Someday you will wake up to the light peaking through your blinds
striping the walls and her face golden, cradled on your chest
and you will kiss her
and you will feel it
and she won’t tell you that you are the only person who has ever kissed her first thing in the morning
and she will feel it, too.
Prompt: write about the contents of the box you will leave behind when you die.
[written in 2012]
unlabeled
carelessly attached to the remnants
of my first car, totaled
never to be driven
handle hanging off to display
things you’ve seen, distant
as if through glass walls
windows
and if you ever get the nerve to touch them
they will speak in softest tones and
life I couldn’t finish and in
my first car, totaled
never to be driven
a glove.
crumpled behind proof of insurance and
crusted with dried tears and granola bars
because I was sad and hungry and ironic and
gloves kept the space between my knuckles warm
when you weren’t sitting in my passenger seat
clutching onto the coat hook every time I turned down unfamiliar streets
for the sake of getting lost
a map.
for when those times getting lost and adventurous
turned into sticky turmoil
and we stopped recognizing the sidewalks and yellow lines and
tomtoms are too mainstream
we craved our front door opening
my favorite cd.
shattered like mirror sprinkles
on the dirtiest cupcake
reflecting the dustiest cobwebs and
your sweetest eyes
music never to be played
in the radio of
my first car, totaled
never to be driven
a love note.
eighty pages long- a love notebook.
each line written to somebody different
apologizing for my sudden absence
apologizing for being unable to accept replies
I’d been writing this for years should something tragic happen
and it must have
a blue traffic bump.
indicator of fire hydrants
helper of steady extinguishment
picked loose from the friction of heavy truck tires
thieved from communal safety by my envious hands
to sit in the cracked compartment of my glove box
I wish I’d ever been able to assist like that pathetic reflective blue square
stickers.
from the lady at the bank
in case you wanted to re-live our childhood together
and stick them on the windows
just to watch mom scrub them off
so we could smell the sweet orange of a chemical cleaner
used for things like removing stickers from windows and
taking the blood out of the fabric used to make the car seats of
my only car, totaled
never to be driven.
[written in 2013]
My marionette.
His lips and cheeks painted pink to make him lifelike but inside he’s hollow.
He tastes like bubblegum and is good for a game of footsies-
a reminder that cold feet is more than a physical condition.
You can’t trust what he says is genuine since he’ll say anything I tell him to.
Do anything I tell him to.
And I can’t keep this up anymore.
I’ve told him I’m not good at this heartbreaking business, but he says this is love.
This is what love is.
He says he feels free.
He says since he’s met me, he’s got no strings to hold him down.
But I’m just playing with the ones that hold him up.
I am poetry scribbled on post-it notes littering your desktop.
I am campfire smoke soaked into curls tickling your chin
I am sprained backbone, stuttering at the microphone, forgetting my lines quite often.
And piles of books pushed into the shelf all summer
I am untuned piano keys that make beautiful music
I am the raging fire of a candle wick
I am a great story with a terrible ending
And I will always be too much for you.
When you decide to fall in love with me know that
I have been the night sky for as long as I can remember
Hosting more darkness than light
My thoughts, a constant, quiet wind
My body, endlessly untouched
When you decide to fall in love with me, love me like the moon
Do not take the night, just make it easier to see
And know you’d better come with the will of a shooting star
Or do not come at all.
They call me Spitfire. 