Holes Like I Left The beginning was as unreal as pebbled banks on an overcast day, and a week later when I learned what it was to be alive for the very first time.
(Your skin was sinful, smooth, like the wax on a candle that had never been lit.)
The awkward reality didnt hit me until we sat side by side on your kitchen counter.
The next day I cried to the wind and hunted you. In my transformed state of terror I whimpered, and you patted my nose, unafraid. I was new, still damp from birth and you calmed me like a mother does her child. Everything will be alright.
(I could smell your brokenness on your breath.)
One, two, three. Days went by smooth, like shots of whiskey. But I was still young and it troubled my stomach. I coughed worries into your hair and asked, Are you ready yet?
To which you would always reply no, without ever opening your mouth.
(I hated you. Oh I hated you and I loved you, and I wished I had never decorated you
Excuses for LullabiesDont say youll fix me.
Broken eyes have no right to profess that which they cannot see
clearly, through shattered lenses,
that distort my face and also
Though I would like if you could fix me
such words and hopes are not welcome to souls like mine,
who have already been promised such lovely results
only to find that, in the end, Doctor has
prescribed the wrong medication.
Perhaps these dismal thoughts are too grievous?
some part of my mind will tell another as my pupils burn holes
into stupid cell phones which never ring.
(Though watched phones do not deliver it seems ignored ones are no better.)
Realization and sense proclaim you cant fix me.
and I you, and us the world.
Yet hope, hand in hand with stupidity, finds me here still.
Forever stuck, or so it seems, to this chair which finds itself closer still
and other means of communication which are muted with the fact
Angels Are Forever Three years.
Still, the reminders remain in the ceramic folds of jeweled hummingbirds; forever poised a few delicate inches from their blooming goals. They linger around corners, and hang neatly from the ceiling, silver and pale, illuminating gently. Memorys ghosts are lurking down the hall, under the bed, in the garden, and inside blue-sky eyes that are aching so, so hard; its a wonder they havent broken yet.
Even I, an outsider, sense the chill, unsettling hurt that is surrounding them, and it grabs me in quiet moments, making lazy ice-rivers of my blood. I am sliced down the center with a half that cries when she is alone and a half that scolds, Its not your pain to have. Yet who is to say that loss has selected owners? If she crawls under our covers at night I will not ignore her, regardless of whom she has come to visit. The truth
Virus As they occur, the moments are nothing but ordinary. There are words, faces, and noises, and yet in-between all that there is a deafening silence.
The silence, however, is not noticed until later.
Later, as it always has been, is when the mind decides to snap out of its drowsy inattentiveness and face the realization at hand. What it will understand, when this happens, is that it missed a critical moment when she turned to him and allowed the silence to overtake them. The words it understood. The chatter about the day and the weather and what types of dreams they had before do not escape recognition. It is the silence which creeps in like a robber in the night that has been hidden and now discovered. It is screaming something far louder than words.
And the idea that is being wordlessly bellowed is terrifying.
Her eyes are happy. She is, and always has been, a happy person, if not somewhat reserved and wary with her words. But she
Always Go EasyI am a disaster. Gooey, crying, sobbing, sticky mess of a girlfriend on your lap.
What's wrong? you say.
Nothing, I lie. Lying is easier. Always go easy.
You do your amazing boyfriend thing, cape waving in the air, wide stance with hand on hips, come to save the day; steal my heart, feed the dog, and make dinner, too. Youre just too good for me. And even though I love it I swat your hand off my hip.
I'm not angry. It just tickled.
I'm not ticklish, but we go along with it. Always go easy.
Midnight. You work tomorrow and I mention it while I water your wrinkled sweater, watching the weather lady and thinking about how her skirt is just too damn short for her age. You look at me with big worried thoughts and ask if I want to go home. It's up to you, I reply.
(That place means nothing, anymore. You're my home now. All it contains is a bed one person short of perfection and too much of a past to contain. No matter where I am I long for your breath to lull