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.
He will come into your life with lips smooth like buttercups
whispering forevers in the summertime.
Finding the softest parts of your heart
and making promises with good intentions.
He will wipe away your dewdrops in the morning
and find ways to hold your darkest moments
that will make you feel safe in your own structure.
He will paint you with sunshine and kisses.
He will grow you up like a daffodil,
stand you tall, and blossom by tomorrow.
He will be the thunderstorm that pushes you down,
dirt-covered, broken-stemmed, drooping under rainclouds
and he will not be the one.
And you will wonder how you will ever bloom again.
But you will.
You will.
Beneath my heart
my soul
and dancing gypsies
resting with a hip sway in oblivion to the chaos of my
epidermis.
If every cut, scrape, bruise were not a portal to my insides.
My internal nomad,
inhaling and exhaling in the space between my lungs.
Beneath my heart
my soul
bleeding out, clueless.
Squeezed from soaking hip scarves
Red cell after red cell
jingling like coins
draining from the rain-catcher
of every human experience I will ever have to face as an artist.
People see my eyes and assume there is more than life behind them
the way they assume gypsies dance because they’re happy.
And there is not a day where I don’t wonder
if people have caught glimpses of themselves
reflected on the edges of dull blades
brushed across their skin
ever so gently like a pen gliding seamless across
lined paper.
And I know writing is a form of self-mutilation
and I sleep uneasy.
Beneath my heart,
my soul,
what I’ve hidden inside my shell of flesh
squirming deformed
like an infant newly amputeed.
It’s shrill cry so loud it’s silent,
reshaping my carved mind into carnival music
building and unbuilding wordform compulsively.
“Poet” they say
“Poet”
Like a mandate of Shakespeare.
I am sonnets and rhyming and roses and violets
firmly pushed beneath visitor glass,
pulsing to the beat of tambourines.
Beneath my heart- shhh
If you’re quiet sometimes you can hear them.
You, sir, are a shark.
Teeth sharp, wit to match, gleaming bright, entrancing,
mesmerizing the fish. I see you,
Shark.
Eyes narrowed, focused,
moving slowly with grace and impure intentions
like many men before you,
Shark.
Teeth sharp, wit to match, gleaming bright, entrancing,
mesmerizing every woman you smile at,
every stupid fish. You
Shark.
Eyes narrowed, focused,
watching from the edge of the tank,
like any intelligent woman. I, too, am
Shark.
You muster your guts
and feed through the fish to approach,
but that’s the thing about
Sharks.
They don’t mess with other
Sharks.
So you are either brave or stupid.
Or, god, I might be a fish.
Don’t call me captain.
We are past the times of pretending the other is on every plane we see.
Hoped to see you at dance recitals or at the train station to meet me.
Call me impatient, call me jealous
but I am in the backseat
and you can see my gaze drift out the window
like a ship at sea.
Why is it any surprise that I am soaked salty in disappointment
as you remind me that there were other captains before me?
I’ve seen enough to know sometimes you miss them.
Your wheel turned by other hands, perhaps more soft,
perhaps more experienced,
and I am only good at working with mine.
My grandpa used to tell me I belonged in a garage-
my heart, a porsche convertible beating red with engine revs under a sawdust-covered hood,
hidden.
I found your initials keyed into my love handles,
unlocked every journey I might ever hope to have,
you told me my eyes were beautiful like mirrors and you could see sunlight in my teeth.
I told you that holding my hand doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.
Telling me to come back home doesn’t mean I want to be there.
Moving forward doesn’t mean you’re not leaving me behind.
You said you’d always wait.
Now you say I drive you crazy.
Well I want to drive you west to the beaches I grew up on and show you how fragile oyster shells are so you can see what happens to my chest every time I hear you say her name.
Wonder if you notice how her hair blows in the ocean wind.
Ex-lovers, just friends, but I know better.
And I have no one.
And I know it’s not fair that I’d feel less lonely if you had no one, too.
But if you stop letting your wheel be guided by memories and stare hard enough at the water maybe you can see I’ve fallen overboard for you.
My feet heavy like car tires, meant for solid ground.
And I am not sure your wordless apologies are still enough to keep me afloat.
So don’t call me captain.
You will take this job thinking kids
Kids are my specialty
This will be so easy
You will take this job thinking kids are so fucking innocent
When you take this job you will be so innocent
On day one I advise you to take a look around you at this beautifully painted
Orange elementary habitat for young learners
You will only see it until June
Look at those faces
They are mostly clueless and willing to learn- you too should be willing
Be a bright-eyed kindergartener on your first day at work
Hold your head up, pay attention
The first day you meet her you will be introduced by the school counselor
Whispering “Trinity is a very unique case” and then pressing her lips together
Silent with apprehension
And you’ll think you are ready, former Disney character
You had done so many Make-A-Wish Foundation events
Broken barriers and parted the rivers of seriousness
You will follow through with this introduction blindly
And she will tell you about Baby Jesus as if her mom had brought a new baby brother home from the hospital over the weekend
And she will start to walk away mid-thought
To retrieve a beautiful painting she’d done
With vibrant colors- art is the only class you are not to assist her in
Be slow for she is easily frightened
Moving too quickly will result in terrors
And holding her arms up to protect herself, you will never be blind again.
For her exterior is scarred and scabbed and picked and bleeding
And seeing her in clear light is more than skin deep
There will be days she will tell you that the devil is inside her
She pulls her skin off to unleash him
In the bathroom, she will glance at the mirror and cry at the
freckled scars on her face, pleading for you to trim her fingernails
And mom feeds her anti-psychotics and Adderall because she can’t swallow the idea of parenting the result of her own drug use9
Your job is to watch these things happen
And hug her nine year old lifeless body while she screams that she’s going to kill herself
While administrators stand over you like dementors waiting to see results
Looking for results
Where are the results?
You will want to tell them that even the slowest rivers will push through a dam if you give it enough time
Her education is not race
And some day her shaking will become shimmering
There are days you will find razors, decorated with beads like jewelry sitting in her pencil case
She will tell you she has it ‘cause she’s stupid
On the last day you will take a naproxen and a deep breath to acknowledge your last day at her side
And when she asks you, curiosity in her angel blue eyes
If you believe in the father, the son, and the holy spirit
Tell her you believe in this Trinity.
This one right here.
They call me Spitfire. 