Saturday, February 28, 2015

i am the inside of a conch shell, breakable and
thinner than the touch of it.
when they crawl inside,
i become a home; when they are gone i find 
an indecipherable emptiness.
this is not good; 
i do 
many things that are not good but this,
this is the beautiful least of them.

my therapist says that i am always looking for a new way
to blame myself, i am dog eared, pounding my tail to the hardwood 
when captured by a side eye, bounding to the fireplace of maybe 
before returning to the warm spot. i do not eat sadness 
like cereal;
but walk into the wave and swallow it. 

phone battery at 2%, self control at 2%, 
i must move my mouth impulsively, i must fill my shell 
with moving water. 
i am at peace with my growling need, i am okay with being filled. 

this is self actualization, i just never understood 
that it's precipice 
would take this much balancing.

Monday, February 16, 2015

i am learning to be quiet.
typing text messages only to question, after, if my words mean
anything, if by putting them out into the world i am contributing
something of importance, learning to
write an email and delete it. i am learning to stop my want from seeping, to keep my 
love in the stable until the biting flies
send it off into the night, learning to starve others of me.
i am learning to be quiet
and let the silent voices speak. let my actions cast shadows on the den walls, leave
empty diaries,
i am learning that my mouth has known too many silver spoons to speak without the taste of them on my tongue. 
i am learning to be quiet

i will speak with anger that does not belong to me, i will speak with the bitter
rejection of a world that does not reject me-
i will spill those sentences like drunken vomit on the neighbor's front lawn or
sloshes of light coffee from an overzealous mug as i tiptoe back to my room to write
Graduate School essays that I pay for with white dollars and white collars-
i am learning to be quiet while
breaking off my incisors
in the neck of a system that cares more about
the day than night but they don't realize
that this is winter
the night lasts much longer 
than any sunshine, they don't realize that they are covering their eyes while casting shadows, i am learning to be quiet, i swear
i am learning.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015


she says that i am like reading braille, like running trembling fingertips over foreign lines and
strange bumps. she says that i am written in a language that she cannot speak
but is getting the hang of, 
my heart is fluorescent blue like an ocean or an aquarium or a bruise


it's getting dirty, i cannot keep my room clean, i cannot
keep myself from collecting guilt on clear glass sides, pulling algae up like fuzzy blankets.
i am petty, i am enamored, i am an ant hill, i am frenzied like shaken wasps, i am
in a dirty room that smells like fresh trees.
if we turn off all the lights
the puzzle pieces fit.

the maps don't go on the paths we need but surely lead
somewhere, to the forest or the bottom of
the ocean, "this'll be the death of you either way, both written in a language you cannot
speak but are getting the hang of".
i'd climb a thousand trees if your perch was in one of them
i'd climb a thousand trees, the scratch of my nail marks on the bark 
looking just a bit like eight gouged
i love you i love you i love you's
like a chocolate bar or departing train door,
i crave you the hardest when directly
in front of me, a lapse in judgment, your lips taste of
sulfur, you co(u)me
presented as a present,
covered in bright paper and
sprinkled with grain sugar(which, presumably, i am to
lick off, if I've understood your explicit and
detailed instructions
via iMessage)

a shitty hand, a green blade of grass, a dog-eared page-
folding, folding, folding
holding the impression like a stress ball, digging
nails into my sides, digging
impulsive graves and did you know
when i was younger
i used my right hand to hold a fork and
my left to hold a shovel
now i use them interchangeably,
inside of you-

Tuesday, February 3, 2015


kissing with the fervor of thieves, 

stealing tiny bits of each other 
while we sleep.

Monday, February 2, 2015


They moved in when i was just peaking on the edge of awkward, the 12's (a great mountain face to the immediate plummet of pubescence). Unnaturally moody and grappling on the slick rope of heterosexuality, I tended to wish attraction to boys into existence so that when my sexuality was called into question, I could present the cards (names and faces, metaphorical head shots of boys with delicate mouths and soft hair and goddamn, I was so gay). He fit most of the markers and was, unshakably, male. I remember his soccer shoes with three stripes and how he was located within 500 feet of my house which I assumed was a major turn-on for straight girls (connivence is sexy, right?). Jake Colonoy with his blonde eyelashes, strangely enamored with me ever since the time I set a fire in the woods to impress him. He stole his dad's chewing tobacco and carved his intials into trees for absolutely no reason. His sixteen year old sister, my first crush, would send him over to my house while she laid out in their driveway, tanning. I assumed her hair smelled like lemons and thought a lot about her belly-button when I was alone. So gay.

She drove a nineteen ninety nine navy blue Camry which I, for some reason, had a visceral reaction to. She played her music too loud and whipped up and down the neighborhood stretch, sliding on her navy blue brakes at the children running into the road and screaming at them behind sunglasses. She smoked cigarettes on her front porch when everyone was asleep and fumbled with C.D's and did every other girl-task while driving that car and I guess everyone should have expected it. It might have been a wednesday or a thursday (because days turn to mere letters in the cicada buzz of summer) and she was driving up and down, touching strands of her hair in the rearview when she heard the thud. The big red house where the girl who might have been a bit "slow" lived just happened to be having a birthday party. In light of the occasion, the mother had dressed the family's Schnauzer in a party hat and little bow-tie. Possible spooked from all the foreign children's hands- the dog had run out into the road and right into Katie's navy-blue front fender. It was dead, as poetic justice would have insisted, smeared onto the gravel. It's tiny body still dressed in a party hat and at that exact moment- Slow Girl ran out front (probably searching for her beloved dog) only to be met with the grisly sight. There were tears and screams of anguish and I assume it was all very dramatic but I would not witness it because I was in the woods, practicing kissing a boy that I had no interest in for the sake of Jesus. Jesus wanted girls to kiss boys and touch grubby hands and hear a Matchbox Twenty song on the radio hours later and think
"Maybe this is a sign"and it was. A sign that Matchbox Twenty sucks.

After he kissed me, we both sat on logs. He might have slapped a mosquito on his neck.

"Can I touch your boobs?"
"No."
"Do you want to go play Mario Kart?"
"Sure."