In my head I talk to myself about
      What happened
But some small part adds
      To me
As in “what happened to me”
As if I were prone
      Passive
A recipient of the action
Rather than a participant
No active voice

When he asked if I wanted to I said

      “Yes,”
Instead of
      “Yes.”
I live and die by commas
A million things can happen between quotation marks

I think about the sentence structure of “he unzipped my jeans”
       How do I talk about this the right way?

       I did say yes after all
Subject, verb, indirect object
The subject is always him and the object is always me

It was too much

Too much because you had a box of feelings

And you opened it up and it was all the crazy things

Things your mind couldn’t imagine because when you thought of them it turned away

The Melancholia, The Euphoria, The Truth.  

But you couldn’t take it oh you couldn’t take it

Because it hurts these feeling are so soft and so hard at the same time

And you slammed the box down a I got caught between the edge and the belt buckle

But it’s okay...

I’ve been caught between many belt buckles

Maybe this is the very thing that gives me what power I hold over you

So that when I speak I speak slowly with such vigor and intuition that you muddle your speech

to hide your heart.

But I mean every word.

This is what I think at least

But I’m probably wrong

I am not asking you to succumb to a dangerous villain

But if you choose to mistrust then expect a false truth.

If you would just talk to me

Not just talk to me really talk to me

This feeling is not a heavy chest bound with sharp wire or iron laches

But a candy box

Full of the sweetest chocolate

That will melt your mouth and those latches I promise you I promise you

I would not lie.

And maybe it is not true

That I have mistaken your slitted tongue for a satin bow

That is, you mean to fire bullets you mean and build walls

But this does not bring fear to me

You can’t take anything but the shells of people with sharp teeth

You’ll reach out

But you friends with crumble as you come in for embrace

The empress of emptiness,

You are what I know you’d become.

As you sit on the side of the road with your closed box

Which is now cold cardboard: your only shelter from the rain I will come to you

I will smile and speak what I said to so so many before

And I’ll use the bow to tie you mouth

To hold your heart,

and keep you quiet.

If you think deep enough, it’ll come to you
If you work hard enough, it’ll be fantastic
If you practice long enough, you are ready
But
what if you’re not
What if you’re not ready for what’s ahead
What if
You give up

As you look in the mirror,
You see no hope
Hide
Don’t eat
Repeat
Don’t tell your only friend
Don’t tell your so-called family,
Inside is nothing
Only emptiness

But
You can find that fire in the darkness
You can find that ember of hope
It may be hard
But leave the emptiness behind

He sat tapping his brown shoe against the ground

in The Yellow House on the corner of the street.

He was waiting,

waiting,

waiting for An Eternity’s Gate

to shine and reveal his brother, Theo,

so they could adventure on the land that conveys

his most brilliant thoughts.

They climb,

climb,

climb up the steep Road with Cypress

in their automobile.

They arrive to the Wheatfield with Crows

and just let themselves wander

to admire the beauty they see.

As they wander, they see Irises and Almond Blossoms

and Poppy Flowers and finally past the hills,

the Sunset at Montmajour.

These wonders proved to have the perfect essence

for his next paintings.

Both tap,

tap,

tapped their brown shoes in tranquility

to the arcadian rhythm of the music being played

at the Café Terrace at Night.

The same rhythm that was played in the breeze that day;

that was carried through the Irises

and the flowers

and the Sunset at Montmajour

and now through the swirls of royal blue and yellow

on The Starry Night.

One day I woke up

With slime on my head

I don’t know how

I got out of bed.

I looked up and there--

Up on the roof

The slime was there

Just like POOF

 I don’t know what

 My family will say

Because of the slime

In my room today.

That’s all for the poem

Now we are done

Though the slime was messy

It was fun

My skin, I want to pull away

My mind imprisoned, every day

The pain, the breath, the heat, the cold

Too much, too little, make it go

Breath comes harder, blocked, impatient

Don’t want this body, take it, TAKE IT

Dead weight keeping me from flying

Maybe even worse than dying

Feeling trapped inside my skin

A battle I can never win

Illness, discomfort, flaws and pain

My thoughts are stuck inside my brain

My bones are screaming to be freed

From this rotting piece of meat

Decaying even while I walk

Consciousness trapped, my soul is locked

I’d tear the skin right off my bones

If it weren't for the life it owns

For death’s a painful, risky bet

How have I not gone mad just yet?

I used to love spring…

Remember when you and I used to play

in the new fields of dandelions

with fuzzy heads like feathers?

We’d flit among the cool, silky green grass

and boundless fields of bold, blushing flowers

like little butterflies -

seeing everything in bright color.

We’d sit on big flat rocks

taking in the friendly warmth of the sun

for the first time in months.

Every year, we’d race to the park to see

fluffy yellow ducklings paddling

in the river,

feeding them crumbs of bread

we’d begged mama to let us bring.

We lived for the weekends

flying princess kites,

the sweet warm breeze caressing us.

I felt I could fly higher than a kite

like I could do anything with you by my side.

Oh, did I love spring.

A year after you were taken from me though -

can you blame me

for hating it?

Instead of flying, I feel buried

under frozen impenetrable ground

Fields full of bluebells, wobbly-legged baby deer

funny-shaped clouds -

all remind me

you’re not here

But today is your birthday

I owe it to you to try again

I place a bouquet of your favorite

hyacinths and orchids

on your grave.

Close my eyes, feel the

cool, calming breeze brush my face,

drying my tears.

The birds’ songs are so lively and airy -

I can hear your voice in them

like how we used to sing along

to the old radio.

I touch the grass

smell it’s crisp sweetness

And somehow

I can feel your spirit in me

your angelic smile

and warm hug

envelop me.

I realize,

you are everywhere

in the gentle spring breeze

in the sweet fragrance of the tulips

in the comforting warmth of the sun

Maybe I can start loving spring again.

One day a wee mouse was sniffing around,

When he discovered a lion, sleeping on the ground.

The lion awoke and opened his jaws,

Squealing, the mouse stared at the lion’s huge claws,

He pleaded, “Please let me go, for you won’t regret,”

“For there might be a time when you’re in a fret,”

“And if so, I’ll certainly help you, don’t you see?”

“If you only let me go, so I can be free!”

The lion agreed with a happy smile,

Wondering if he’d see the mouse in a while,

And sure enough one day right after his nap,

The lion found himself caught in a hunter’s trap!

The mouse heard the moans of the lion and rushed to his side,

And peered at the ropes in which he was tied,

The mouse thought for a moment, then he knew what to do,

To the lion’s amazement he began to chew!

The lion was relived as he found,

That he was free from the ropes that had held him bound!

Graciously, he thanked his friend,

For thanks to the mouse, he had not met his end.

And so it is concluded, in this mere tale,

That even the littlest friends, no matter how small,

Will surely be there to catch you when you fall.

fever dreams

(ten)

you exchange your dreams at recess each day

swapping your journal with hers and sharing

leftover orange slices from her lunchbox.

today, she says she missed you

while you were out sick

and you don’t know how to tell her

you dreamt she held your hand on the swings—

you lie and say you don’t remember. it was the fever.

(thirteen)

she says, reading a horoscope’s easier than believing in God

you agree. at least the sky is more forgiving.

winter constellations ebb and wink

to the two of you, it’s charming— you, oblivious

to how each star burns with a million furious half-lives.

in the flux of the atmosphere

you spy Venus,

she waves, sends her blessings from above.

(sixteen)

eyes flicker open in the middle of the sleepover,

orange peel scraps litter the bedroom

ablaze with the hue of her soft stray hairs.

you still can’t tell if she’s a seraph,

sent in light and absolution

or the thing manifesting in sleep paralysis,

seething from the corners of your eyes—

perhaps both.

(born again)

this is what hungover feels like

slurred words, fizzing, incoherent—

realizing you might be *n l*ve

isn’t all it’s chalked up to be.

you think: is this who I am now? do I have to be?

as you dig orange rind remnants from under your nails.

tell you the truth, mom: I don’t know how that got there.

(and again)

the notion slipped into you in fever dreams,

your family asserts—

your cells turned over, all mutated

and the illness made you new.

you rise from your sick-bed a new sinner

and your mother says she misses you

her daughter, her only child,

you know you can’t go back.
 

(and again)

you’ve seen her manifest in visions and mirrors

discovered the absurdity in womanhood and

found solace in that sin, as they called it,

loving her all the same.

she hands you an orange slice

lighting candles in the kitchen, says—

any good dreams, angel?

and you tell her about the swings.

i have spun myself a cadence without 

meaning to—one where boats brush

the bay and sail away like the casings

of a lemon, coming undone far and 

farther. some years, the rain sinks

its teeth by the dock and divulges lost

dreams. follow them and you’ll find

the loose ends of broken—fingers,

buttons, words, walls. it’s a graveyard

of all that’s been tucked into space

and forgotten like board games and

frivolous. i can still remember when

my curls wove staircases around my

head, those senseless days. mother 

would murmur rhapsodies as she

brushed my baby hairs away, saying

that someday she’d have to pluck them 

all off. one palm on my hair, the other 

on the fan, we’d dry the sweat off as 

the rest of the city frothed in amber. 

the news that night claimed that some 

people slept on the beach, toes dug in 

the waves. i always wanted to do that, 

climb under constellations, 

and wait.