Molding

begins with a step

in your direction

then a flip and switch

and back away

and back again

followed by contemplation,

fear, then acceptance,

and finally

a grateful nod,

a lesson learned.

fear of being seen

fear

fear is the enemy

longing

longing to be seen

hiding

unwilling to be seen

seeing myself

laughing, crying

because I see myself

now, in the mirror!

I love you

I love you!

willing to be seen

by myself

is the first step.

Boundless love...

I found you 

by a couple wilted petals.

They were plucked

without a shrill

without a shutter

by stony hands 

that didn’t know

that what they held

were God's creation.

Those hands,

they didn’t know

wildflowers bloomed

not for attention

but in unison with God.

Today,

I found my petals

when I remembered 

how it felt to share 

a boundless love.

I’m on a bed 

with angels

at sea.

I’m writing a lullaby 

to muffle the cries

of hydras underwater.

I wonder 

how it'd feel 

to sink 

and hear the bellows 

of the beasts

that welcomed me 

at birth.

I reside in empty chapels, empty hearses, living rooms.

I dwell in waning waters, waxing moons.

You cannot rid me from a world I built.

These woods are dark.

I sulk under branches 

of my wet desire.

I crawl, starve, beg.

I never meant to hurt a soul

but here I am with broken bones 

and imprints that you left.

I mean to say,

you were right afterall.

I’m grateful for my broken bones,

but I hate the loveless way 

in which I shattered.

I let my sorrows go

first thing this morning.

It always pays

to let them go.

My heart is full.

I see no bad, no good,

no caterpillars, butterflies,

only the metamorphosis

of everything.

Bodies buzzing.

Worker bees, laughing.

I'm gently drifting

on a golden patch

of sunshine 

on a blade of

pickled grass or

orange brick.

I wonder how it is

that I arrive

always

here

somewhere good

somewhere with hope

somewhere with a passion

for what comes next.

You tell me not to cry.

—I do.

—I do!

We walk down the aisle.

—Oh, the dress!

I watch you look away.

I look away.

You watch me look away.

Rain will pour soon.

My parents will mutter to themselves.

The angels will bicker.

I’m alone inside a room

without a door

without a window.

There’s a lightbulb on a string.

I flick the glass with my finger

and it shatters.

I watch as you wipe 

my image from your mind

as if I were a rotten petal

ruining the flower

that will wilt 

no matter what we do.

I plead with you, 

'We’re perfect for each other.'

I hear the dead man 

tell me that I’m heading

in the wrong direction. 

I’m not obliged to listen.

I'm remedying, pendulating.

It’s not so bad.

Some nights I try. 

I really do.

But most nights 

I don't care. 

Not yet.

I want to be a girl

and maybe then

a woman.

But anyway

when the remedies stop working

I will return 

to where the dead man stood

and take his place.

I must get better.

I mean in every sense

and probably for everyone to see.

And then, I must maintain 

my goodness. I must maintain

a purity of thought and heart and soul

that made you fall in love with me

and then, I must stay beautiful and

pass, quickly.

This pen ink

pouring over

tea-stained paper

that I scratch

with my fingernails 

and which 

I'll buy forever

from the corner store 

when I need calming down.

I wonder,

is life a cycle, or

a never-ending stream 

of falling down 

from Heaven

turning in the sky.

The tender skin

on the television

of a man and woman

so in love.

I think I feel it too

until I’m laying 

in the bed,

like that,

but now, 

it’s dimmer 

than I remember. 

I read the book today

about the wild women and the wolves,

and felt my strength. I did.

And when I did, a seed was planted.

I promise to water it daily.

Can I put the watering can, here?

By the window sill?

I know it’s where you 

drink your morning coffee

but this is where I sing—

under the sun. The sun

which bathed me as a girl

and gifted me my soul,

energized my intuition,

fed me wilderness and laughter

with her glowing, golden locks.

She will help me survive you.

And then, I will bathe us both

in tenderness and love.

The world is falling apart,

or coming into form.

It’s hard to tell

but what I know is that

when looking in the mirror,

I sometimes see myself in

black and white—a photograph

found centuries later, or maybe

from the century prior.

She looks like me and is me

but I don’t feel her—not really.

I look into my eyes 

and see two voids 

that look right back

like hollow tunnels reaching

to the pit of all there is,

where nothing is.

I don’t like to think about it.

Let me think about it.

When I look into the mirror

I see two voids

and both are cold as ice.

It’s loneliness I fear.

Where is the promised land of

love or light or fuck all—pleasure? 

I want to see what

smiling wise men see

and if I can’t

I hope they’re wrong about

it all since I don’t 

want to be excluded.

There’s no one and everyone to blame.

In that, I'm lonely and crowded.

Clinks and new years kisses.

No one to blame.

Except those girls who stared me down

in middle school and earlier.

Oh, and that rotten man.

But even he deserves some sympathy.

Who else?

A serious sound

comes from

the living room.

I run inside

but no one’s there

except 

your body

on the sofa

eating grapes

and crackers.

My everything-I-lack

is on another bender

of gory words

and tender bodies

falling and flailing

in the pits

while he

commands the show.

I worry I will always be alone

within your shaggy hair

and crumpled bed sheets.

My little void

now kicks into the dark—

it's hopeless.

But why would I give up?

I’d rather kick and scream—

at least there’s hope.

Enough to tie my sneakers in a double knot.

And so I’ll fight,

that’s right,

against all odds—

you tell me I have very little.

I won’t listen to you

kick and scream.

The eyes of my mother—
absent, anxious, hiding,
blushing, longing, hiding—
when she takes a beating,
when she seeks revenge,
when she’s lost within herself,
when the home she hopes she’s built
is crumbling with every step she takes
and so she chooses not to walk again.
Not yet. A few more years like this,
and she’ll be ready.

​

I too long for a love within my reach,
I too can’t find the strength
to budge myself enough.

​

I wish I could tell you that I love you.
Instead, I watch my mother’s eyes.

The lethargy
of figuring it out
for months, or years,
as I review your texts
and audio recordings, still, 

to find the verdict on who got it wrong
or some days, how I could have made it right
or really, how I will make it right
the next time that we meet, inevitably,
dreadfully,
miserably,
hiding pain and malice in our tall ribbed water glasses
until the second date, at sunrise,
now baring our souls.

How does it feel

to free the cherry ribbon from your dress

only to sulk under the weight

of dry apartment air

in which you’ve danced and laughed

but mostly cried,

making butterflies of tissues from

all the snot and tears you never really tried to stop

because it’s what you knew as comfort.