Hindsight Will Kill You

go back and look at old pictures of yourself
the ones where you were thinner
wore tighter clothing and lighter makeup
flip through them like an addict with an itch
go through old pictures remind yourself
of when you were much thinner, made of much less
more wisp and less hips and you were
so much happier then, weren't you?
back when you could fit into those shorts just
to watch dark hands peeling them off without asking
go look at the pictures of yourself from all the times
you leaned your head on cold shoulders
and took selfies with selfish assholes
go back through those pictures
try to give yourself a reason
to hate where you are today
because yesterday was so much better, wasn't it?
back when your fists held bottles
of pills in the morning and liquor at night
and your waist was so much smaller from all the
sucking-it-up you had to do to survive
go through those pictures of parties you don't remember
and partners you wish you could forget
breathe in the bile that rises in your throat
every time you see what you used to look like
lose your breath and catch it again
when you remember that you threw out your road map
and convince yourself that you are so much worse off now
because you wake up without a headache these days
and your lover is kind and your lungs breathe freely
and you have a place to live and a steady income
and more of a shot at happiness than you have ever had
and more fear twisted into your gut than you have ever felt
go look at those old pictures and find a reason
to turn this good life into a prison
remind yourself that you wouldn't have to be so
terrified of tomorrow if you went back in time
and lost the weight
and started drinking again
and slept around some more
and quit your job
maybe you'd be better off, because
at least you'd be comfortable, right?
at least you'd know
what to expect

115.

I know I promised you
that I would not write instead of speaking
but my tongue is too rough and dry
to smooth your skin
the way my fingers can

so all I can do
is draw the curves of your name
on notebook paper

I know that I should
let your eyes bathe me in clean water
instead of sidling out of your line of vision
but you are too honest, and I am
not accustomed to this

what matters most
is that I am saving my pennies
to take a trip to the center of you

I promise
I will hold what I find there
with gentle hands

Strange Sickness

it must have been only some misfiring synapse
some faulty wiring, disconnected fuses in my brain
that caused this sadness to stick like sour honey to my bones

they tell me it can be treated but not cured
so I take sick days like anyone else, swallow pills to soothe the pain
and hope that the sunlight will not be too harsh tomorrow
because my eyes are salt-stained and red
and dusk is about the only time I can see straight
so I sit on my back porch at 7 PM and take gulps of evening air
fingers crossed to the point of breaking, hoping that tonight will be the night
that something will crack open in me
and I will become limber and free again

and memories of old loves feel like pinpricks on cold wrists
recalling the nights that I shared my sadness with the wrong people
or tried to cover it with someone else's lips
laughing a little too hard or drinking a little too much wine
trying on happiness like an ill-fitting dress and convincing myself
that if I just keep wearing it, maybe
it will stop feeling so tight and uncomfortable
but the ice spreads in my lungs even still
and I find myself locking bathroom doors even when lovers are over
because the pauses between pieces of conversation last too long
and the chances of my smile slipping are too great
and I cannot risk it

it is a strange sickness, this slow descent
that leaves the sky more gray than glowing
some nights, I am a moth with oiled wings inside a jam jar
no holes poked into the lid
and other nights I am cave-deep in darkness
or still-born quiet
and I rub coconut oil on my neck and in my hair
in some small attempt to mask my own scent
which is something like old pine needles drying in summer

I am trying to take cover from this storm
folding deeper into myself as the rain beats down inside my skin
and there is not much I can find by way of shelter
so I am beginning to think that I am inescapable
and that is what scares me most

But I Won't

I could love you if I let myself -
if the creases in your hands did not look like ravines I'd fall into
if you did not get my wheels spinning so fast that my feet lose traction
and when I fall, my face is too slathered in blood
to see you clearly

I could love you if I let myself
love myself (a little)
so that the sand of me does not fall through your fingers so easily
so that I am enough to hold onto, to pull toward you
but I am the fog and you are the trees
and we surround each other without touching
and sometimes that is all I am capable of

maybe I could love you if I let go of my own fists
but the air in my lungs is cold, and breathing on my hands
only helps the ice crystals to grow, I swear
I could love you if I just
opened my heart up a little, but I tend to open my legs instead
and the only thing I have to show for that
is a list of strangers' names and a stomach ache

but I could love you if I let myself
see past myself
and trust that you might be trustworthy
or at least, a little less dangerous than what I am used to
because I have been in love that feels like getting drunk on poison
and asking for more
and it has left scars in my veins from the nights that I thought
I had to abandon myself instead of him

but I promise, I could love you if I let myself
stop writing poems about the things that have ripped me open
if I started to use my own words to stitch myself up instead
I could love you if I let myself
repair myself
instead of replicating toxic patterns and repeating myself again
instead of beating my head against the brick walls I've built
instead of hoping for new results while I am still
listening to old tapes and
playing old games and
drinking old poison and staying fog-thin
and letting the blood on my face dry to a paste
and keeping my fists curled
and pushing away when I'm pulled
I'm so sorry

I promise
I could love you
if I let myself love anything at all, really

114.

we dreamed and we built and we blazed ember-bright
we roamed and we drank and we twined
and we loved but you lied

and I broke too soon
but I balanced and breathed
I pulled and I asked and I tried
and I tried and I tried

and I loved but you lied

so you cradled and crooned
and you brushed my hair as it grew
you wanted me the best way you could
and you gathered me up when I fell
and you loved but you lied

so we shook and we wept
and we splintered and cracked
we held our own hands and I cried
and we loved but you lied

I burned and I twisted and broke
and you rolled your eyes as I folded in two
and we wanted and wished
and we swept ourselves out to sea
and we loved
and you loved
and I loved
and I loved
and I loved

but you lied.

An Ode to Alcohol (And Other Tragedies)

this will not be pretty.
I am hating my hands as they write,
and all I can see is the night
that I was left bleeding from my eyes
while everyone else was still at the party.

they tell me I am supposed to stop drinking.

but who the hell wants to stay sober when it means 
remembering what made the space between 
your legs hurt so badly when you woke up this morning?
who wants to see clearly when I could just
swallow a few mouthfuls of poison
to blur my vision, make the bruises fade to smudges
at the edge of my peripherals and I might be too drunk to think
but at least my mind will be too dull to remember
what I am dying to forget

and trust me, whiskey works like an anesthetic: 
I glaze it over the wound like honey, and
sometimes I get lucky enough to stop wincing, at least
until I catch a glimpse in the mirror, and then
I see the circles under my eyes
and  the places they touched that still burn
and the bones that should have broken 
under their hands, and then
even the frostiest beer mug can't cool me down
so I switch to hard liquor

but the rum gets me blushing, and
my insides start to overheat as my thoughts
are forming iron knots
and my fingers twist into fists I should have thrown
in their faces as they held me down
but I didn't, no -- their hands were too tight
around mine, and I'm still here
belly somehow both hollow and sloshing with vodka
all because of the night that I bled from my eyes
while everyone else was still at the party

this is not a pretty feeling
this is sprinting barefoot on asphalt, holding
a half-empty bottle in my hands and sobbing
slamming my feet on pavement because I swear,
something sinister is trying to steal what is left in this body
though there isn't much left to take, really

see, they tell you not to walk down alleyways
alone at night, not to wear short skirts
or pucker your lips too much
they tell you about men with dark coats, but
they don't tell you about boys with nice eyes
and strong hands
and soft voices and wide smiles
and hungry mouths that swallow you whole
the kind with plenty more liquor at home to shove down your throat
and cameras in their back pockets.
and I am supposed to feel blessed
because I survived, because I am not dead, but
somehow I find myself hesitant to thank God
for putting me through hell without at least
having the decency to kill me first.

I'll just try to distract myself from the fact
that I still smell like fear. I'm told that predators
can sense it on your skin, so maybe that was my first mistake.
and maybe if I had been sober, I would have seen it coming.
hell, that should be reason enough
to stop drinking.

but sometimes
the only way to stop the visions
is to black out.

113.

it has been winter here for years

and I have only written the frost, lingering

over my aching fingertips

never warming my hands in my pockets

I have complained

about loneliness

and I have kept myself

alone

maybe because it seems safer

to hold myself at night

than risk a stranger’s hands leaving marks

but my own arms only reach so far

and there is still a small space on my back

that I cannot touch without help

so I am sure you have been wrapped in other women's sweaters
and I am sure you are wrapped in one now
and I doubt I could fit into your clothes, but
I would not mind a shot at it
stretching woven knits to slide my arm into the same sleeve as yours
our necks filling one collar, vertebrae kissing
I would not mind drinking from the same coffee mug
and breathing from your steamed lungs

and maybe you are just my excuse to write poetry
but the words fall freely from my hands, so
let's not overanalyze it

because I have been told that fingers are not defibrillators
that holding hands will not bring back what is dead in me
and sex can't save my life, but
it is so cold here
I am beginning to think the frost is slowing my heart
and I cannot help but wonder whether your touch is electric
and whether I will be nerve-damaged or revived underneath you
maybe your sheets are positively charged
and our sweat would conduct sparks through our lips
and maybe that might be enough
to keep me warm.

112.

we were a road trip planned by teenagers

who don't even know how to drive

all dreams, no map

no one knew us

like we did

(and no one could hurt us

 like we could)

you were a security blanket

that I carried a few years too many

and I still miss the way

you smelled like not growing up

our miseries bled into one

we indulged ourselves too much

and we were not strong enough 

to carry each other's burdens

or old enough to know not to try

I was a sickness you kept catching

I came back to you when I grew weary

and I made you weary, too

we were so young

and you have faded from my skin

but there is still a splinter of you

in my lungs that pulses

with your heart (I imagine)

some nights I am still sixteen

and you are still my sweetheart

Catch

so you will wait longer
for the moment when it catches
(up with) you:
the truth
you have hidden under your tongue
for so many years now

you paint lipstick in the morning
over lips you have not yet
even learned to love
and you are running
(from yourself
 and from the things you do not want
 to see in the mirror)

your feet are
bruised and bloody
pounding the cracked pavement
and you think you are being chased
by some monster with hooked teeth
who will shake your shoulders
and force you to admit
you are not
all that
special, really

but

here is what they do not tell you:
the truth is not hungry.
it does not want you to fall.
it waits, and it is not hook-toothed.

the truth will not sting or bite or crush
the truth does not rend or tear or demolish

it builds
and frees
and hurts like hell
and it will shout if it needs to
but it is also soft some days, and
it will speak to you gently
when you are tired

here is what they do not tell you:

the truth
will not
kill you.

it may be sunlight harsh
and it may stain your hands
and you will not be the same
once you invite it in

and likely, it will pull tears
down the slope of your nose and cheeks
maybe for weeks at a time
and your face may be drenched,
but the water is holy.
it will clean your skin.

the truth is not
that you are worthless.

the truth is
that you are radiant

and you must fight for yourself.

(you have been running
 from what you have been hiding
 for too long now

 perhaps it is time
 let it catch (up with) you.)

111.

you have glorified and excused yourself
and you have not realized that you were both
only sixteen, and then eighteen
and then twenty
and he was part of it, too

you think of him crying
you think of him telling you he could
not keep going without you
and you remember trying to fight his battles
for him, and his arms
when he visited you in the hospital
the yellow sweater he wore

forgiveness is a strange thing
it sneaks up on you
fills your lungs with fresh air
and reminds you
that you were not the only one
hurting

110.

you have tried to be smaller, to be easier
to hold. you have tried to fold
yourself in two
and you have closed your mouth at times, but
at best you are wide
and uneasy

and you have never been skilled
at hiding your fears
(in fact, they often rattle
 through your teeth
 and scare the neighbors)

and perhaps you are
more difficult
to love

but you will meet someone someday
who will not be so easily shaken
with hands broad enough
to hold you
unfolded

Not Unmove

I have been
blind and wound-by-every-inch-tightly-up
drawing breath and keeping it
knife hot inside me
(exhaling never)

and I have been
slinking sluggish deeper
into vaguely yesterday's reflections
watching dusted mirrors and
forgetting
that my muscles are
for moving

I have been
wind-knocked-out
back flat and waiting for air

I have been
bound
and static

but

I have noticed
an eyelid-fluttering and finger twitch
this morning
(a slow
 inhale
 exhale)
and the window is open

I have noticed a spattering of speckled light
green and leafy across my arm
it must be sun spotted

and I would rather not
be a have-been
today
I would rather
not unmove

so
perhaps I will
make a good breakfast
and take a walk

Rip

it settles over your eyes like fog
and you are too tired to push it away
you have been too tired for ages now, your
limbs collecting dust and your hair matted

you suspect that you were born with wings
lithe and delicate, made (you think)
of woven silver and parchment
they might have carried you off already

had it not been for the drought
that withered them from your shoulders
and your own temporality.
you are no longer infinite.

now flight is a childhood memory at best
and you are tethered fast to solid ground
and abandoning your wings
has left you exhausted

so you have made camp here on Earth
among the gray tree roots
and fallen into a twenty-year sleep
while wars are waged and won

and when it settles over your eyes like fog
this hopelessness that you cannot see through
you let your lids fall heavy again, and
you sink and drift and fade

it seems better to sleep and dream of the sky
than wake and watch it slip away

We make everything permanent and finite and at the end, we wish we had more time. I remember every day that I thought the sun only slid through the sky because I asked it to, every night that I prayed for light in the morning. We think we make time move forward by sheer force of will, and we lose track of its indifference to us. I know I will see you in two weeks’ time, and yet I am still saying goodbye as though we only ever had yesterday, and the future is a lie our parents told us to stop the crying. We forget about things like second chances, like flowers that sleep all winter and bloom again in the spring. We build concrete boxes in the ground or metal boxes on wheels. We avoid direct sunlight. We avoid everything. We smoke, we drink, we only come out at night. We continually refuse to acknowledge the passage of days, and then we wake up with longer limbs or beards on our faces or families, and we wonder where we’ve been this whole time. As though tomorrow only comes if we ask it to. We forget that there is always plenty, there is always room. We forget that more time means more chances, more goodbyes, more hellos. We are foolish and wasteful, and we will find ourselves at the end of everything, asking for more time, as if we had never been given enough.

Unparalleled Recklessness

throw my head back into dust
swirling in the glow of Saturday night
with honeyed whiskey in red cups and
so much that gleamed

and the only thing left from it
is the flush in my cheeks
and a headache

because I remember too much
like your careless breeze
against my face
and a smile that slides sideways slightly
when you've had too much to drink
(which is often almost
 every night)

that honeyed whiskey wasn't
quite sweet enough
to wash you from my mouth, and
nothing really ever is,
apparently

I found out too late
when they pulled my arms aside
to whisper at me urgently and kind
that you have hooked me
line and sinker
still

and they could see me
struggling

see, Saturday night
had me all starry-eyed until
they told me
that I had made a fool of myself

(because when you come at me
 with that careless sideways smile I always
 make a fool of myself)

and the sloppy edges of my mouth
must have looked horribly undone
like I had somehow lost my lips
in my frenzied search
for yours

I have always asked
too much of you

you are warm and thoughtless
and I have pursued your indifference
with unparalleled recklessness
since the last day
you kissed me, but

the only thing left from it
is the flush in my cheeks
and a headache

Gaining Weight Isn't So Bad

when the edges of my skin blurred
I thought I was bloated
from the secrets you kept inside me
but now my curves are wide
enough to ski across, and I feel
broad like summer birds

I have sweated you out
and now the hips I hated so hard
are cultivating fruit trees and sloping
into arches under which
feral cats curl up
and honeycombs grow

my body has expanded
since you last saw it

and I can no longer
feel ashamed of that

Loaded Gun

clouds are forming and I am realizing
that I will always be a loaded gun
pointed toward your chest

it is nobody's fault but mine

and I am sorry
that I was only ever cactus skin
when you needed rainfall

A Mild But Unrequited Ache

dreary, dreary
I have been all cigarette-toothed
and smiling at you, and
I have been a fool

I have been waiting
for your eyes to send sparks
through my skin
and electrify
the sweat on my hips

(and you say I am worth
 painting, me with my
 soot-caked soles)

but dreary, the dust
has settled
and I have found you
out

so the day looks dark
sunbeams seeming
like moonlight under the clouds
streaming reminders
of histrionic histories I tried
to eclipse, but

even still
I made a promise

woven circles into my wrists
silver vows that I would
never
again smash
under a stranger's hands

(and you
 have done nothing
 so terrible to me, you
 are no criminal

 the only hurt here
 is a mild but unrequited
 ache)

so I will not remain
love-stained
today, no
I will open under the
moonlit sun and blossom
for myself this time

only for myself this time

because I am ready
to love me more
than I loved
loving you

Close Yourself Enough To Open Well This Time

cut it up

burn it down
stop the flow

your love is leaking
out from your fingers
into strangers’ mouths

the wrong people
are drinking your water
you are becoming

dehydrated, so

shut it down
break it off
let it go

kiss your own feet for a day
teach yourself to touch
your own skin

you deserve to begin
again, as often as it takes
to grow new moss

and breathe

Cutting Curves

my frame has rounded
like a flour sack filling up
through the years
and I have become
curved

I suppose that makes me
a "real woman"

but I felt real
before
and I did not hate
my reflection so much

my insides were on fire and they twisted
into angry knots when I slept
I know that I disliked
what was underneath my skin, but
my skin itself
looked alright, at least

and nowadays I am told
to keep my chin
up more often than
when I was thin

(so I must assume that my chin
 has justifiable cause
 to sink
 now that I am
 rounder)

I will admit that I would gladly
spend my evenings
cutting curves
from my hips and belly
even though I know

that souls do not grow more beautiful
when they diet -
they only waste into bone matter
with nothing warm or kind to hold onto

so I suppose a thick soul is best
but if I could look
just a little bit
littler
around the edges
and still keep a nice fat heart
I cannot help but think

it would feel better

Unfaithful

I have not yet written this part of our story
because I wanted to get it just right.
I wanted to be sure
to accurately describe
the glisten in your eyes

as you lied to me.

It took six months for the skeletons
to wander out of your closet
and into my hands.

You sewed your lips into a satisfied grin
and muddied the waters of my memory,
weaving some half-invented tapestry
depicting your poor, broken heart.
You held it up
for everyone to see
so that each time I opened my mouth
you could slap the words out of it
and call me cold.

It must have been so
easy
to blame me
with her there to comfort you.

So tell me:
was she warmer than our bed with me in it?
Did I not cover my wounds well enough
to support the story you tell yourself
about how you would
never
hurt me?
Maybe making me cry
was just too hard on your ego.
I'm sure you made her moan plenty
to make up for it.

And after you were finished with her,
did you want what was left of me?
You must have, since you did not hesitate
to devour my skin, with the taste of hers
still lingering on your soiled tongue.
I'll bet I still felt pretty damn good
under your fingers, and I never
even had to find out
what you did.

At least, that's what you told her,
isn't it?

It took six months for the cracks in your skin
to let out the secrets you'd been keeping,
but I see through you now.

This morning, I took it out
on my own gums as I brushed them.
Blood trickled through my teeth, and
I wished it was yours, but
my smile still looks fearsome
and I still feel stronger.

So I dare you
to deny it.

My claws have been waiting
for you to point those broken fingers
at me again. I dare you to say that I am wrong.

You said that you hated my poems
before, but this will be worse.
I will write a hole through your gut.
I will burn the flesh from your hands.
I will show the world your dirty sheets.

Go ahead and tell your friends
that I broke your heart.
Tell them I am soulless.
Tell them I am a bitch.

In the meantime, I will tell your children
about every night that you fucked her
and still had the nerve
to sing me to sleep.

I will tell them how you promised
you would marry me someday
and I will tell them
how you lied.

The Problem of Containment

love is not a baseball
it is not something I can throw around
toss to trusted pitchers
or catch in a single gloved hand

this is not a game
I am tired of playing love like a flute
keeping the notes precisely between my lips
and waiting for the chords to make sense

and you are not a flower
you do not wait for daylight to unfold you
nor do you bloom in only certain seasons
you are not predictable that way

so I had better
give up on settling the scoreboard
cut the music out of the background
and stop checking my watch for spring to come

because you are not a metaphor
you are not a literary device

you are standing in front of me, breathing
and we both deserve something more real than

poetry

Stop Forgetting

look up and inhale
there is water in the sky
and the rain on your skin
is growing mossy roots

try not to squander
the green of your breath

you will not be here forever

This Is Not A Love Poem

my skin is still laced with
mirror shards
from the day I lost
the fight
with the bile I had been
choking down

I can be hard like
dragon scales
and I will never let you
love me
as darkly, deeply as I
hate myself

so go ahead, I
dare you
watch me cut and drag
myself apart
and try to tell me you still
want me

(I will not believe you for a second
 I am rolling in the muck of my self-loathing
 and I would rather die than bathe)

Something At First Sight

they did not
ignite

nor did they fall
from some precipice
to their exquisite demise

they merely
breathed
for the first time
in years

Fireflies

I have watched lightning bugs dance at dusk
have seen them burn out every other moment
and relight themselves without fail
singeing holes in the blue twilight
encouraging other insects
to follow suit
and shine

I have invited a thousand fireflies
to congregate across my skin
because I no longer feel dull inside
and I would like my body
to glow as brightly as the space
between my ribcage and
my spine

I have decided it is a noble thing
to bring light to the darkness
no matter how small the beam
no matter how soft the gleam

What He Cannot Take From You

he pinned you like
a butterfly
to canvas walls

and you plinked
against glass
like a firefly in a jar

your wings are
wet
with the oil
of his expectations

so use your many legs
to crawl
over his eyes

sprout a stinger
and fence him with it

show him you are not
insect-small
anymore

A Promise To Do Better

I am tired
of breaking blood vessels
I am tired
of mending bones

I will not be your savior
I will not be your destroyer

come to me
cracked
but not crushed

let us sway
side-by-side

only Time
can tell our story

I will no longer be
the beginning
nor the end
of anyone

The Exquisite Burn of Hoping But Not Having

this is not about lust

this is about blood
beating in my fingertips
as I do not reach for you

and you are
awarding me the exquisite
burn of hoping, but
not having

you are not required to trust me

because you have already given
too much away
to too many
leeches

and I cannot imagine
asking
anything more of you

this is not about taking

this is about writing your stories
into songs
about the bruises on your hands
and on your heart

and about your resilience, because

we are not unhappy endings
we are not warning signs
we are not cautionary tales

we are a thousand blazing funeral pyres
banishing shadows and turning death into warmth

we are the shattered glass
and we are the mosaic

so this is not
about lust

this is about showing you
the you that I see

and showing you the me
that I am sketching to life
with cracks and smudges
and golden arms for holding
and wholeness in my eyes

and you are not required to love me

and something new is blooming

and I can hope
without wanting
to have

(and all of this can be
 true
 at once)

What We Miss Most

it is sunny outside but there are still thunderclaps
inside my eyelids from all of your outbursts
I am coming to terms with the fact
that I was afraid of you

and the questions now remain:
do I forgive you?
and are you sorry?
or are you satisfied?

you are sticking to me like grass burrs
latching onto my sleeves and pricking my fingers
when I ask you to leave

and yet, you somehow still slip through me like beaded water
nothing about you lingers the way it used to.
the ways you hurt me slide through my hands
and I cannot keep them there long enough
to remember why I am angry

it took so many months to uncover the ants
in our sheets, and I have grasped
at fleeting straws all this time

so some nights, I only want to hate
the dirt off your back with my tongue
some nights, I want to find what I missed
in your mouth. some nights it is all I can do
to stay a room away from your bed

until the thunder rolls in
and I remember

so I sit across couches from you
and your guitar, and it hurts most when
you play music, or when you dance.
I used to be your reason for both.

and I became the villian
the moment I said goodbye first
because your bruised hopes let you forget
the shredded heart between my ribs

and so the questions remain:
do I forgive you?
and are you sorry?
or are you satisfied?

it is difficult to say.
but I have a hunch that you
only miss the way your thumb felt
with me underneath it

Expect The Expected

you hear thunder above your window
and all you want is to feel the atmosphere on your skin
and taste its electricity just before the lightning kisses the ground
just after everyone has finally fallen asleep, and you are sure
you will be left alone to breathe in the fresh air
for the first time in weeks, maybe months

and then you'll ruin it all with cigarette smoke
because you tend to fuck beautiful things up that way.

Everyone Seems To Be Washed Out These Days

there is nothing between my skin
and my bedsheets now, and I am looking
at photos of you on your blog, and God knows
where you live, you could be a thousand miles
away or maybe you live in the next town
over, but all of your photos look washed out

everyone seems to be washed out these days
but it looks wonderful on you, and
your nose reminds me of a tulip
(which is especially romantic, considering
 everyone told me when I was young
 that my nose looked like a tulip)
and it is round on your long face
and your lips look sour in the best way

the point is, I am falling in love with you
and I have no idea who you are.
I tend to do this fairly often.

You Did Not Want Me To Forget, And I Didn't.

the ridges of your fingerprints
were razors. my skin
is still torn from where
you touched me.

and I became porous
and soaked up your toxins
when I should have let you run
off my shoulders,

because you were candle flame.
you used up the last
of my oxygen, and
you made me a moth in a bell jar.

and the burns may not
be healed yet, but I
have stored up oceans
in my hands now.

I am armed and I
am no longer so
very afraid
of you.

109.

sometimes I see what looks like blackness
or spiked void out of the corner of my eye
and I think it is a picture of you

so I sit in the bathtub with my laptop
because it reminds me of the feeling
of being in your arms: deadly and electric.

these are the days when I miss you -
my first, my oldest lover who took everything
from me, who taught me how to hate

and how to cherish. there was nothing
to forgive. you were always a poisoned apple
and if you were offered to me today,

we both know
I would relish the chance
to have you in my mouth again.

Walls

the truth is that falling asleep alone
has burned a hole in me. I would like
to be steely and unaffected by solitude
but I am a companion by nature.
I cannot help but wait until I am held tightly
by something other than bedsheets.

lately, I find myself repeating
the same songs seeping
into my pores and leaking
out through my tear ducts.

I suppose all I can do now is bathe
in saltwater and continue to glance
over my shoulder, just in case
I missed someone
because looking forward
to finding romance
has only brought me a pocketful
of hurtful lovers and regret.

and I have given up on giving up
because the only walls in my path
are the ones I have built
to keep myself safe.

they are not working anymore.
I am neither comfortable nor satisfied.
I am merely lonely.

108.

on the one hand, I look forward
to the day when my body dissolves
into flowers and food for smaller animals
but on the other, I suspect I can help many
more things grow and find the sun while I am
still alive, while I am still capable of loving and
tending and gardening and caring and nourishing
so perhaps I should leave the house today in case
there is someone out there who needs my green thumb

Sun Won't Show Up

it's about damn time I stopped
trying to be so poignant, in fact
I might as well chuck my fancy words
out the window as I roll past all the shit
I thought was important.
black seems to fade over my eyelids anyhow
so why bother? see, today I drove right by
the hospital, while my therapist waited inside
for me to come cry on her shoulder.
or to learn some Healthy Coping Skills
or like, Stress Management
or whatever.
the thing is, I think I've decided
I'm not interested in health these days.
it takes a hell of a lot of work,
trust me, and I always end up
with tears running down my face in the end
no matter what Skills I use in the beginning.
and the nightmares
still wake me up every time, no matter
how many sleeping pills I take.
let's be real.
it's about damn time I stopped
trying to be literary, see,
I'm up to my knees in trash and memories
I wish I could throw away. sometimes
Nice Poems just don't show you that stuff.
yeah, I'd much rather toss out
all the pretty words I clung to for so long
like they'd pull me up out of my own psychoses.
it seems pretty stupid
when you really think about it.
seriously, think about it:
I spend all this time trying to kill my brain
with whiskey and weed and sex and Mood Stabilizers
and whatever else, because all I want is to stop feeling,
and then I sit in front of my computer
once the sun goes down, and I try
to type out all these Meaningful Poems
with intention and artistry and sincerity
for other people to read
(but nobody ever does, honestly)
and I fool myself into thinking it makes things better.
I fool myself into thinking that if I write enough words down,
the searing pain behind my eyes will finally dull
or my hands will stop shaking when I cry
or I will stop being a victim
or something.
I'm tired of all of it.
some days I just wanna
drive right past the hospital
and keep driving
and stop giving a shit
about whether or not some stranger
reads my blog.
everyone knows at the end of the day
we all end up falling into bed
and praying the sun
won't show up
tomorrow,
anyway.

107.

you are frothing behind your lips
with words you did not say to her
warnings and chirrups that might
have kept her away from him

but he is hard to catch, and you
of all people should know that no
one wearing rose-colored glasses
suspects the rainstorm before it hits

it will be too late for her, but
there is nothing you can do, save
waiting for her to shoulder past him
like you did in the end

Summer Solstice

so the sun reached warm into your pocket
and you decided to spend the afternoon swimming
in a hot river, bathing in the beams on hot rocks and
drying yourself with a hot towel. but soon, afternoon
had faded and 4 PM yawned into 5 and 6
and the sun carried on.

you remembered halfway through the evening
that it was the Summer Solstice. today the sun
would not relent, and you had no choice but to stay
in its light well past 9 PM.

for most, it was a day of celebration, of worship
to our Fire God. and you are no non-believer, but
lately your days have been so long already
that the sun only burns you now.
and night may not bring you peace,
but at least it cools you down.

but on Summer's Birthday you decided to stay outside
and try your best to befriend the light again. you held its rays in your hands
and spread red singes down your arms with your teeth grin-bared,
and yet, with hours stretching into days stretching into weeks stretching into months
and no release from the pain of living with silent tears down your back
from nights you are glad you do not remember
and days that last for decades

you could not help but hope
tomorrow would be
shorter

Fool's Gold

help me learn to stop learning the hard way, baby,
I promise this time I’ll get it if you just
curl your legs up next to mine and wait
for the silence to start. I am tired of filling up
the space with heartbeats and dripping sounds, because
all they do is kill time. I am just about ready to stop
being ready for disaster. I am just about ready
to be ready for something sweet to touch my lips
all of a sudden. at this point it is hard
to say what winds me up anymore.
maybe it is the sound of the clock ticking or maybe
it is only the anticipation of the moment it will break.

and I swore to myself I would never write
drunk poems again, but… tonight the trees look fine
and long like the spokes of a wheel I want to turn,
like something is happening under the moon, and
I want to be a part of it. I have not felt this way
in a good long while. maybe I should
snatch up the moment while it’s still here.

so be with me in this starlight sentence between
stanzas that don’t make much sense, because
all I want you to be is a teacher. help me understand
that life is often a bag of rocks, and you keep
reaching in expecting a fleck of gold,
but every time you pull something out it is only
another gray chunk of stone.
you tell yourself, “this time, things will be different.
this time I’ll get lucky. this time, this time.”
but you dig around again and come up short.

and I’m looking for that precious metal
in your eyes tonight, baby, but I think
it is only fool’s gold, like it always has been.
but there is a strange toxic comfort
in knowing you will be wrong.
at least you can count on something.

so it is 3 am and I am asking you
to fool me. glow yellow in the night sky
and pretend you are a gem. just teach me how
to un-learn everything I have told myself.
because I am hunting for twigs on the forest floor
and I keep finding moss but missing
the crunch underfoot.
I know the little branches are there, but

my fingers fumble over them and I settle
for rocks instead. I’ll keep reaching
down into that bag.
maybe this time, this time
maybe this time
I’ll pull out the gold from your green eyes
and melt it into a necklace for you
maybe this time I won’t be so
damn foolish.

maybe this time.
maybe.

Ready, Set

ready, set, stop.
I am fucking tired
of setting myself up
for failure
and writing love poems
to ghosts.

I end up sitting stagnant
smoking cigarettes and
bleeding onto paper
hoping for
something
different
to happen.

it is astounding
how wrong
I always am.

everything that has hurt
me should prepare
my stupid heart
for the shut-down, but
I am still here
writing
and waiting

and fucking
myself over
and over and over
again.

ready, set, stop.
it is time
to let go
of the stench of
yesterday
and all the bullshit
that has built up.

I am over
being over it.

I want to be ready
but I am set
on stopping.
help me
learn

to start.

Four Things

do no let your mind forget the lies you tell yourself
to help you fall asleep with the lights on. bring them
back around when things are looking up.
trust me, girl, you cannot afford to feel
better. you’re not cut out for it.
so keep those lies, like...

for instance.

number one: you are made of steel and nothing
can crack your skin. dare someone to try
but do not stick around to see what happens.

number two: you can fight off the sharks
that smell your blood. you have lost your sense
of vulnerability and you hit hard.

number three: you don’t need a single thing
from a single person. you are comfortable in your
emptiness. stay there. like it.

number four: your pumps are your best defense.
put them on and you are six-foot-fifty
and you don’t give a damn about nothin’.

in truth, they are not always lies. there are parts of you
that steel has kissed and you have survived.
iron rubs off on skin and can be contagious, so yes,
you are made of metal here and there.
and you bleed a hell of a lot, so you are used
to sharks swimming around your ankles. you have made
friends with most of them, and they have shared their secrets
with you. you do hit pretty hard, but it is not the sharks
you need to worry about. it is the leeches
you should fear. and yes, you have used your
emptiness as a shield and your pumps as swords
for a good long while.

but it is possible that the walls are crumbling now.
perhaps it is time to try lulling yourself to sleep
with a few truths.

for instance.

number one: your skin is mostly made of cream.
steel is brave, but cream is lighter to the touch.
plus, it tastes better.

number two: there is no need to fight off the sharks.
you are one of them now. swim in the sea
and let your hair grow long.

number three: forget need. want instead.
want ferociously and fearlessly and
let yourself be wanted back.

number four: keep the pumps. wear them out.
keep walking tall but do not lose sight of the ground.
start giving a damn or two. cross your fingers.

so try turning the lights out. close your eyes
and let yourself be afraid. let the anger you have
clenched like a curse wash over your back
and let it remold you into something
mobile. break your paralysis.
stop lying to yourself.
you can afford to feel a thousand things
before stumbling. you are cut out
for greater things
than you think.

Alone No Matter

the dust settles and you can still see
the sweat on your face from last night. it doesn’t take much
to get you reeling again. and your heart is twisted
into something frantic and panting, just like it was
in the dark. my advice?
pick up your shit and run.
put as many miles under your feet as you can, and
only look back if you have to.

you have resorted to burning blank sheets of paper
because you have run out of things to say
but you still want to watch something go up in flames.
sometimes you just throw names
in the fire. and the smoke smells sweet
like chemical memories, but you can’t help
wanting to wash the soot off after you finish.
it is all just a coping mechanism.
a way to keep breathing when the past
is standing on your chest.

and you see women walking by in green dresses
and you wonder why you are still wearing black.
but it all comes down to the soles
of your shoes, I guess, and whether
they take you from point A to point B.
hell, yours even dance for you sometimes.
I suppose that’s worth hanging on to.

but the dirt in your eyes is hard
to ignore, even under spotlights and fog machines.
you are beginning to realize that getting a stranger
to buy you drinks in a bar
does not actually improve your self-esteem.
you still feel hollow at the end of the night,
even with a hundred lips pressed
against your body.

this is what starts the reeling:
the recognition that you are alone
no matter whose bed you are sleeping in.

and that sweat on your face is starting to look real ugly
now, isn’t it? so follow my advice
before it’s too late. pick up your shit and get out.
slam your feet on the pavement until you can’t feel
the hurt anymore. maybe this time
you’ll finally outrun
yourself.

No Competition

This is what you get when you put all your eggs in one basket:
he's fucking your best friend while you're crying yourself to sleep.
You can only imagine their twined fingers as they rise and fall
and you are trying not to wake up your roommates with the sound
of remembering. And now you know for certain that what you had
with him was only ever sex, and it was barely even that to begin with,
and you wanted to slow yourself down enough to stop seeing
rose-colored circles in his eyes and to stop making him
into something he wasn't, but you tend to pick up a crush
and run with it. I mean sprint.

It all comes into focus now.
He only chose you when she wasn't around.

And your throat is itching to scream that you are not interchangeable
with her. The two of you may share a first name
but you are not a fucking package deal.
Nobody gets a medal for sleeping with both of you,
although he certainly went for the gold if there was one.
And it stings now to remember when you were alone with him, and
he tried to make you feel special by calling you by your last name instead,
only he slipped up and used hers instead of yours.
You wanted to believe it was an innocent mistake at the time,
but looking back it's pretty damn plain
that when he put his hands through your dark hair,
he was wishing it was blonde like hers.

And you feel little now, like
a kid on a playground writing love notes in the sandbox to the boy
who's across the swing set pulling someone else's pigtails.
You should have seen it coming. There were too many bad omens,
but you had too many eggs and not enough baskets and you figured
it might just work out this time. What you didn't plan for
was the blue of her eyes shining just a bit more brightly than yours,
and the way her laugh tingles the spine while yours just sounds
like a punch in the gut. You are shirtless, writing poems alone
in your room again while she is texting you
to ask for his number.
And the grime of last night is still on your skin
and all you want to do is shower, but you know the water won't wash
away all the things you wanted from him, the things he never
intended to give you, and you don't want to look
in a bathroom mirror right now anyway.

It all comes down to this: you have always hated competing with her.
Mostly because you know at the end of the day
all she has to do is smile, and then
there is no competition.
You can't blame him
for figuring it out.

Eve After The Apple

Daddy I’m sorry I am, I tore my dress on thorn strewn branches, all these flower petals falling on my shoulders
I brush the cinders off my crooked teeth but no I wouldn’t tell you why, no I would not, oh and you’d love to hear me talk about my sweaty crumpled jeans wouldn’t you, wouldn’t you
That look you give me
That look, look, look
Look, I’m a teenaged slut and you’re taking out the trash

No no, it really isn’t fair it isn’t ever fair is it, I wouldn’t say it you wouldn’t hear it, and I guess I went and did something stupid didn’t I, didn’t I
yes Daddy I did blood stain my pretty white laced skirt
I’m sorry, I knew you wanted me to wear it for Easter but
it looks like I’m too gone for God now here and He saw the juice run down my chin and I just smiled didn’t I, didn’t I (only I wish I could say Mama 'cause a She god sure as Hell wouldn’t blame me for a little apple slice)

Either way I look too gone for God but not for golden idol streetlights and cigarette butts into ashtrays are my alters, yes
Cloudy little wisp of smoke me
(or maybe more like fat snake slithering through desk chairs and knocking over the Good China oh dear, did I do that?)
My poor knees, I think it's growing pains you said or it might be the weight of that secret I kept up between or maybe I spread them too far...
Oh yes and I’m sorry Daddy, Daddy, I did stain that white little dress, won’t you buy me a new one?

I should have bitten my tongue until it bled or sewn my lips with purple thread, and I should have I should have done a great many things but I didn’t
and I bet you look good with those hips in a circle Adam, oh, I bet
I bet you’ve looked looked good take a good long look because baby needs her spotlights, heaven knows
Okay I tripped over my own toes, I did, I skipped the cops and maybe I grabbed his leg but
The stars seem explosive when you’re drinking trees and toxins together from one jug don’t they, don’t they
And I just let my hair grow past the floor, let it grow right past the floorboards and in with braided flowers leaky pipe roots twisted and someone’s broken bottle glass, I did
Oh but Daddy I can’t twist it up for church now can I, can I

Bless me Father for I have skinned my knees on carpet writing love songs to the wrong end, I shouldn’t have shouldn’t have, and I got blood on my clean little skirt and I shouldn’t have, I know you bought me that nice white sheet and I promise I still wear my bobby socks with ruffles on the lip
Yes yes, they still match my saddle oxford shoes only I’ll have to rub that little red droplet off...
But Daddy oh I did, I brushed my skin caught little red droplets rolling down my leg drip apple juice right on my ankle and I tasted them didn’t I, didn’t I touch them to my tongue
Red apple rich sweet honey and I just skin smirk stroked and smiled didn’t I
Didn’t I kiss the bosom borne fruit, didn’t I
Didn’t I bite a dozen more
Didn’t I
Didn’t I

Good Advice for Bad People

Swear to yourself you will not
write another poem for that person,
the one who made you feel dry like ash,
and then open another document
and start writing.
This is what you will be left with
at the end of the day: a pair of
someone else's boots and a tired mouth.
I want to promise you
that it will feel fresher after dawn
breaks, but my promises don't stick
very well these days.

So have a little hope and then bury it.
Hold yourself down to the bed
and pretend you are not alone.
(You have to close your eyes very
tightly for that one.)

Just trust me: these are the ways
to cope when your fingers
are bruised, and you still
have a few sewing projects left.
Take the things you love, the things
you substitute for air,
and set them on fire. Watch them burn
down to nothing.
And the parts of you that still hurt
will burn with those things,
and there will be plenty
of oxygen left. Only this air
will be free of obligation.

Remember that there are no happy
endings for people like us,
only gray areas
and stomachs that growl in the middle
of the night. Give up on trying
to make sense of your reflection.
Let go of the notion
that you are a sweetheart. You
are not. You are a lion.

Be brave and stop
giving a fuck about the bridges
you burn. Embrace the fact
that your tears
are acid rain. Even your sadness
can hurt people.

Get sunburned.
Peel it off.
Become a hundred different people
with a hundred different sets of skin
by the time the summer ends.
Forget where you started.
And I want to promise you
that it will feel
fresher when dawn breaks, but
my promises don't stick
too well these days.

What I will say is this:
you are beautiful in your destruction.
Try your hardest not to be afraid
to raise hell.

No Promises

my bone-white fingers grasp at memories like straws

the little flecks of you that were left inside my skin

and doubts are cropping up between my smiling teeth 

like buzzards in suburban yards. I wonder what has died

to bring them here, or whether birds of prey are just bad omens

because someone told me once that I would endure

a hell of a lot more heartbreak before I found something

worth keeping in my ribs, and I must admit I am exhausted

already. so I have only written half a poem for you so far, because
I am tired of exploding like atom bombs in my lovers’ skies. trust me
when I say that when I fall for you, I will not land on velvet pillows
it will be violent and harsh and bones will break, and if you try to catch me
before I hit the ground I will only hurt you more. my knees are weak
and weary of carrying too much worry in my hips, and when I ask you
to love me you should know that I am twisting like jungle branches as I say it
my skin is tight with fear like saltwater in a balloon and there are
so many serpents underneath my tongue that kissing me
is a dangerous thing to do. part of me wants you to save yourself
the trouble and part of me wants you to stay, but most of me knows
that I am conjuring this all out of smoke and you were never in my arms
to begin with, except for one night. in all likelihood, it is the only night
we will have. we made no promises to each other. but it was a warm night
and I slept well, and your hand in the crook of my waist as we took turns breathing
felt like a secret I’d been waiting to share. I expect we’ll move forward
and I’ll blush if you ask me whether this poem is about you, and you will find
a mouth without serpents in it, and I will find someone else to fall apart with

but I imagine I’ll remember how, for a while, our smiles fit together pretty well.

Cups

I drink from whatever cups are left on the windowsill.
it has been long enough but I still have not discovered my own
water source. so I find my reflection in small places: little
circular faces peering up at me from day-old glasses of Coke
and halves of bathroom mirrors where I wasted all the smiles
I had saved up for you. instead I watched you walk up stairs
with some other girl, and she was careening into you hard
and her hair was much longer than mine. I suppose that is
a sign. her smiles fell on your face and you brought her
to your lips, and I can only imagine where it went from there.
I was even stupid enough to knock on your door, as if you
weren't smiling into her lips behind it. and of course I am still
sitting here in an unlit room, drinking from someone else's cups
and letting my fingers fumble over this old keyboard rather than
talking to you, or creating enough gravity to make you
careen into me the way she did into you.
maybe this is all in my imagination.
either way, I think the cure
is just some fresh water.

Little Craters

last night I caught a glimpse
of the little craters in your eyes
they gather the moonlight and let it pool
up along the edges of your lashes
and it leaks like silver tears
when you smile

and I am not the only one
who has noticed the shape of you
the way it curves and falls into itself
I do not know how many lovers
have found their own secrets
in the sway of your spine

but I would like a shot at it
if only for a few hours, maybe
I am too wide and too many things
and maybe my skin is too smooth
with no valleys, nowhere
for the light to pool

you have such good timing
and mine is always five minutes fast
we keep missing each other. and I could have
reached out and found my fingers in your hair
a hundred times, making little braids
but something stayed me

it may have been the blue light
and the shadows it cast, made your nose
into a mountain range I could not climb
it may have been the big of your hands
and my fears that my little heart
might drown in them

but with my eyes closed, I bathed
in the craters of yours, in the liquid
moonlight. you were three feet away
and I was dancing in your waters
and maybe tonight I will try
to find your skin
with mine

106.

you think of me in
gray places, curled into
a ball of forlorn and downy
matter, when really I am
chlorine-filled in sunlight
shaded glasses holding
my hair back with freckles
like little winks across
my shoulders

most people expect
it is the opposite

because I cannot see myself
as a sun bather, and I tell you
how blue I am and how
the colors of the sky seem
to fade into my skin (and
not in the good way) and
I tell you that everyone thinks
that I am happy but that I am
sad, and so you follow suit

the truth is I am ten
shades of mossy green

mostly I am only looking
behind myself at storms
that happened years ago
and things are growing
behind my ears now but I
ignore them, because it is easier
to close my eyes than to
open them and risk the glare
of finally being happy
for once