Today is Talia Shire's birthday and she's turned seventy-four.
She starred in the Rocky and Godfather movies and more.
Talia Coppola was her original name.
It's not surprising that she found fame.

The Landlady was my favorite movie that she starred in.
She also gave great performances in Prophecy and Old Boyfriends.
When it comes to Talia, there are two things that I know for sure.
She is very talented and millions of people love and admire her.

Dear Talia,


My mattress is tattooed with your scent.

You held me as I slept.

You kissed my forehead and told me you love me.

You whispered three syllables into my mouth. You create waves in me that wash away cigarette burns. I would hold you tight in the unforgiving night.

I want to drink cheap coffee with you as you smile between each sip and as I master the art of looking at your smile. I want to make love with you like it's going out of style and until our lungs are burning like California wildfire.

I want to evaporate into your breath.

We were side by side in a bed made for us, and I fell asleep in your arms, listening to the calm of your breathing and the frantic beat of your heart.

Your fingers weaved through my hair, and I counted heartbeats, hoping never to stop.

My brain is soup and my hands are worn down from hours of typing your name. Talia. Talia. Talia Betourney.

I want to rock in and out of your body, as you kiss my lips with precise lightning strikes. After you shock me, time and time again, I want to wonder if the lightning misses the sky.

I am flustered and as I type this, I lose control of my thoughts as I become swept into your green-eyed, dark haired heaven. I cannot dream a better dream than your reality. I want to kiss you for every gasp I've never been around for and for every moment of pain. I am not here to save you, though: I am here just to love you.

Your hands swallowed mine, as I was closest to your body. My eyes drank the darkness, and my mind escaped.

In my sleep, you told me you love me. When I woke up, you told that panther something and I wanted to know what his ears heard that mine didn't.

You wouldn't say, and your hands grew slight tremors, the same way farmers grow slight weeds.

We started to kiss like our lips were the antidote. You whispered into my mouth. I asked what you said, being able to make most of it out.

You said, "Nothing." But, baby, that wasn't nothing. That was everything.

After a few minutes, I told you that I made out most of it and that it was okay.

You turned to your side, and your hands shook. I love you so much. I love you. I love you. I love you. Turn back to me. Look at me. Hey.

"It's okay. It's okay, and it's going to be okay, because I love you, too," I said to you, as I looked into your eyes, seeing myself.

You smiled.

We kissed like famine was non-existent, and like the apocalypse was imminent. End my world with every kiss, revive me with every flick of the tongue. Wash me with lava, and give me acid to drink; nothing could **** me in that moment, except the batting of your eye lashes.


I wrote you this poem and it *****, but it spilled out of my fingers after you left:

In a far and distant galaxy, there is a father for you, and a father for me       
And a silver car for you and I; driving underneath the alone-grey sky.
And a blue soul that learns to be happy.
And our blood will dye the Dead Sea.
And underneath a together-old tree, our young love will try.

And while our muscles are far from weak,
we will kiss until our mouths are dry.
We will kiss for an entire week. We will kiss until we forget how to cry.

Our brains will tell us we’re irresponsible.
Our hands will shake from all the trust.
You chew on my lip like I’m impossible.
You’ll ******* blood; I taste like rust.


How you could be afraid of my not loving you escapes me.

Don't you know why my heart beats so fast?

Today was the first day we said that we love each other. I hope it isn't the last, because I love you very much, and I don't think my mouth can go a day without knowing those words.


Yours,

Josh

Up until my insomnia meets me
I lied when I said I forgot
I was scared what you'd think
If I said that  I love you a lot

People have only cared for minutes
Leaving me to care for days
When I look at you all I can think
Is please don't go away

I can see me in your eyes
I dream of dreaming with you
I can trace your scars with mine
My thoughts are bleeding through:

My Talia, I know what it's like to not be seen;
what it's like to be alone in a crowded room.
For you, my star, I want you to know:
that no one shines as bright as you.

I can taste you moving on my skin.
My gasp is air you sustain.
hand in hand, under an umbrella
with you, I am safe.

Dear Talia,


Acid rain has never felt so warm. We ran home today from the Rail Trail, underneath an umbrella, that you called a Monet and that I called home.

Before that, I sat in a cafe, using my heartbeats as a way to count the passing seconds. I frequently got up and left to go occupy myself. Honestly, I got up to try to remedy my anxiety.

Beyond reasonable punctuality, I was forty, give or take, minutes early. I don't know why I was early; I guess I just was really excited to see you.

When I did leave the cafe, I would always be on a mission to improve our day anyway I could.

At first, I bought a notebook and two cranberry juices. I wanted to write you poetry in the cafe, before you arrived. I started writing but nothing worth showing spilled onto the paper.

I wrote you this poem:

There is nothing that calms me like you do.
There is no one that smiles like you do.
I could find escape in your eyes, and home in your hands.
If you could understand me, like how I understand you.
There is no one like you.

The next time I left, I went to buy bread. I thought it was a good idea if we could feed the ducks, together.

The lady who sold me the bread looked like her dreams were passed onto me. She looked at me with hope, and realistic expectations.

When I went back to the cafe, you still weren't there. I was expecting you in a few minutes, so I was okay. I had horrible anxiety because I thought you would never come, despite your not having to be there until three minutes and however remaining seconds. I have a horrible fear of abandonment and it ignores all rational thought.

So I sat down and I wrote you another poem, hoping that you would surprise me while I was writing it.

I wrote this poem:

I love you.
And it's okay,
you don't have to love me.
It's my love and I want you to have it.

An hour passed and you still weren't there. It was okay because I thought something more important came up. I just wanted you to be happy.

Another twenty minutes passed and I decided to leave. My head sunk down to the ground, as I jaywalked across a street of inconsistent traffic. Then, I found the sidewalk. I was walking, not really paying attention to anything, when I found you. My god, your peripheral vision is bad, but you really do see me.

I was happy to see you.

I wanted to say, "I love you," but I didn't want to lose you.

You were wearing this top that looked like it was painted in cream, and you were exhausted from walking miles to see me. You profusely apologized for being late, and I profusely apologized for not checking my messages.

****, I really do love you. At first, I was stepping down stairs, and then I fell so hard onto the asphalt that had your face confidently drawn on with assorted chalks.

Your name flickers in every light, and your voice settles in my eardrums.

We walked down to the Rail Trail, and I felt like how I imagined those would feel after being baptized. You don't realize how lucky I feel to be walking next to you, talking to you, and knowing that you are on the Earth, and that we are in the same place, the same moment.

I got to hold the umbrella.

My mouth tasted like cheddar and sour cream ruffles, and my hands had trouble circulating blood, and my heart was circulating too much, too fast.

Your eyes were fountains trapped behind emerald.

I love you. I love you. And I love you. I thought all of this between every word that we exchanged, and every glance. I think you love me, too, but it's hard to tell sometimes. You don't have to, but sometimes I imagine that you do, and it's wonderful to imagine such things.

I'm afraid that I'll have to go to a mental hospital. If you were to leave me, I'd understand. I would just want you to be happy, Talia. I hope you wouldn't, though. I guess I'll find out in June.

Despite being reasonably unstable, I feel like the sanest person in a room, sometimes. I was sitting in my living room and I thought about us feeding the ducks, and I heard everyone else talking. I don't understand the point in alcohol and alcohol related stories, when there are ducks and feeding-the-ducks-with-someone-you-love related stories. I don't understand this town, sometimes. Maybe I don't understand how messed up I am, and how everyone is normal.

The mother ducks, and the children, were not there whenever we arrived. We fed the males and it was fun. I like it when you smile. Frequently, we talked about how unfair it was to the females that they would be deprived of our bread. I think things are unfair for females, no matter the species.

We tossed slices and half-slices of bread like safety nets. If our bread can make them live longer, then it'll be worth it. Is that too dramatic of a thought to have?

After looking at the sky, you and I both knew what would happen. It was to be a downpour of everything that would **** you and I, if collected into a cement hole in the ground, approximately six to twelve feet deep. I felt safe, though. I always feel safe with you.

We hunched underneath the umbrella, and scampered across downtown. Your feet were getting wet because of your sandals, and our clothes were sticking to our bodies like how we were sticking to each other. We laughed and spoke French underneath the umbrella, in the pouring rain.

You wore one of my shirts, once we were in my room, and I looked at you and knew that it was true.

Your nose had little cuts, underneath, from our kissing. Apparently, my stubble scratched your skin. I can feel you after we kiss, too, but in a different way.  I can feel you anywhere I go.

I watched you walk up the side of the road, and I turned around to retrace my steps back home, despite just watching my home walk up the side of the road.



Yours Always,

Josh

Dear Talia,


I found you.

Have you ever lain in your bed, after a night of restlessness and tears that tessellate on your face as you dream of a new place where crying isn't a thing, and where beautiful girls in dark dresses and black Keds are?

Have you ever looked at the stars and say to yourself, "Wow, some of these are dead, but the person I could love, and who could love me, may be looking at them and is still alive?"

When in our darkest places, when the hurt can't escape our bodies, when we think we'll never recover, have you ever thought of a person that you don't know yet, but you know that they're part of the answer? I think you're the person I've been thinking about.

Do you want to be my Alexa Chung?

Do you want to be the soft song in my room, as we slow dance on a carpet covered in removed clothes and removed fear?

Can I be the one to show you how you could save lives with your presence and that your presence is a present?

Can I be yours?

I want to wipe off the lipstick on your lips with my lips. I want to paint my face with your mauve and laugh about it in bed, over a bowl of ice cream and teeth showing as we smile. You're a nice dream. You're the only dream I have right now.

If I die, I want you to know that you are one the most beautiful people I've ever encountered.

"I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," were my first eloquent words to you as we trudged out of Cerbone's, and pushed double doors that opened the opportunity of ourselves to one another.

When I think about it, I could have said something a little less Sid Vicious-esque than, "I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," but you can be my Nancy Spungen, sans stabbing you in the stomach. I'd rather you be my Alexa Chung, though. Plus, Nancy Spungen was kind of *****, inside and out, and you're cleaner than a rain-kissed afternoon.  

Is this weird? I'm writing a letter to someone that I spent five and a half hours with in a cafe. Then again, I think it may be warranted.

We left his classroom and avoided bumping into each other until we were at The Daily Grind. You were beside me, attached to my hip, or was I attached to yours? Your hair is dark and has a quasi-bronze streak in one part. It's unique, like parental guidance. I think your eyes could break hearts and fix spider-webbed windshields after a collision with, "Are you okay," and, "I'm fine; I'm not going anywhere."

I find it unusual that whenever I was walking with you, that I felt calm. I haven't felt that way in a long time, when walking with someone. Then again, I've only been walking with my shadow, as of late. Usually, my nerves seep out of my pores and my hair spins in my scalp, as I breathe heavily and think about long ways to say goodbye and quick ways to die. But with you, the ocean softens the shore inside.  

Entering through the weathered door of The Daily Grind, you were still there. Ryan was there, but he doesn't know who I am. To be fair, no one really knows me. It's mutual, but I only know of him because of his questionable but interesting opinions. Actually, his opinions aren't that interesting, I just think his confidence is interesting. He reminds me of a bee stinging someone and confidently allowing the lower half of his body to be ripped out, as he bleeds out with insides hanging like cooked spaghetti noodles, with wings sputtering, as he talks about Bad Faith, with a smile on his face. Wow, that was a run-on sentence. That was the type of run-on sentence you could lose faith over.

I'm afraid that you may think that the way I perceive the world is weird. It's okay, though. I think I annoy my friends whenever I tell them about my problems, so I don't want to do that to you. I only tell them about a quarter of my problems, but you're the type of person I could tell everything to. It's not their faults, though. They have their own issues and lives to handle, as do you. I'd hate to be the cut in your mouth.

You ordered a ***** chai, I believe it's called. You're a regular. I'm only a regular to lonely nights. People know you and love you. I can see why, and I'm glad they do. You're the type of person that inspires books and to be yours would to be everything.

I ordered a Sierra Mist, because I'm about as cool as a pyromaniac's paradise. I like your eyebrows and your voice. We swept each other to a table by the window.

Your eyes are green. Your hair is black. And after meeting you, there's no turning back.

We were supposed to study, but I didn't come there to learn about Sartre. Existentialism did come into play as I tried to figure out if you could add purpose to my life. You did.

I think you were a little surprised that I didn't want to study, and I think you were even more surprised when I wanted to talk about you.

My God, Talia, I don't think you're aware of how beautiful you are.

We spoke for five hours and thirty minutes. I thought it'd only last half an hour. We bled ideas, stories, and questions. You told me the story about yourself. That was my favorite story.

After these five and a half hours, I had to go to therapy. You said it was four. This was the second or third time you checked your phone in almost six hours; I was flattered that I had your attention. The first time, out of probable nervousness, and the second time whenever your friend came in to talk to you.

I wanted to say so much more to you, but I bit my lip so I wouldn't and so my jaw wouldn't drop.

When you said it was four, I was sad. I didn't want to leave you, or for you to leave me.

Do blood and thoughts hold a race whenever we're afraid of losing someone?

We walked out of the cafe, and found the sidewalk. As we walked, I was wondering what was next. I didn't know what you'd think of my having a therapist. I'm not crazy, just scared.

I should have held your hand.

When we arrived to our destination, the lair, I told you that I had a therapist and an appointment. I asked you if you wanted to sit with me in the lobby. You said yes. I felt the words, "Thank you."

I don't think the elevator we stood in was big enough for our hearts, and I'd like to think that love seat was our sanctuary. You looked at me and understood, as we talked about our childhoods, our mothers, my father, and our worlds.

I wanted to kiss eternity into you.

My therapist came out, and I said bye. I got up, quickly. I would have said goodbye slower, but my heart was too fast. I'm supposed to see you tomorrow, so I can work on my goodbye.

If I die, I want you to know that you've given me the greatest six hours I could have asked for.

You deserve to be happy and I hope that you are, no matter with who. Despite all of that, I feel like you and I are supposed to happen.

I wrote a poem whenever I got home:

Move your hands with mine.
You're the current of the ocean.
I whisper your name, and I'm not afraid.
You are my emotion.

It's you, isn't it?


I want to be yours,

Josh

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines

I had a tough therapy session, can you listen?
She said, "Talia, you can't live in the psych ward."
But what am i supposed to do when every time i drive my car i have to pull over because i can't see anything but car accidents?
I'd never cried in front of my psychologist until she said that suicidal thoughts might be something i have to live with.
She said, this is bpd.
I said thank you.
She said that if i continue to purge at the rate i am going my heart will stop before i turn 18.
I couldn't help but think that i hope it does.

Dancing around a whirlpool,
Yet laying on soft, sunny grass,
Clouds streaking by above me but,
All my eyes see is Talia's  hand slipping,
Over and over again the image plays.
I shut my eyes and rolled onto my side, and I can see the present day once more.
Stepping over blades,
Afraid of being cut again.
Dancing around a whirlpool,
Eventually I'll get caught.

I know it isn't ordinary
Aware it's not necessary
Not a typical routine
And something you may have never seen.

But today is my birthday
Something I do dare to share

Because I remember it well

I am not sure where I was born
Was it in Texas ? Was it Vermont?
Was I raised in Brooklyn County? Or maybe another country

But for sure I remember it well

The street where I lived was amused
Or was it the street of Hermon?
*** I am a little confused
Where I lived after I was born

But I remember it well.

I exchanged messages with ***, the newsy,
Amalia and Dalia, Gallia and Talia
And Peter and Teddy, and Geter and Freddy
I met friends all over.
A poet, a lawyer, nice pictures, and posters
Young friends, sweet babies and also proud mothers

I remember it well

So Happy Birthday to me,

The sadness that we are feeling is too painful to ignore.
People are very sad because of the death of Roger Moore.
He starred as James Bond seven times from 1973 to 1985.
All of his fans are mourning because he's no longer alive.
He became an actor who many people would admire.
In 1991, he starred in Bed & Breakfast with Talia Shire.
When he became an actor, he chose a career that would soar.
Sadly, millions are saying goodbye to the talented Roger Moore.

Our butts burned like fiery fire crackers & Walmart **** whackers
as I ****** your rough ******* like I was with the Green Bay Packers
Your brown, sick **** was wide-stretched, hairy & forgiving 'cause
it was as a Tijuana-pimped ***** that you made a lot-lizard's living
with Nona Hendryx before your strung-back nads started shriveling
like '68 Warsaw Pact Czechoslovakian Poles bracin' for wind stress
with Molotov cocktails, shot guns, tire tools & chock block wedges
Bruce Jenner ***** like a she & his *** pride is testing A.I.D.S.-free
Bruce Jenner ***** like a she & his **** pride is bein' A.I.D.S.-free
Gay Bruce Jenner screws like a bee while he ****-dives H.I.V.-free
Bruce Jenner ***** like he's a she & his gay pride is livin' V.D.-free
I had pig-meat *** with Talia Shire after she threw a hog on the fire
I mailed pig-rectums to Talia Shire after she threw a hog on the fire
I stole 55 pig-anuses from Talia Shire as she tossed hogs on my fire
Bruce Jenner got knocked up man-free & so his new baby'll make 3
in a loony bin where trans-nationals make pan-nationalism their key
to ******* a ready posit into a Marxistical diktat, dictum or decree
to mixing a staid, functional fact with a Marxologically-fatal decree
I was clinically dead when I quit breathing my fat Lizzy Taylor thin
with all my blood bled out from a koala bear attack that I didn't win

here - take. have it
in your hands. does it smell
like fear
or the absence of noise? does it think
like you or does it do things you never wanted? does it make you gasp
and shiver? do you dream of it in the night and
does it make you believe in things like smiling
when you should be begging forgiveness and kissing in the pew and the rose garden / heavy wrinkled hands
prying back the curtain to
watch them go at it by the bus stop?

if so.

    this is love. hold it close and tight and real gentle. like you’d touch a star ;
unbelieving. that the light doesn’t burn you flesh through to bone
but sinks in, grateful
for a home.

queer, beloved | talia b. ; @raggedhearts

He died 25 years ago today, which is a quarter of a century.
He produced 'Never Say Never Again' with Sean Connery.
He was born in 1932 and was a man who people would admire.
First he was married to Judith Deborah Feldman and then to Talia Shire.
He was the executive producer of 'Rad' and 'I Am The Cheese'.
When he produced movies, they were certainly sure to please.

I had pig-meat *** with Talia Shire after she threw a hog on the fire
I mailed pig-rectums to Talia Shire after she threw a hog on the fire
I stole 55 pig-anuses from Talia Shire as she tossed hogs on my fire

Hello.
I would like to introduce myself
But I can’t find a name that suits my ever-changing existence

So let me try to explain

My name is Soldier
A name given to me by a person who’s far gone
But the name still sticks
Appearing at the bottoms of emails and nothing more
Leaving a smirk on my face each time
Giving myself that little piece of strength I need to press send

I do fight battles
Not those that people can see happening
But ones that stay nestled at the back of my mind
Hitting like waves when my guard is down
Drowning me in sorrows, loneliness, and numbness
Combated by nothing but thinly pressed pills

But that’s no way to earn a name
Given to those who selflessly fight for those around them
But yet maybe I do
Just in a different way
We all fight our own battles
Jumping in front of metaphorical bullets daily

My name is Confusion
Not only for the things around me
But about who I am and where I’m going
This past year has changed a lot
From jobs, to values, to mind set
Leaving me in a swirl of questions that only I can answer
But those are answers I do not have

I don’t know who I am
I don’t know what I will become
But sitting in this moment I know I won’t be the same me 5 years from now
So I try to take it day by day
Repeating the words that are now engraved in my mind
Don’t worry till you have to, right?

And on the days where that isn’t enough

My name is Changed
Wishing so desperately to stay where I am but wanting to go further
Waiting until I step too far
Falling between the cracks in my heart
Hoping to grasp onto something that will keep me from changing
Before I hit the floor and lose everything

At the back of my mind I always picture a room
Nothing there but boxes of old memories and mistakes of my past
A simple bulb hanging from the crumbling ceiling
One that people keep changing after I left it to burn out

I don’t always understand why they change it
But it seems that with the person I’ve become there is still a piece of something left
But I don’t see it
Blinded by the thoughts that race through my mind
Making me question more and more why I’m still here

My name is Vacant
Random midnight walks in unpleasant weather
Not knowing where I’m going
But feeling the urge to go anywhere but where I am
Freezing to the point of numbness but still moving forward
Using the numbing burn to distract my mind
The physical pain reflecting the pharmaceutical numbness coursing through my blood
Never fully feeling any emotion
Just coasting along
Enveloped in a security blanket I never asked for
Making the life around me seem dull
Distant
Teetering my being along the line between lost and found

I don’t know who I am
I don’t know what I will become
Searching for nothing more than the feeling of finally being found
Whether that be in the darkness of midnight streets
Or in the extended arms of family
Blood or found


Hello.
My name is Talia? No
Atlas? No
Ace? No
Riley
But that is subject to change
So don’t get too attached to it
Just like the person I am
Because that is subject to change as well
But maybe,
Just maybe,
This time I’ve found a name that suits my ever-changing existence

I’m growing
I’ve grown
And I’m not done growing
Just try to stop me
I dare you
Cause this is just my beginning

☎ ☎ ☎ ☎ ☎
In this weird America we jump back to pray, mason Ronald Reagan
could've "married" Clancy, not Nancy, making ****** ****** okay
as fellows laying men hearkens back to the hidden hand's occultical
rites of jabbing ritualistical plant mendicants stylized entheogenical
from graphical zero-order marks that temporize ape traits eugenical
It is on the rug from the litter box so I am self-assured that it is crap
which is easier to ret up than rhyming verse which ain't no easy nap
with veins popping out my head through this back assward ball cap
Attack-strikes against ******* can't lift Iberian Moors from the mire
nor re-animate homosexy Mohandas Gandhi from his funereal pyre
so that I could make bread selling his burnt-up ***, enough to retire
like that Nancy-boy: the forever-prancing-man-kissin' *** Jon Cryer
whose romantical lust for John Travolta entails proctological desire
that digs northwardly east from Oceania's fantastical rim-job of fire
to recruit boys for **** movies as Kelly Preston's a pig-***** denier
regarding her husband's penchant for tweaking her 2 **** with pliers
to make 'em more pointy like the pointy knobs that are Talia Shire's
guns that try the souls of reverends known to be well-practised liars
who fly in the face of pilots uncertified to be bona fide blimp flyers
despite the love-child ******* lazy Jimmy Swaggart begets or sires
as he has got the street-smarts that knocking up a ******* requires
& the fatherly touch that, for girls just off the bus, calms & inspires
when they get $10 from a John named Billy amongst *****-buyers
The flat Earth is the repository of human life-force & soul reflectin'
God's list of Man's anatomical parts that puts a *****'s eyes & hole
on an equal plane that rises to eye-level along a line that's horizonal
I fell off the toilet in mid-**** twistin' my ankle sprained, hey let us
fund ditzy N.A.S.A. with its nutty assumptions stupidly ascertained
via Antarctic moon rocks that Wernher von Braun secretly obtained
to ensure that the orb Earth masonic joke could be widely sustained
in the boyish minds of men with whom a Boy Scout logic remained
as a black blemish on the pox-scarred lame & the tattoo-ink stained
& the hepar-diseased mufflers diving with mermaids who refrained
☎ ☎ ☎ ☎ ☎

Hello.
I would like to introduce myself
But I can’t find a name that fits this shell

So let me try to explain

My name is Soldier
A name given to me by a person who’s far gone
But the name still sticks
Appearing at the bottoms of emails and nothing more
Leaving a smirk on my face each time
Giving myself a little piece of strength I need to press send

I do fight battles
Not those that people can see happening
But ones that stay nestled at the back of my mind
Hitting like waves when my guard is down
Drowning me in sorrows, loneliness, and numbness
But that’s no way to earn a name
Given to those who selflessly fight for those around them
But yet maybe I do
Just in a different way

My name is Confusion
Not only for the things around me
But about who I am and where I’m going
This past school year has changed a lot
From friends, to values, to mind set
Leaving me in a swirl of questions that only I can answer
But those are answers I do not have

I don’t know who I am
I don’t know what I will become
But sitting in this moment I know I won’t be the same me 5 years from now
So I try to take it day by day
Repeating the words that are now engraved in my mind
Don’t worry till you have to, right?

And on the days where that isn’t enough

My name is Changed
Wishing so desperately to stay where I am but wanting to go further
Waiting until I step too far
Falling between the cracks in my heart
Hoping to grasp onto something that will keep me from changing
Before I hit the floor and lose everything
At the bottom I always picture a room
Nothing there but boxes of old memories and a little red light
One that people keep turning back on after I left it to burn out

I don’t always understand why they change it
But it seems that with the person I’ve become there is still a piece of something left
But I don’t see it
Blinded by the thoughts that race through my mind
Making me question more and more why I’m still here

My name is Lost
Random midnight walks
Never having somewhere to go
But feeling the urge to go anywhere but where I am
Keep walking, running
Sprinting blocks at a time
Home becoming less of a place and more of an idea
Never fully set somewhere but constantly changing

I don’t know who I am
I don’t know what I will become
But my legs will carry me
Searching for nothing more than the feeling of finally being found
Whether that be in the darkness of midnight streets
Or in the extended arms of family
Blood or found

Hello.
My name is Talia
But that is subject to change
So don’t get too attached to it
Just like the person I am
Because that is subject to change as well
Just hopefully I can find the name I belong to
Even if it’s something new

I was singing in the 80s
Some really top radical songs
I was singing in the 90s
Oh Carolina and Macarena
I was singing in the naughties
Music that wasn’t in the charts
I preferring 80s music
I was singing in the tens
Music on the new young talent time
And some nights and we are young
Tim Minchin and I loved performing
In drama club and bing crosby and Kevin ****** Wilson with words that would not be liked nor
And Jenny talia Kevin’s daughter same thing
Slim dusty biggest disappointment and Duncan
And I sooner be a hasbeen than a never was at all
And in the 20s watching cool concerts
From all over the world Tim Minchin
Twisted sister saying seinfelds maistro plays the army mad dad it is true and Bon jovi with bad medicine and living on a prayer and watching and enjoying the Logies as well as sending Bert to his new life as a girl I watch YouTube family vlogs as well but I don’t give a toss what you think of me