to every past lover I leave
and to those who have left me languid
I hope I remain like fingerprints in your hair
I pray to thunderbolt skies
that you will hold the hurt inside you
harder than ten years gone by
my fingers are crossbeam laced
that you crumble crooked to the ground
and flail without my summer grasp
I want visions of me in your eyelids
I want you heartbreak hunched and wiping
river mud from your forehead
what I am is deeper than ghost magic
I am the terror of being alone
let me haunt you
I will be that kind of woman
I will be too tall to climb
I will be the end of your life
my skin has been bruised by calloused hands
I am battle-worn and fire has caught behind my ears
it is time for me to become the legend you fear, so
when I leave
you had better
want me back
Monday, April 29, 2013
The First Time We Made Love
listening to the songs I played for you three years ago
I remember the way we made love three years later
my hands inside your insecurities, trying to keep your secrets
safe and sew up the gashes men have made in you
there was honeysuckle dew in the night air
and it made us drunk. you said you only wanted
to make contact, to hold and cherish and sanctify
you must not have understood: that is all I ever wanted for you
love notes from your boyfriend decorated the walls
and I read them after you had fallen asleep.
you write about him. I write about you.
this is the way it has always been.
but kissing you under his shadow only made you
taste sweeter, and I finally found what I had been wanting
all thirty-two months. you loved me
that night. I was so lucky.
I knew your scent would leave my mind
when I woke up, but at least it was heavy
between us under starlight.
I never could quite shake you.
following you from room to room, losing
you and finding you, waiting for you
to want me back, watching you spin
and falling down with you. I was afraid.
there are things I never told you, things
I could not keep between my ribs any longer,
and you have such keen vision, I knew you
would see them if I shifted the wrong way
you have since called me significant
and I still have trouble hearing you clearly.
but here, with these old love songs reeling me back
I am spun into silk for you again
the first time we made love will be the last.
I have still never met the man you call home,
but he will carry you forward without me.
he will love you well, I know
and I will miss you as you go.
I remember the way we made love three years later
my hands inside your insecurities, trying to keep your secrets
safe and sew up the gashes men have made in you
there was honeysuckle dew in the night air
and it made us drunk. you said you only wanted
to make contact, to hold and cherish and sanctify
you must not have understood: that is all I ever wanted for you
love notes from your boyfriend decorated the walls
and I read them after you had fallen asleep.
you write about him. I write about you.
this is the way it has always been.
but kissing you under his shadow only made you
taste sweeter, and I finally found what I had been wanting
all thirty-two months. you loved me
that night. I was so lucky.
I knew your scent would leave my mind
when I woke up, but at least it was heavy
between us under starlight.
I never could quite shake you.
following you from room to room, losing
you and finding you, waiting for you
to want me back, watching you spin
and falling down with you. I was afraid.
there are things I never told you, things
I could not keep between my ribs any longer,
and you have such keen vision, I knew you
would see them if I shifted the wrong way
you have since called me significant
and I still have trouble hearing you clearly.
but here, with these old love songs reeling me back
I am spun into silk for you again
the first time we made love will be the last.
I have still never met the man you call home,
but he will carry you forward without me.
he will love you well, I know
and I will miss you as you go.
Sometimes You Are 22
Sometimes you are 22 and you do not know what 23 feels like, and you are not certain you will ever reach next year and you are afraid. And you look in the mirror and you do not look like 21 anymore, but you do not like what 22 looks like most of the time.
Sometimes you are sitting in your room, waiting for the phone to ring and dreading the voice on the other line, and you wonder how you got from 16 to 22 and you cannot remember the good parts of the years in between. You are often driving to work in the rain and hoping you will crash on the way there, not because you would not miss your life, but because you cannot bear the thought of slogging through the muck of it for another day (even if it would mean coming out stronger on the other side).
Sometimes you are 22 and you are reading books about your illness and they are telling you what to do, and you do not want to listen even though you suspect they are right, often precisely because you suspect they are right. Sometimes you do not want what is right. Sometimes you only want what you want, and most of the time what you want is wrong. But sometimes your 22-year-old body craves what other 22-year-old bodies crave, like whiskey and cigarettes and 2 o' clock in the morning, but your body is piloted by a sick brain and you cannot trust that you will survive what other 22-year-old bodies can survive.
Sometimes you are waiting alone in your parents' house. Sometimes you are waiting there for years at a time. Sometimes you wait so long that you cannot remember what doing feels like, only the absence of doing and the slow decay of anticipation. Sometimes you are a still-life, a mere depiction of yourself and you do not know how you became this shadow person. You only feel the haunts of touch and emotion and sometimes you are so raw that you bleed sadness, and sometimes you are so numb that you have lost all memory sensation in your skin.
Sometimes you are crying. Sometimes you are laughing, and you do not understand how the two can coexist side-by-side in the same body. You are often a mix-up of feeling too talkative and feeling too angry and feeling too much altogether, and sunlight is too bright and everything is too much. Sometimes you are so much that you cannot breathe anything but your own scent.
And then sometimes, something changes for a moment.
Sometimes you are 22 and you are amazed that you have survived 22 whole years. Sometimes the right song plays and for only 3 minutes and 22 seconds, you feel okay. Sometimes you are 22 and you feel 22, and you go outside for the first time in 4 days, and you count your 10 fingers and 10 toes, and you remember why you decided to see the sun today in the first place.
Sometimes you are 22 and you are drowning.
Sometimes you are 22 and you are living.
Sometimes it is a toss-up.
Sometimes it is worth the risk.
Sometimes you are sitting in your room, waiting for the phone to ring and dreading the voice on the other line, and you wonder how you got from 16 to 22 and you cannot remember the good parts of the years in between. You are often driving to work in the rain and hoping you will crash on the way there, not because you would not miss your life, but because you cannot bear the thought of slogging through the muck of it for another day (even if it would mean coming out stronger on the other side).
Sometimes you are 22 and you are reading books about your illness and they are telling you what to do, and you do not want to listen even though you suspect they are right, often precisely because you suspect they are right. Sometimes you do not want what is right. Sometimes you only want what you want, and most of the time what you want is wrong. But sometimes your 22-year-old body craves what other 22-year-old bodies crave, like whiskey and cigarettes and 2 o' clock in the morning, but your body is piloted by a sick brain and you cannot trust that you will survive what other 22-year-old bodies can survive.
Sometimes you are waiting alone in your parents' house. Sometimes you are waiting there for years at a time. Sometimes you wait so long that you cannot remember what doing feels like, only the absence of doing and the slow decay of anticipation. Sometimes you are a still-life, a mere depiction of yourself and you do not know how you became this shadow person. You only feel the haunts of touch and emotion and sometimes you are so raw that you bleed sadness, and sometimes you are so numb that you have lost all memory sensation in your skin.
Sometimes you are crying. Sometimes you are laughing, and you do not understand how the two can coexist side-by-side in the same body. You are often a mix-up of feeling too talkative and feeling too angry and feeling too much altogether, and sunlight is too bright and everything is too much. Sometimes you are so much that you cannot breathe anything but your own scent.
And then sometimes, something changes for a moment.
Sometimes you are 22 and you are amazed that you have survived 22 whole years. Sometimes the right song plays and for only 3 minutes and 22 seconds, you feel okay. Sometimes you are 22 and you feel 22, and you go outside for the first time in 4 days, and you count your 10 fingers and 10 toes, and you remember why you decided to see the sun today in the first place.
Sometimes you are 22 and you are drowning.
Sometimes you are 22 and you are living.
Sometimes it is a toss-up.
Sometimes it is worth the risk.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Mothers
my grandmother was born with Texas grass in her mouth
and hands the size of pennies, copper in the sunlight
she was always a scrap of a girl
her classmates teased her for it
so she let them -- she became little and sweet
a silver-hearted pixie with a drawl she still carries
they said her mother was a sick woman
a paranoid schizophrenic who spoke to the walls
I suppose it is only natural for a mother's mind to break
after giving birth to two daughters too sick to live well.
my grandmother must have wept for her sisters
more times than she could count
but she learned to forget.
she shared a name with Shirley Temple and figured
she oughta smile just as big and pretty
if she wanted to get by
so she cracked her lips wide enough
to catch the eye of the handsomest athlete in school
my grandfather had hands the size of trash can lids
and eyes like Paul Newman (if he'd been a good Southern boy)
he still holds records in track and field
and I do not think it is a coincidence
that my grandmother married someone
who could run away faster than anyone else
my mother was born five years after a sister
who was more fire than love, and she spent her life paying
for wounds she never inflicted
my mother was born with scars on her skin
narrow hips and hair that craved wind
she barrel raced and wrestled boys to the ground
as her mother and father nursed her sister's anger
and she was too much spirit and too much fight
and not enough sorry, and my grandmother's second daughter
was so beautiful
with sunned skin the copper
of her own tiny hands
I am born from farm-raised women
strong and unsure and kind
and terrified to pass their hurts
through their wombs
to their daughters
and hands the size of pennies, copper in the sunlight
she was always a scrap of a girl
her classmates teased her for it
so she let them -- she became little and sweet
a silver-hearted pixie with a drawl she still carries
they said her mother was a sick woman
a paranoid schizophrenic who spoke to the walls
I suppose it is only natural for a mother's mind to break
after giving birth to two daughters too sick to live well.
my grandmother must have wept for her sisters
more times than she could count
but she learned to forget.
she shared a name with Shirley Temple and figured
she oughta smile just as big and pretty
if she wanted to get by
so she cracked her lips wide enough
to catch the eye of the handsomest athlete in school
my grandfather had hands the size of trash can lids
and eyes like Paul Newman (if he'd been a good Southern boy)
he still holds records in track and field
and I do not think it is a coincidence
that my grandmother married someone
who could run away faster than anyone else
my mother was born five years after a sister
who was more fire than love, and she spent her life paying
for wounds she never inflicted
my mother was born with scars on her skin
narrow hips and hair that craved wind
she barrel raced and wrestled boys to the ground
as her mother and father nursed her sister's anger
and she was too much spirit and too much fight
and not enough sorry, and my grandmother's second daughter
was so beautiful
with sunned skin the copper
of her own tiny hands
I am born from farm-raised women
strong and unsure and kind
and terrified to pass their hurts
through their wombs
to their daughters
Monday, April 22, 2013
Forward
pressing my ears into this old song so
many times, and so hard that I am hoping
it will take the tears from my cheeks
and make them into something lovelier
it should not remind me of you, but
I do not need much encouragement
to remember your curves and sway
or the secrets you kept
you took your time with me, you took
so much more than I knew I carried
you made my load lighter, but
you stole my strength also
I saw shimmering tens and twenties
of years into a future we spun
together, and I never once suspected
it was all just dramatic irony
I was the last one to find out.
and of course I miss you, and of course
I run from the songs you sang (and listen
to these others instead) because
the echo of you is too loud already
of course you still stir me up
but I have tasted your spoiled ink enough
now, I have seen what you sell
and I cannot turn back
I have no memory of this future without you
so I am treading uncharted ground
and hoping for the best, and there is no
way of knowing where you have landed
the crash crushed us both, I know
but your legs will mend in time
I hope you learn lessons well
I hope you see beautiful things
I will try to remember the best parts of you.
many times, and so hard that I am hoping
it will take the tears from my cheeks
and make them into something lovelier
it should not remind me of you, but
I do not need much encouragement
to remember your curves and sway
or the secrets you kept
you took your time with me, you took
so much more than I knew I carried
you made my load lighter, but
you stole my strength also
I saw shimmering tens and twenties
of years into a future we spun
together, and I never once suspected
it was all just dramatic irony
I was the last one to find out.
and of course I miss you, and of course
I run from the songs you sang (and listen
to these others instead) because
the echo of you is too loud already
of course you still stir me up
but I have tasted your spoiled ink enough
now, I have seen what you sell
and I cannot turn back
I have no memory of this future without you
so I am treading uncharted ground
and hoping for the best, and there is no
way of knowing where you have landed
the crash crushed us both, I know
but your legs will mend in time
I hope you learn lessons well
I hope you see beautiful things
I will try to remember the best parts of you.
Dreamless Sleepers
there are things behind my eyelids that I am not
allowed to pull between my teeth and through my lips
there are things I should not say, I should not
feel, I have been told that I am stained glass thin
beautiful but close to breaking, so do not touch too hard
I nourish nothing, I tremble and bend often
it seems I am a pathological phenomenon, and there are
books that know more about my brain than I do
my synapses and cells are not trustworthy
they have led me astray and apparently they are sick
sometimes I suspect I may have deeper roots
in yellow silt, reaching down desperate
for something steadfast, something to anchor me
finding only empty pill bottles and shifting sand
and I am all gray lighting, dim and diminishing
I have always been the single withered grape in the bunch
my taste is dark and sour, and you cannot decide
whether to pluck me and finish the job, or to let me reside
among my plumper companions and pretend I belong
there is no correct answer, by the way
escape artists are relentless in their thirst for life
I suppose I admire them for that, but I am content to sleep
inside these chains, this wooden crate below the water's
surface, not quite drowning but not quite breathing
I have made my home here, knowing
there is little hope for the dreamless sleepers
above ground, and sunlight is too painful anyhow
allowed to pull between my teeth and through my lips
there are things I should not say, I should not
feel, I have been told that I am stained glass thin
beautiful but close to breaking, so do not touch too hard
I nourish nothing, I tremble and bend often
it seems I am a pathological phenomenon, and there are
books that know more about my brain than I do
my synapses and cells are not trustworthy
they have led me astray and apparently they are sick
sometimes I suspect I may have deeper roots
in yellow silt, reaching down desperate
for something steadfast, something to anchor me
finding only empty pill bottles and shifting sand
and I am all gray lighting, dim and diminishing
I have always been the single withered grape in the bunch
my taste is dark and sour, and you cannot decide
whether to pluck me and finish the job, or to let me reside
among my plumper companions and pretend I belong
there is no correct answer, by the way
escape artists are relentless in their thirst for life
I suppose I admire them for that, but I am content to sleep
inside these chains, this wooden crate below the water's
surface, not quite drowning but not quite breathing
I have made my home here, knowing
there is little hope for the dreamless sleepers
above ground, and sunlight is too painful anyhow
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Less Now
I have written my heartbreak
so many times that your name has worn thin
beneath my fingers. Its letters hardly show
their faces on the keyboard now.
I am tired of carrying you
with me everywhere I go, but I am afraid
to let my wounds heal. I do not want to forget
what made them. I find comfort
in turning scabs into scars,
and I am festering.
You brought me to my knees
and I thanked you for it. I am small
and stupid in your wake. And after marking off
days and weeks and months on my calendar
without you here, I feel my joints aching to buckle
again. What a shame. And I had only just
pulled myself to my feet,
and begun to walk.
I suppose it will take time
to unlearn the lessons you taught me
about myself, but I have never cared much
for waiting. I would rather peel the skin
from my hands, burn your fingerprints
off my shoulders, rake my frame
over hot coals to counteract
your cool indifference.
I would rather rip you out of me
like an overgrown splinter
than spend another night writing your name
across the inside of my eyelids.
It has marked me like a curse.
I cannot look into a mirror anymore
without seeing the things you loved
and hated. The collar bone you kissed,
the legs you pushed, the lips
you craved. It is all my fault.
The skin around my gut has swollen,
pregnant with regret and hungry questions.
I do not understand why our hands
fit together. I do not understand how
we fell into such frenzied happiness.
I do not understand where I lost
my presence of mind, my sense of self.
I was not much before I met you,
but I am less now.
so many times that your name has worn thin
beneath my fingers. Its letters hardly show
their faces on the keyboard now.
I am tired of carrying you
with me everywhere I go, but I am afraid
to let my wounds heal. I do not want to forget
what made them. I find comfort
in turning scabs into scars,
and I am festering.
You brought me to my knees
and I thanked you for it. I am small
and stupid in your wake. And after marking off
days and weeks and months on my calendar
without you here, I feel my joints aching to buckle
again. What a shame. And I had only just
pulled myself to my feet,
and begun to walk.
I suppose it will take time
to unlearn the lessons you taught me
about myself, but I have never cared much
for waiting. I would rather peel the skin
from my hands, burn your fingerprints
off my shoulders, rake my frame
over hot coals to counteract
your cool indifference.
I would rather rip you out of me
like an overgrown splinter
than spend another night writing your name
across the inside of my eyelids.
It has marked me like a curse.
I cannot look into a mirror anymore
without seeing the things you loved
and hated. The collar bone you kissed,
the legs you pushed, the lips
you craved. It is all my fault.
The skin around my gut has swollen,
pregnant with regret and hungry questions.
I do not understand why our hands
fit together. I do not understand how
we fell into such frenzied happiness.
I do not understand where I lost
my presence of mind, my sense of self.
I was not much before I met you,
but I am less now.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Let Me
let me be strong for you
let me be stupid for you
let me be small for you
let me be hungry for you
let me be weak for you
let me be poor for you
let me be silent for you
let me be lovely for you
let me be younger for you
let me be tall for you
let me be loud for you
let me be happy for you
let me be everything you want
let me be anything you need
let me be basking in your light
let me be shaped into what you like
and never let me be what I am
let me be stupid for you
let me be small for you
let me be hungry for you
let me be weak for you
let me be poor for you
let me be silent for you
let me be lovely for you
let me be younger for you
let me be tall for you
let me be loud for you
let me be happy for you
let me be everything you want
let me be anything you need
let me be basking in your light
let me be shaped into what you like
and never let me be what I am
Sewing
turning your hands over, you will find pieces
of past lovers stitched into the fabric of your palms
you will try to pull out the thread, but you will discover
that your skin has already grown a layer over the top
and the embroidery is profane in places
and you wish you had not sewn it in
but it is also shaped like clouds and lullabies
and certain curves are kindly familiar
let the patterns reside there
you cannot unravel the past like a tailor's mistake
and sewing is not always mending, but
at least your hands will be a map
and you will know where to place the stitches next
and you will become your own favorite garment
of past lovers stitched into the fabric of your palms
you will try to pull out the thread, but you will discover
that your skin has already grown a layer over the top
and the embroidery is profane in places
and you wish you had not sewn it in
but it is also shaped like clouds and lullabies
and certain curves are kindly familiar
let the patterns reside there
you cannot unravel the past like a tailor's mistake
and sewing is not always mending, but
at least your hands will be a map
and you will know where to place the stitches next
and you will become your own favorite garment
(mumbling)
how do you walk
how do you move your feet
when the voices mumble
the ground beneath you gurgles
you have nowhere solid to step
how do you try
when the sludge sloshes at your ankles
and your head is ablaze with worry
and nothing sticks
and nothing fades
(composed in 60 seconds at oneword.com)
how do you move your feet
when the voices mumble
the ground beneath you gurgles
you have nowhere solid to step
how do you try
when the sludge sloshes at your ankles
and your head is ablaze with worry
and nothing sticks
and nothing fades
(composed in 60 seconds at oneword.com)
103.
Something went sick with us. It was always wilting and curling brown,
but the bottom fell out sooner than I had expected. I saw sparkling into
tens and twenties of years in the future, and I had no idea how wrong I
was. Love is something with spikes that you put down your throat. Time
repeats. Time repeats itself. I have given myself over and I have given
myself over and over again. I am done with being done. I am looking for
something cleaner than you. I am breathing my own breath now, never
yours.
(leverage)
I suppose you were always leverage. Something from which I could spring
to the next level. A tool. I was always unfair, we were always unfair.
You were always used up. I sucked you down and moved on. This was never
what we wanted it to be. You were the next step on the staircase, and I
climbed you with muddy shoes. I should have walked softer. I should
have, I should have. I should have done many things.
(composed in 60 seconds at oneword.com)
(composed in 60 seconds at oneword.com)
(higher)
I wish I were
higher
on some celestial plane or
a platform somewhere between
clouds and blue
sky, I wish I were
higher
I wish I could reach
tree tops, skyscrapers
I wish I could float beyond
this mire and roil
I wish I could scream
louder, I wish I were
higher
(composed in 60 seconds at oneword.com)
higher
on some celestial plane or
a platform somewhere between
clouds and blue
sky, I wish I were
higher
I wish I could reach
tree tops, skyscrapers
I wish I could float beyond
this mire and roil
I wish I could scream
louder, I wish I were
higher
(composed in 60 seconds at oneword.com)
(both)
both toxic and radioactive you are
cleansing in your destruction
break me down
at the molecular level, rebuild
me into something chrome
solid and white hot
something cruel
and beautiful
(composed in 60 seconds at oneword.com)
cleansing in your destruction
break me down
at the molecular level, rebuild
me into something chrome
solid and white hot
something cruel
and beautiful
(composed in 60 seconds at oneword.com)
(under)
you will be under
neath and you will not
breathe
air again for minutes
and minutes trail months into
years and you will
think you see a crack
of light but you will not
under water and burlap
under mud and ice and
shovels under
neath and you will not
breathe
(composed in 60 seconds at oneword.com)
neath and you will not
breathe
air again for minutes
and minutes trail months into
years and you will
think you see a crack
of light but you will not
under water and burlap
under mud and ice and
shovels under
neath and you will not
breathe
(composed in 60 seconds at oneword.com)
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
This Is What It Is Like To Love Me
this is what it is like to love me:
I will push you harder
than I push anyone else
because I am afraid of you
and shoving you through the door
is better than you walking out
this is what it is like to love me:
my hands will shake as they reach for you
but I will feign disinterest
I will be cold to you
because I have to slow my heartbeat somehow
and you are so warm already
this is what it is like to love me:
you will be pedestal-high and shining
paper monuments will sing your name
I will thank you and follow you
but I will mistrust you and grow nervous
if you do the same for me
this is what it is like to love me:
I will need so much from you
I will suck the sap from your bones
and weep for your ruin
I am too large and unwieldy
I cannot be held
this is what it is like to love me:
I will not be safe or kind or soothing
I am all rough kisses and cigarette smoke
and getting drunk enough to tell you
how wonderfully uneasy you make me feel
you should know that I will hurt you
this is what it is like to love me:
you will lose yourself in some idea of me
I have been made into a hundred shapes before
and I can see the way you look at me
you think I have something worth giving
and you want it
the truth is that my arms are empty
and if this is what it is like to love me
then you should save yourself the trouble
and leave now, no matter
how many times
I ask you
to stay
I will push you harder
than I push anyone else
because I am afraid of you
and shoving you through the door
is better than you walking out
this is what it is like to love me:
my hands will shake as they reach for you
but I will feign disinterest
I will be cold to you
because I have to slow my heartbeat somehow
and you are so warm already
this is what it is like to love me:
you will be pedestal-high and shining
paper monuments will sing your name
I will thank you and follow you
but I will mistrust you and grow nervous
if you do the same for me
this is what it is like to love me:
I will need so much from you
I will suck the sap from your bones
and weep for your ruin
I am too large and unwieldy
I cannot be held
this is what it is like to love me:
I will not be safe or kind or soothing
I am all rough kisses and cigarette smoke
and getting drunk enough to tell you
how wonderfully uneasy you make me feel
you should know that I will hurt you
this is what it is like to love me:
you will lose yourself in some idea of me
I have been made into a hundred shapes before
and I can see the way you look at me
you think I have something worth giving
and you want it
the truth is that my arms are empty
and if this is what it is like to love me
then you should save yourself the trouble
and leave now, no matter
how many times
I ask you
to stay
Monday, April 1, 2013
102.
all I want is to open my mouth
and tell you all the ways I want to kiss you
but the words taste so much sweeter
just before I let them out
so I will keep them beneath my tongue
until they sour, or until you cannot
bear to wait any longer
for the sound of my voice
and I have kissed you fifty times
below your collar bone, between
your eyebrows, in public places and private
all without moving an actual inch
toward your body
my eyelashes will dart in your direction
and give me away, and when I blush and avoid you
because my family is looking or because
you know me so well already
you should remember that I am kissing you
in my mind, and were I a stronger woman
I would tell you the truth
for once
and tell you all the ways I want to kiss you
but the words taste so much sweeter
just before I let them out
so I will keep them beneath my tongue
until they sour, or until you cannot
bear to wait any longer
for the sound of my voice
and I have kissed you fifty times
below your collar bone, between
your eyebrows, in public places and private
all without moving an actual inch
toward your body
my eyelashes will dart in your direction
and give me away, and when I blush and avoid you
because my family is looking or because
you know me so well already
you should remember that I am kissing you
in my mind, and were I a stronger woman
I would tell you the truth
for once
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