secondhand soot.

That growling voice
raspy
bronchial tubes screaming under
cakey mucus;
feelings are thrown around here,
jutting out of auras
like flood lights.
We all need things.
What would it be like if we didn't?
Can you imagine that?
Everyone
having everything they need
to feel safe,
secure,
loved?

These days
Whenever someone asks me,
"How are you doing?"
I plaster a smile
On my powdered face
And say–
"Oh, I've never felt so good!"
They too exercise their lips
And leave me to
Make the most of my day
With a visage, gleeful and gay.
So on and on I go
Showering little bits of
Exuberant blessings;
Like sprinkles on an iced cake.
The whole day
I keep meeting people
Some jolly, some sombre
Attempting to break free,
And go way up yonder.
Every night
I come back home
Finally relaxing the creases
On the corner of my lips;
Removing the cakey foundation
Along with the mask of
Joviality and optimism.
I keep the mask aside
To be put on the next day,
And wallow in the
Emptiness of the room.
Maybe one day
I'll gather the courage,
To throw my mask in a bin
And be able to declare:
"Hey, I'm not doing fine,
Would you like to care?"

you handed me peach rings
I drove along the 405
an extra twenty minutes went by
toll freeway avoided,
pep talks peppered throughout.

valet greets my toyota corolla
crystal birds hang from the ceiling
unnecessary elegance,
statues and marble.

reached the beach from the cliff overlooking
skipped the tram, we'll carry our own chairs
eating bay cities
burrata dripping out of french loaves
let me hold this time and place for months to come.

walking along, gray skies and clear waves
my dad comes up
the air grows heavy
silence weighted the salty air
raw thoughts

the heads of dolphins spring up
squeals and phones leave pockets
how nature cuts through ache.

ironing a white button down for dinner
only use mascara
tonight your pallets of brown and rose
close enough to assess every pore
I am safe in your penmanship.

rushing to catch hues of pink
just missed it a blond lady says
wasn't good anyway.
heat lamp far away, shivering
denim jacket fits as if I
picked it out myself

made it five minutes before closing
brown sugar boba
soft serve you eat so slow

knocked out in bed
driving wore me out.

next day
a bride preps for the altar
I sit and watch sleep hold you close
cakey blueberry muffin breakfast
two cappuccinos, whole milk.

reaching wilshire
I can't decipher your eyes
Mr. L pulls out a pizza bigger than me
new york style, best you've ever had
I hope my empty tank is enough.