Thursday, May 29, 2014

i don't want to be a pretty painting
i want to be a 
land slide or electrical storm or wildfire or plague

something so dangerous, so beautiful that you
feel guilty touching yourself
after.
a choice of two evils, both stuffed full of things that you could not
live without.

throw your luggage under the bus,
tuck your purse under wing like a mother hen.

take one, leave one,
decide which things that you could not live without 
more.

throw your luggage under the bus
say goodbye to half of yourself for
a few hours.
what do you choose when 
everything feels vital,  
throw your luggage under the bus
like letting go of your fathers hand
or grabbing onto someone else's.

in the end we're left with
both.

Saturday, May 17, 2014

the first time you looked your mother as a stranger, saw her
outdated shoes and over the top perfume
the first time you looked at your mother and did not see
a super hero anymore

i cried to my therapist for the first time because i am
so tired of running, of pushing boulders
i'll admit,
deep down i really did think
that life was more than a spinning wheel,
deep down i really did think
it'd get easier with time. 

Friday, May 2, 2014

i draw compliments out, oozing like
honey from a half empty jar. 
maybe i am half empty-
trapped air, (gutted, cored, still bearing the scoop marks like scars)
the ghosts of hornets,
filled in a vacuum.

someone once told me that my aura was dark blue,
tension, anxiety, anger.
i think my aura has grown dark gold to yellow like a fading bruise.