clove

I am cultivated and careful,
but it’s nights like these I remember my first cigarette,
lying on your bed with no sheets after, the room spinning.
There were your lips on mine,
almost,
and how we went back out for another
because I didn’t know enough about not getting sick.

I choose my liver over my lungs,
and the snow moon has risen high enough to lose its ethereal glow.
As I choke down shameful coughs,
I can’t help but long for your coffee;
“It eases the burn,”
and you’d offer me your cup,
blue eyes peering over the rim
to see if I’d drink after you.

Wrapped in the jacket you gave me
when it became too small,
I’ve stopped feeling the cold.
I doubt you remember me in your clothes now.
If you could meet me on my back porch for one last goodbye,
I’d give it back if you’d let me.

I can’t tell where the smoke stops, or
when the air starts chilling my breath.
I pray to God you’re alive.
You said once you liked my lips best
with a taste of clove on them.
I wish I had a better tribute than this.

owls

all are night owls
with this sort of thing,
trying for flight.

you’d think
those of us who’ve

weathered

would be territorial,
ruffle our feathers,
restless.

truth be told,
so few take wings, and
we enjoy the company
of those who try.

Just Yet

It’s been so long, WordPress changed format and I can’t use it anymore. Let’s hope that dry spell is over…

–

There are words, that I
cannot say,
just yet.

They are held back
by a small grin
not quite a smirk,
and filled with the fullness
learned from 5 years of
breaking and growing,
growing and breaking.

Tamed by your shoulders,
my head pillowed there
confesses what I can’t,
and the roundness of
my iris walls
speaks for me once in a while.

I steal words
in stolen glances,
and pilfer luck to let you know
for now,

because

there are words
that I can’t say, just yet.

pity crackers

gatorade $2

on a cell phone,
you speak struggling words.
the cooler at the feet
of your frail wheelchair frame
is labeled with listless lines
of text more elegant
than your tone.

crackers 50¢

sunglasses cannot hide
that we’ve both locked eyes.
i am the one who can walk away,
and so i haltingly do.

water $1

i wonder how your
monthly cell phone bill
gets paid or if you’re only pretending,
as 50¢ of the folded bill
in my back pocket burns to be spends
on a pack of pity crackers.

candy, 50¢

if there’s a grid, you’re off it

You hated me when I didn’t know you,
jealousy over another’s arms
giving me hugs.
Anger over me being me.
If I could’ve stopped this thing then,
I would’ve taken you out.

We laughed at you in class.
Crack of your ass showing,
shoulders hunched. All it takes is a glance
between us and we die again.
I didn’t know that was you.

One day I had a crush,
it lasted all of a damn year,
wasting my time when
your eyes never lingered,
only sneered.
Somehow I made it over, once or twice,
but always hid behind others.

Lunches sometimes,
mainly(only) groups.
I am redeeming myself
and you are dealing crushing blows.

Hot and cold, hot and cold;
compliments, and then
ignored. What a sham.

At least you found happiness though,
ironically in the arms of another.
You don’t see me angry, just wanting you
gone.

4/20 poem

perception

My hair curled from the rain,
effortlessly forging a look like
I’d wielded curling irons all morning.

I changed,
small black basketball shorts
so I could sit with my legs crossed,
but paired with small, jeweled black flats.

I looked important,
like I’d been important.
Stressed in new ways to others,
different hats or hairstyles,
but the same underneath.

4/19 poem

Easter’s Stuffed Animals

I talked to my mom yesterday,
about not coming home for Easter.
She wasn’t very happy, but she understood.
The next morning, I found a box
on my front porch, full of Easter,
candy and a stuffed animal.
My usual Easter basket
this year, was cardboard.

I checked, and it was sent
by regular post.
It turns out mom knew all along.
I don’t know what hurt me more,
her knowing or her hurt yesterday.

At 21, I carried the small owl she sent
around with me for the next few days
like I had done multiple Easters before.

4/18 poem

Hope In Cars

I don’t think you understand,
really, how I was broken.
But I’ve been known to tell a tale,
so let me introduce you to myself.

I break without links.
Chinks, tiny breaks, and tiny mistakes,
quiver together enduring the weather
but never moving out of the storm.

I am a riptide pulling myself under.
All I needed was a word,
but you had no others,
no time to spare for me.

I am small, and my mind
is frail (are you happy now?)
That is mean, and undeserved,
though I cannot help but ask.
I admit I can’t stand alone.
Months long beatings from long ago
leave me unable, unable to cope.

But I will be fine when you see me again,
and the car passing outside my window
is never you when I’m home
unless I’m crying, and need you most.

4/17 poem

Gone Away

Make it a balm, make a patch;
maybe I don’t know the story,
but i thought things
were a little on the side
of fights and fear.
Whatever this is,
absence making the heart grow fonder
or simple regret for wasted years,
I’m glad you are smiling now.

4/16 poem

a pathetic rant with a creative title

I hate waiting.
I hate getting mad about waiting,
and damn you for putting that one me.
You broke everything I knew,
callus man. I knew
nothing, so you broke
innocence. I hope it was sharp enough
to cut you and leave a scar,
because I certainly can’t handle
uncertainty now.
You should at least have marks
the same as what
my words inflect on those
who leave me hanging.
Sick bastard,
you dare to call me friend.
I understand your rolls
of words and curls of glares,
smile without ends or souls.
You dared to call me yours,
and tried to teach me love
and faith, but only fooled yourself.
Yet still, you can make a two tear woman
cry a damn stream of tears.
I can move up (I have)
but never fully on, and there
will always be a flash of aversion
in my eyes reserved for you.

4/15 poem
If you think it’s about you, it’s probably not.
If you know it’s about you, hi. 5 years and you still haunt me.