They were so wrapped up in themselves all the time
That they wasted away their lives,
But their toppling equilibriums then settled in unison
And they caught each other's eyes.

Perfect: I used that word once to talk about you
as if you were a doll with limbs made of plastic:
stiff and whimsical and subject to the niggardly
commands of the conscious- yet you, who thinks
as aggressively as any doll-house builder do not
construct your own set-pieces; instead you
pirouette into one carefully constructed day to the
next as you delicately
stride
from bed to shower to wardrobe to mirror to desktop to
window to mirror to mirror to
mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them
all-
and the staid look on your face when the mirror gives no
answer
because it can’t. Checkered skirt, sharp eyelashes, wary
jumper, almost heels. Perfect, you might think
for a moment before your eyes roll gently from self
to mirror
to self
to mirror
to mirror
the self. What was
it that you were looking for if all it does is lead
you back to your skin? Meanwhile, the snow
stutters softly from above as if God had dandruff-
perfect- and it all gently glazes the spongy surface of the world like
flawless coconut icing on some sorry party cake- perfect- and the morning
bell rings impossibly on time like the last
breath you thought was your last- perfect- and somewhere in
America I use words to remind you of the little
unreachables
of perfection that both start and end with your perfectly
snow-pale skin, where somewhere in
America and somewhere on
your thighs perfect ridges of red have formed themselves like
plastic scratches on a Barbie which we both think
are little but we both know
are big
because you are not plastic.

                                               At nighttime our feet
skip on the icy brick pathways that lead from
the dorm-rooms to the library and we shiver
as the snowflakes bob in and out of our bodies
like thoughts
that seem funny but aren’t quite- they melt away
as soon as they stumble upon our skin. From our mouths
cloudy puffs of being flutter out- little butterflies affirming
out listless snowflake-filled minds, sperming out ice-clouds
from our mouths, our mouths, our mouths; birthing friendship.
Breath, visible, is laughter. I trip and swear and momentarily
skate
across a sudden ice-surface as you speak another ice-breath. We
arrive
at the library but dart towards the empty right-side, the science
classrooms. We hope
to examine the thought-skirmishes on your right thigh, to turn  
and change this hopeless world-spinning into centrifuge
separation-
make apparent the light from the dark
                        the firmament from the void
                        the flesh from the plastic, the-
here we are as you talk
about your family and I
try my best to look you
in the eye so I
can become
your eyes
even when
normally
I
am
so
vehemently
against

staring

at the soul-gates of another being-
here we are as you talk;
God is still missing from the centrifuge
of the endlessly turning world- your
axis
is your skin yet
you trust it
not. The salads without dressing,
        the weighing scales,
        the taste of bile at the back of your
throat-
all for skin that
       you
do
not
      trust.
All for flesh that you think is plastic
so
     you
     cut.
      
             Enough
talk because the bell cuts through the flesh
of our conversation. Enough
talk because the world insists on
turning still
and forcing us to revolve
with it. Enough
breathing, enough
snow, enough
life. I remember you saying
that the ratios of your face are wrong;
that certain equilibriums do not exist between
your cheeks your lips your eyes your life…I remember the science
classrooms where parts of you were as mathematical as the architecture... I remember how
you keep thinking your flesh is plastic… You forget how
inglorious the nature of these words is. The problem
with human thought, with the ratios of your face, with the
geometric structures that cut across your thighs, with the
statistical neatness with which your family decomposes;
the problem with our conception of perfect is how
awkwardly it both exists and does not exist for us to
see.
The ratios of your face which you think are broken are
the same miracles I wonder about as you laugh. The incorrect distance
from your cheek to your eye which you think is wrong is the same
lightyear which separates the stars from the planets. The curvature
of your stomach is the bending of a spacetime to accommodate
the way the air must move to let your body occupy the space and time in which it
exists.
The ratios you speak of spring from your own limitlessness, your own
perfect imperfections , imperfect perfections-
strange oddities and unfathomable beauties and yes. Yes,
even the ridges across your right thigh are minute, red,
gasping
grand-canyons of
flesh,
of human, of breathing clay
flesh-
           never
plastic;
            always
worthy.
            
              Recently the voices in my head have been getting louder,
telling me all sorts of things about how the snow ought to bury me
in its mercilessness. They mention also that my words bear no meaning,
my thoughts even less so. Assumedly, the ridges across your thigh
carry such spectres as well but, I messaged you before you went to bed
about coming out and having an adventure because tick-tock-tick-tock…tick…tock…tick-
the last bell of the day is going to ring soon and the voices and ridges
will assert themselves again with the bedtime silence, but check your Facebook
messages and come outside and let’s go skipping with your friends across
the century-old polished prep-school brick pathways that smell archaic because it’s

snowing outside and it’s lovely.

Discussion ends, and we talk on:
to clarify lecture, thereon
concerning life - the rules by which we play
as clumsy wise with books and blades,
chemists cutting to remake
the human form, and change, reshape
their lives with information, application
of our minds, the drugs concocted
via our thoughts. This the power -
and its light we cannot help but hope to wield,
for who declines the hands that look for aid,
to bring the flush to lives that fade?

Discussion ends, and we talk on:
I with slow mind, I ask thereon
for I am slow, but eager so
he answers, words like hands that move
competent in their purpose, and kind
to funnel knowledge to an empty mind.

Discussion ends, and we talk on
Still spoke of drugs and blood, thereon:
Influx flow in, efflux flow out,
the drug, first raw, march'd through a route
of enzymes who transform its love
for water -- made it dissolve
like salt in *****, strained away
with all your waste. Their hands are good,
those of your doctor, liver, blood.

The mathematics predict efflux
flow out -- flow in
influx dictate that concentration drug in blood
will rise - molarity
increased - at rate unchanged if not
that substrate concentration guides
the liver's rate:
a second order interaction,
see, reaction rate increases
until the speed
flow in/the rate
flow out is one, the same, and thus the blood's
molarity will change no more
-- this he taught me, as we spoke,
and if my mind wandered too far,
as it sometimes does, his hands
reached out - the type
articulate in words or digits,
which, touching, reawakened mine
to further sculpt my hands refined.

we burned violently in
brisk winters
and grew to ice in
beating summers
opposites do attract

We fell all the time.
It was a matter of balance.
Our inner ears and eyes
Struggled with gravity; and
Being upright is our gravest concern.
So, we always stood again,
Revolving around equilibriums:
Bikes, ledges and feet;
Everything was a test. Everything needed balance:
Wheelbarrows, roof peaks and checking accounts.

I've learned balance for adults
Is even more precarious.
Our words are heavily weighted,
And some more disproportionately than others,
With see-saw issues and teeter-totter opinions.

Isn't it easier to get back on the bike
Than walk back unbalanced arguments.

Revelations

I must let the evil escape to nowhere and stay there forever and forget about those sad souls in their dark foolishness
Then the flower can grow and drink in the suns wonderful madness while the limiting weeds lay withered and forgotten
and finally i shall grow up to the sky in body and heart will shine anew good with petals for all to see
Shedding the dark oppressive skins that weigh me down and breathe a foul air on those i love
Seraphim will be akin to me and i will be the void that joins all peoples
finally my dreams spring from my head and become as real as the thoughts of others we cannot control
i find the strength from within like an old long-lost friend, loved and forgotten until the needs arise again for its foundations to lift my feet
The joining of sun and moon will find the boy with the black velvet smile gazing at the undeniable truth as the weak break the bonds and become strong
The hour hand dips in favor of those who see it with calm eyes as the minute hand races like a new born spirit across the universes dial

for it is i who have bonded my own chains and branded my own heart but now the hand of folly and chains becomes the hand of healing and the voice of wonder-mad free singing voices  
That spirit, the holder of truths in its majestic eyes that holds the choices and equilibriums, the answers and the questions to begin with, that final step. I have chased it along the streets and rooftops of that place only so rarely catching and grasping it before it breaks away and the chase of wills begins again.
those light moments when its tail i so rarely grasped vanishes around that corner and down the distant
road,
So i gaze round it and...

And the road with the beckoning hand shows the way and each step gives more and more to the brave foot that walks into the clarifying light of Revelation

I stand medicated yet firm in my statement,
These ideas become adjacent
Numerous problems I engage with
My hands find my hair Grip, Pull, Twist
So I throw on some smooth issshhh
Like Poetry over Heaven’s Melody
Sounds like seduction when I’m fussing
This music soothes my soul
When my belly’s filled with the Devil’s Pie
This music makes me whole
When there’s something missing deep down inside
When I get vexed I get down to ride,
Metamorphosis, in a moment’s time
Fear becomes a myth and death only by suicide
This comma, this dream, my life what does it mean?
In my time I’ve seen treacherous things
Scarred for life like your eyes were bleeding
Numb to the pain, but never blinded by what I see
Night terrors in the day, all that’s left is it to pray
Sometimes I seem to lose my way
Equilibriums shot what could it be?
They shot MLK and JFK, have they shot me?
I’ll cut off my hands, before a chip cuts off my soul.
Defecated times of my life, but I was born with goals
So I have to get this **** right, tonight
All have sinned, and fall short
So a few lines of courage I’ll snort
Sit here with my wine, and write this report
From personal experience, statistics, and public opinion
The world has become susceptible, and subdued by evil influence
To scared, squeamish, and sick in the head
To have the courage to say what needs to be said
They’ll regret it when they’re dead.

I learned not to long ago that in order to move forward I needed to let go of who I was.
I was no longer that person.
I felt disconnected in everything I did.


At one point I learned I quite literally had to learn how to ride a bike again, I blame equilibriums however.

No one knew the me I was , wasn't the me I knew.
I didn't know who I was . I felt like I was walking in someone else's skin. I grew in ways I never grew before.

I couldn't stand tall or smile with the confidence I once had done so often. I sunk low and wore this skin that didn't feel like mine. I tried to make daily routines but every day I found a new routine was made.
                                                                   kind of defeats the idea.hmm.
I wanted to be me again, but she was gone..?

The days passed and I knew it would be hard. I tried to stay brave as the new me to be.
The weeks were replaced with months and this skin didn't feel any closer to who I was at all. In fact I  hardly knew who I looked at in the mirror for many days.
My head was clouded with the new skins negative suggestions and copious amounts of hate to the soul it was trying to connect with.


I started to think maybe this is who I always was maybe who I was is indeed gone., or worse never was.


The months are now years and the person I wanted to be ? I dreamt I was? I hoped I could be,.. again, I felt incomplete constantly.

I don't know what happened to me but I wanted to find her again I wanted to shed this skin which made me feel like an awkward monster who pretended to know who she was.

I started small and read books and wrote in my journal(s), and I tried really hard to start writing self affirmations , which I never knew how much I hated who I was until then.

I really hate saying hate! Although I really hated who this person was. I wanted, nay needed to change.
Right then and there I just started. I made steps in the direction I think is what I want.


You know it is crazy how if you start doing things that you want and believe in. Life just happens. It falls into place.
Ideas come alive in your brain and your soul feels happy and they start to connect and learn to build on these new habits.


The days turned into Months, but this time I was okay with it.
I looked in the mirror and I realized I recognized this smiling face.
This confident body, no matter what size! My eyes felt shut this whole time , or maybe my ears were blocked and I was deaf to the reality that was I could of changed this skin whenever I wanted.
I have and always had the power to be whoever I wanted. I could of tried harder. I never meant to blame anyone else I just wanted to be in control of who I saw when I woke up each morning.


It is really freeing having this control.