20 March 2016
I want your voice vibrating off my clothes, off my glasses,
off the thin walls of this yellow room.
We are tied to a location, a smell of fried meat.
We are tied to forgetting.
And I will tell you that I watch men on TV
saving me over and over
but that I do not want to be saved
once the screen is off.
And I will tell you that I want ambiguity and shades
of gray in my books and shows
but that I do not want them in my life.
I want the long version.
I want you to sing to me;
use a dead language if you have to.
Tell the stories that tattoo the walls of your bedroom.
Tell the stories that will carry me, the hot air of
your breath filling the balloon of my craving.
We are tied to a location,
but that doesn't have to be true.
We are tied to forgetting,
but you can remember me
for as long as you need me.
02 March 2016
One spring breath, lilacs
and grass, would be
a happy ending--not a
wedding, sure, but
there is a knife in the gut,
the origin of the daily pain.
a pendulum between
wanting to live and
wanting to die, I don't want
to disappoint anyone.
So I stay,
and the dirty names
leave grease marks
on my heart. Why do I
decide to disappoint myself
instead? Why am I
never my own muse?
16 February 2016
It is easy to write hate mail, just as it is easy
to confess a secret to a stranger. It is just as easy
to keep your head down and not make
eye contact on the train.
I spend a lot of my time being unfair.
I spend a lot of my time not knowing the full story.
It is easy to wrap ribbons around the details,
place your finger in the middle and have someone else
tie the knot. It is easy to see things as black or white,
and it is easy to judge a sweater on a hanger
in your great aunt's closet.
Because she would regularly donate
her fat clothes to you,
it is easy to judge what you do not want.
It is easy to be human, in other words.
It is far easier to be right and narrow.
It is far easier to make mistakes
every day and blame someone else.
I blame myself for being a placeholder.
I blame myself for being a bookmark
in a novel you promised to finish.
You promised ten years ago,
and I promised to wait.
12 February 2016
and found Tupperware lids and old keys to buildings that have been knocked down,
places in the pockets of history.
I want to believe in your flawed visions and muffled voices, echoes that cheat us
out of words and add vibrating blurs to our dreams,
places in the pockets of history.
One of these days, you will have to accept my sweaty palms and my shaky words.
One of these days, I will have to fall asleep on your shoulder and trust
that you know where you are driving, where land meets ocean, where we go to rest.
09 February 2016
I have to believe
my childhood pets
have gone somewhere
to play and
wait for me.
and I want to be loved."
It is because I am a broken
cookie, someone else's token, with my crumbs
in a neat little pile.
My brokenness sees others who are broken
and maybe if I notice you,
you will get noticed by others
and someone will pick you up and love you.
And I will feel warm love knowing you are loved,
and it won't matter that we were crumbling before.
It won't matter because we are finally held and seen.
"We know better. We know that it will still matter,
but at least then we would be warm."
30 January 2016
When I am weak, I will draw from the sun, and the shadows of my self-consciousness will fall.
When I am a failure, I will draw from the moon, and the pattern of my tides will lull my anxieties.
When I am strong again, it will not be enough to be a good girl. I will have to be a powerful woman.
26 January 2016
focal vocal, by SRM
false start, false hope, false positive:
and when I turn my head, the light seems to smear,
instead of dart, like a false path, a blurry trick of the eye.
nearsightedness betrays me:
false vision, false ideas leading the way.
I pay my bills,
I ask permission,
I open doors,
I say "thank you,"
but each is a crumb
it's a thankless job, but someone has to
love you, breathe into your mouth:
the ghost of me filling the shell of you,
my falsehood becoming your truth.
31 December 2015
wet the clay again, again.
each attempt, a statue
each statue, a child--
an unruly promise, a life on its own.
dark eyes look at the sun.
bodies baking, promises finalizing
until the old is new again, again.
each attempt, another chance
each chance, another year.
07 December 2015
the day that she left me.
- Stone Temple Pilots, "Sour Girl"
were a breath
and I counted
each one you stole,
I would be empty,
a cavity, and you would
be richer, claiming
you earned the right
to each thought.
You'd call me a liar.
I'd watch as your teeth
fall out, one by one,
each a trinket
for my troubles, the debt
never fully repaid.