Therapy

They aged quietly, without
permission or notice.
They're OK -- flowing things, moving
from city to city and house to house.
Dreams are particles; dreams are waves.
They are usually consumed in silence,
but suddenly the radio
is in the background,
and the space is no longer empty.
It's safe, but they still scurry
to the dark corners.

Priscilla

Pushing back the cuticle
for some catharsis,
shaping a little crescent moon.
Curling lashes with flashes
of expectations, to catch your eye.
Maybe you should marry me,
a fixer-upper, but a sprightly thing.
Maybe my temporary beauty
can cause permanent love.
For each night I lie wide awake
I promise a lifetime of catharsis.
In your room, where nothing
belongs to me, I can be another keepsake.
Just give me a chance to shine.

Just Things

Flaws and Guilt

I'm not good at keeping in touch.

I eat too much, too quickly.

I stay up too late and generally don't get enough sleep.

I don't often get mad, but when I do, my temper is pretty fiery.

I try every day to limit my hypocrisies and personal inconsistencies; I fall short, but I at least try not to hurt anyone else along the way. I occasionally fall short with that, too.

I have trouble sticking up for myself.

I articulate myself much better when I write than when I speak.

I talk slowly and deeply and have always been self-conscious about my voice.

I don't trust easily.

While I've started to entertain the possibility that I'm pretty, I have always struggled with beauty and I am trying to redefine it for myself.

I care too deeply, sometimes to the point of neglecting myself and my own boundaries.

I don't want to disappoint anyone, let anyone down.

I'm scared of finding myself in severe poverty again.

I'm not afraid of death; I'm only afraid of not loving enough. That's not a typo.

I will live with my chronic health problems for the rest of my life; I get that. I just want more consistency so that I can have more flexibility. That will probably never happen, and I need to accept that.

I need to accept a lot of things, and stop feeling so guilty all the time.

Artifact

Guilt is my talisman,
my heirloom. A fresh coat of paint
separates me from the other women,
the other prisoners, our skin still wet.
If I told the truth now, I could
preserve you, like a picture in a locket,
my face and your face,
painted and frozen.
I can't. Your eyes
are blurry, and I am
trapped inside them.