After watching The Romantics. this might sound strange

she appears angelic in an ethereal low bun, wispy pieces falling around her face

she wears a light pink, airy dress with taupe peep-toes

a light grey wrap covers her shoulders.

to bed she wears a peachy night gown that clings to her like a corset.

it has lacy accents and ties in the back.

on her wedding day, her hair was done in loose spirals. tiny flowers were carefully placed in the strands. her porcelain skin looked like a china doll's, her eyes looked almost black against it. her eyebrows were so perfectly sculpted. she couldn't be real.

no wonder he left the Plain Jane for her.

the Plain Jane is in a black dress, one shoulder, still pretty, but she's looking a little frumpy, washed out.

her legs are clunky-looking in those black pumps.

her sweater is more practical, chunky and drab.

I'm wondering how it would feel to be the other woman,

graciously ignoring the way I took him from her,

and turning toward the wind so my hair blew in the breeze like I myself was a dream.

that's a woman and man in love

a complex back and forth

of being embraced & giving space

that's a woman and a man in love.

tears remedied by a bouquet carefully chosen,

a rough deal at work calmed by gentle lips on his cheeks and neck--

those are the quiet steps we take in the middle of the night

so as not to disturb the peace, not wanting them to wake them from the enamored trance too soon.

it's mind-reading & suppression of feelings to gain desired response.

sometimes it backfires.

it's not saying what you really think, most of the time.

these are the pains we take to feel appreciated, while mesmerized by the beauty of a stranger grown familiar

Anniversary Poems.

it's our 2.5 years anniversary and I'm sitting lonely in a coffee shop at Christmas-time,

watching couples in ski-jackets and trench coats holding hands as they pass the leafless trees lit with white Christmas lights--my favorite kind of Christmas lights.

I'm on my second mug of coffee. I'm such a regular they give me the house porcelain mugs, none of that paper bullshit.

is it strange I so often find myself in coffee shops alone?

I lit candles today as I sat in my room.

I started to write about you--about the quiet, poetic things I think about you when we're laying in your bed holding hands or you're affectionately spooning me and gently stroking my arm, like I told you I like 3 years ago before we had even kissed--but then I couldn't get the words out of my head and onto paper.

I glance out the window again, let out a deep sigh, and I wonder why sometimes you can't just lay there and look at me.

Don't speak, don't kiss me, just look at me in a moment of silence. Maybe stroke my hair, but don't look away. Be unafraid to appreciate all that's in front of you.

Write about your greatest fear.

Picture this:

walking over a wooden bridge,

it's nighttime. you waited until late because you wanted to be alone with the one you loved.

maybe the slabs of wood are still moist from the day's rain shower.

maybe the nails are rusted.

maybe the bridge leads to a resting area overlooking the water, which is black and opaque from the night sky's reflection.

maybe he proposes, says something profound that makes you cry, that weakens you, and you say yes and embrace.

maybe that happens. and maybe you go back to your hotel room and you know what happens next and maybe you silently whisper forever forever forever over and over again,

and you wake up enveloped in ivory sheets, laying next to him, and he is admiring your beauty, touching your hair and lips gently.

what if that life is the only thing you've ever wanted? what if you're imagining a house with a wraparound porch, and children that don't go through a gothic stage, that don't roll their eyes when you cry as you drop them off for their first day of college? what if you're thinking about your mother in law becoming your best friend, harmonious vacations at the beach, Sunday morning service, and celebrating each anniversary as though it were the first? what if you think this man will never stop saying he loves you, will never stop meaning it, and what if you think he won't start spending too much time out at the bars and come home late smelling like hard alcohol, and he will thank you for dinner each night, and when things get busy at work he won't treat you like a non-entity? what if you're thinking he will still tell you you're beautiful, even 50 years later, when all that's left is a pair of easy chairs and a stack of newspapers and sporadic visits from the grandkids?

Shit.

What if it just doesn't happen that way? What if you won't be enough to command his attention long enough, what if he falls out of love, but you stay in that same sweet loving place, and there's nothing you can do to change his mind?

That's the worst fear of all.

in lamen's terms, I'll come right out and say it...

lately, I'm preoccupied with the thought

I want to ignore it

a man on one knee,

he wants me to be his world forever.

I'm only 21 years old but I fear

this may never happen for me.

disagreements, I can't handle them

because in my eyes they mean you don't want me anymore.

trust is impossible sometimes,

and I can't just come out and say what I think when I'm ticked off.

I hope who I am

does not destroy my romantic dream

of one person forever, for everything, that will never stop loving me.

it's a helpless, pointless anxiety. I better get over it soon

before I mention it in conversation and

freak you the fuck out.

Modeled off of "for Jane" by Charles Bukowski

mid-morning, your bare shoulders

hunch over the red quilt

they carry more than you show

you're an abyss in the best way

in this room

the lover's slumber

still pervades

when you wake

you kiss me like a reflex

everything drifts like a canoe on quiet water

I struggle to make my furious love known

before this I never knew anything

that was worth knowing

what you are

will never happen again

my lips graze your chest

and I fling myself into your embrace and pray for your love to keep

Modeled off of "secret laughter" by Charles Bukowski

the depths of my heart are

inaccessible to the simple minded

who can't look

or even conceive to admire the chasm

they wouldn't believe

how bottomless

it really must be.

in much the same way

an ocean seems to stretch eternally,

my love is limitless.

yet it's inappreciable to many,

"in much the same way

as the average person

will not believe a great painting"- C.B.

Modeled off of "Democracy" by Charles Bukowski

the problem, of course, isn't what you said on December 2nd, 2008,

it's the

reaction I had which makes up the sensitive person's plight.

the next person you raise your voice to,

multiply

his or

her response by

2 or 6 or 80 or 100 million

and you will estimate

approximately

why things hit me so hard

in all

situations.

I wish I had a cure for the softness

you call weakness...

we've undergone any number of familial

efforts

and I remain

fragile enough to cry

at the smallest little confrontation.

Now,

what is the cure

for this paralyzing

gentleness?

well maybe

the problem never was that I didn't let the crust form around me

or fence myself in. the problem is

you.

the day the flowers died- modeled off of "A Smile to Remember"

I had flowers and they sat pretty and proud

in the vase on the table next to my bed

reminding me of the truth in gesture and

you, always trying, wanting the world

yet nothing at all, you say "smile,"

in so many words-- more like "smile for me": it's different

to smile for someone than it is to smile just to smile.

but the flowers sucked up all that powdered water and dried up rather quickly while

I let go of choosing for a little bit because I couldn't

decide in my state of such childlike intensity.

you, poor soul

wanting to be loved, choosing the next best thing,

like a flower saying pick me pick me

why don't you pick me?

and then you would disappear, to keep the distance, and it was the

strangest distance I ever felt

one day the flowers died, the whole bouquet,

they drooped over the side of vase, their

petals still attached to the pistil,

and when I realized they were no longer lovely I picked off the petals

one by one saying He loves me He loves me

Not

Charles Bukowski- "A Smile to Remember"

we had goldfish and they circled around and around in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes covering the picture window and my mother, always smiling, wanting us all to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!' and she was right: it's better to be happy if you can but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't understand what was attacking him from within. my mother, poor fish, wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, smile! why don't you ever smile?' and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the saddest smile I ever saw one day the goldfish died, all five of them, they floated on the water, on their sides, their eyes still open, and when my father got home he threw them to the cat there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother smiled

an attempt at rendering this poetic

I made it through the workday and drove to you

an hour and a half in traffic

stop & go, my brake-light out,

two left lanes closed on 95,

and there was a utility vehicle blocking the right lane on Route 1. Yet,

I had to get to you, I had to let it be known--

As I rounded the corner to your apartment complex you texted me

you were about to get into the shower. Just come in, you said, even though you know I don't like to go in anywhere without knocking.

Through the rain I walked up the steps to your apartment, Tupperware and present in hand.

I walked in and your roommates were playing video-games on the couch.

I folded the clothes in disarray on your bed while I waited for you in your room.

I changed the station to Spongebob and got under your covers.

Eventually, you came in and put on a pair of underwear.

Childlike, you immediately picked up your gift,

you started tearing the paper.

You put it on right away, the tie I had bought for you.

Then your phone rang. You went outside because you had no service,

still in your underwear. Your roommates contemplated locking you out there.

I stayed in your room under the covers, in my raincoat. You were gone for awhile.

You drove us to the Bobby Flay restaurant, angrily like usual.

You're a very angry driver--driving is just something you have to do, another thing you have to do.

We met your parents there, your dad gave you a hug and kissed your cheeks. How Italian was that? I felt out of the loop, not a drop of Italian blood in my body.

Then he gave me a hug for the first time in 3 years, it was weird--I tried to hug from the side because I didn't want to get my makeup on his all-black coat and shirt.

Looking back, perhaps he read that as coldness. I hope not. Just another source of anxiety.

Then your mom came over from the bathroom (I guess?) and she gave you a long hug, too, and kissed your cheeks, too. My parents are truly unaffectionate compared to yours--never realized this before. She gave me a hug and kissed my cheek too.

Maybe they do like me, I contemplated...

Your dad orders a dark chocolate milkshake, accidentally knocks it over on the table once we have sat down. He uses his spoon to get it up and says "What, I paid 5$ for this thing?" You don't look mortified like you did the first time I met them.

We say goodbye to your parents--

We go to cross the street and you give me a kiss on the forehead while we wait for a lull in traffic.

You keep saying "best birthday ever" "all the people I love" and things like that,

and we stop in the liquor store--Jack Daniels Honey--the asian man at the counter asks for your ID. "That's today" he says and gives you a free glass "Happy Birfday" he says, and you're happy.

Some girl almost backs into you as we walk to your car

Instinctively I pull you by the arm closer to me, away from the car--

you remark something about maternal instincts. I don't know why this makes me cringe every time you mention it.

We go back to your apartment, turn on the tv,

and we kiss a lot and I'm glad you're not sick of kissing me.

Eventually you walk me to my car and we kiss some more.

Then it's time for me to brace the long, rainy drive home.

I shoot you a text while I'm waiting to make the U-Turn--"I hope you had the best birthday ever"

No response until midnight thirty, when I'm home and asleep.

his 21st birthday outing--remembering details, poeticized later

it was a Wednesday night--your 21st birthday

I made it through the workday and drove to you

an hour and a half in traffic

stop & go, a brake-light out,

tractor-trailer overturned,

two left lanes closed on 95,

a utility vehicle blocking the right on route 1. yet,

I had to get there--I had to let it be known--

as I rounded the corner to your apartment complex you texted me

you were about to get into the shower. Just come in, you said.

So I made it up the steps with your wrapped present and homemade treat.

through the rain I walked into your apartment, your roommates were playing video-games on the couch.

I walked past the bathroom--you peaked out abruptly--hi!

I laughed, you laughed, we laughed.

I folded the clothes on your bed while I waited in your room.

I changed the station to Spongebob and got under your covers.

You came in and put on a pair of underwear. You immediately picked up your gift,

you started tearing the paper. I told you to sit down for this.

You put on the tie I had chosen for you...just a tie and underwear.

Then your phone rang. You went outside because you had no service,

still in your underwear. Your roommates contemplated locking you out there.

I stayed in your room under the covers, in my raincoat.

You drove us to the Bobby Flay restaurant, angrily like usual.

You're a very angry driver--driving is just something you have to do, another thing you have to do.

We met your parents there, your dad gave you a hug and kissed your cheeks. How italian was that? I felt out of the loop, not a drop of italian blood in my body.

Then he gave me a hug for the first time in 3 years, it was weird--I tried to hug from the side because I didn't want to get my makeup on his all-black coat and shirt. Looking back, perhaps he read that as coldness. I hope not.

Then your mom came over from the bathroom (I guess?) and she gave you a long hug, too, and kissed your cheeks, too. My parents are truly unaffectionate compared to yours--never realized this before. She gave me a hug and kissed my cheek too. We were wearing almost the same earrings.

I order, feeling uncomfortable that they were paying for me.

You know I don't like burgers--I get a griddled cheese.

Your dad orders a dark chocolate milkshake, accidentally knocks it over on the table once we have sat down. He uses his spoon to get it up and says "What, I paid 5$ for this thing?" You don't look mortified, I'm surprised. I laugh.

I actually ate my grilled cheese without feeling nervous this time, out with your parents I usually can't eat much because I'm too nervous.

We say goodbye to your parents--more new hugs--and you tell them about your weekend plans.

Your mom asks me if I'm spending the night-- you say "She has class tomorrow" and she says to drive safely.

We cross the street--jay-walking, technically--and you give me a kiss on the forehead while we wait for a lull in traffic.

You keep saying "best birthday ever" "all the people I love" and things like that,

and we went to the liquor store--Jack Daniels Honey--the asian man at the counter asks for your ID. "That's today" he says and gives you a free glass "Happy Birfday" he says, and you're happy.

Some girl almost backs into you as we walk to your car

Instinctively I pull you by the arm closer to me, away from the car--

you remark something about maternal instincts. Idk why this makes me cringe every time.

We go back to your apartment, turn on the tv,

I'm wearing the red lace...

and we kiss a lot and I'm glad you're not sick of kissing me.

Eventually you walk me to my car and we kiss some more.

Then it's time for me to brace the long, rainy drive home.

I shoot you a text while I'm waiting to make the U-Turn--"I hope you had the best birthday ever"

No response until midnight thirty, when I'm home and asleep.

work in progress--not finished yet

I tell myself "just get through the day,"

drowning the silence with some david gray.

pray for a bottle of wine,

curse myself-- I just need a makeshift novocaine

from time to time.

sitting on the couch with you and your roommates,

it distressed me how I couldn't connect

sometimes I feel so separate from the norm

I wasn't nervous, just wondering why I can't...

and did it embarrass you?

I hope not. I feel my heart sink to my knees

at the thought.

There's just never enough time in the day to put out the best I've got.

torturing myself

a few small bumps in the road (cliche, substitute later)

and I am completely and utterly neurotic.

a family member gets sick,

and suddenly I think I'm fat. What's the deal with that?

a few delayed responses in a text-message conversation

and I'm not desirable--I'm average, girls like me a dime a dozen.

DEEP DOWN I know this is not true.

It's just a phase I need to get through,

a brief stint of depression (I hope it will be brief)

until I can appreciate my life again, myself again.

How do I get over the hump (cliche, substitute later)

and on with my life?

Not knowing the answer is what makes me panic.

I have to get out of my own head.

somebody close is sick

perpetual shivers

heavy heart

weighted eyelids

moistened lashes

I am gone.

devastation

nowhere to turn

I don't know what to ask for

no one knows how to support me

I'm not satisfied with anyone's attempt

they may as well save their breath and avoid the struggle

I'm not sure when things will look

up again, I'm not sure what

to do until then, which is

the scariest part

I'm dramatic

why do I continue to romanticize

when your responses are half-assed and unsatisfying

self-loathing ensues after another failed attempt

I have to stop trying

sporadic panic attacks

the sound of my thoughts

reverberates from too much

to not enough

of unidentifiable unquantifiable entities of substances feelings.

to be human is to be flawed.

I don't know what I want from a man

when my chest closes up

like the gates to the life are shutting me out.

I can't function for a short time. Do I want him to buy me flowers?

Would that really make a difference?

Sometimes I think maybe

the gravity of the situation needs to be affirmed by another

so I don't feel crazy when I can't breathe

over some stupid missed assignment,

or saying the wrong thing to somebody's parent.

Although I rarely get this way anymore,

when I do, I am grasping for something

into thin air,

my shaking fragile hand left unsatisfied.

PARADOX

I need to write a story for Forms of Fiction but all I can think about is poetry

Lamenting an Old Friendship

I can't believe how hard I fell

they were just words and

you are just a girl

thin, probing, pointy nose

pigeon toes

your voice meandering, quiet, unsure

hair color changing like your moods

projecting your insecurities onto everyone around you.

We used to sit over piping mugs of floral tea,

smoking camel crushes on your porch

in the summer heat. You said they helped your anxiety.

We would spend our entire paychecks on cheap clothing,

drink triple sec from the bottle, see a show,

meet new people; joke about ex boyfriends,

make 90s mixes and sing at the top of our lungs.

You brought me tissues in a disney princess box

when I felt broken, and I dropped by at a moment's notice

when you were lonely, when you felt neurotic.

I trusted you, even though you're the worst driver I know,

and you flaked out on most things last minute,

or made me wait outside of your apartment so many times

when you knew I was coming.

I told you things I've told very few,

sitting across from you in a diner at 2 in the morning

over mouse-shaped chocolate desserts.

I remember driving 50 miles to see you perform at coffee shops,

stumbling in from the cold, heart overflowing with support

as you sang--edgy and raw, fingers pouncing on black and white slabs of ivory.

I'd have been there for you through anything.

I don't know if I'd take it back now or not;

to be an open book and be brutally rebuffed

is the worst kind of rejection,

especially when you start questioning who you are because of it.

But you, old friend, tremble through life, unsure--

alienating loyal people out of selfishness, insecurity and jealousy,

and others say I am too pure of heart and intention to be affected by your defense mechanisms anymore.

Modeled off of "German Bar" by Charles Bukowski

I had spilled my morning coffee

somebody had boxed my car in on Cold Spring Lane

I could feel the deterioration of our friendship

and my dad was

sick. I went home to lay

down feeling defeated

but then you sent me that text

though you weren't present I could feel your spit on my face

as you spoke in swears

berating me.

everything goes to shit all at once,

you know. I apologized

and broke down.

nobody knows the power of their words.

I now realize it wasn't me--you just hated yourself.

_________________________________________

I had lost the last race big

somebody had stolen my coat

I could feel the flu coming on

and my tires were

low. I went in to get a

beer at the German bar

but the waitress was having a fit

her heart strangled by disappointment

grief and loss.

women get troubled all at once,

you know. I left a tip

and got out.

nobody wins.

ask Caesar.

I want to be a different personality style.- this is going to need revision and organizaiton

some people use thought not to participate in life

I am one of them

insecurity + low self-esteem keep me in the background of every picture,

the centimeters of my face smudged by a thumbprint

of some careless person who will never take the time to get to know me

it stems from childhood, they say

doesn't everything? so what if my parents didn't listen very well and I felt my thoughts and feelings were suppressed? does that mean I have to stay on the sidelines forever?

the glorification of my older brother,

he was strapping with thick brown hair and a puffed out chest

and the needs of my younger sister,

she unknowingly consumed all of the time and resources

and I was left to find my own way,

with a few slaps on the wrist for C+ grades

and the negative attention I received when my neighbor did that awful thing to me,

it stuck with me.

and the way they reacted when I brought someone home the first time

by secluding me in my room when I told my first lie,

I guess the sidelines felt safer.

this is what has happened to me,

it seems too heavy for someone so young

but it wasn't all bad.

I just want to be brought into the fold of life.

The Wisdom of the Enneagram

Personality Type Five: The Investigator

-Basic Fear- Of being helpless, useless, incapable/ overwhelmed

-Basic Desire- To be capable and competent

-Superego Message- "You are good or okay if you have mastered something."

-fives want to find out why things are the way they are.

-always searching asking questions delving into things in depth

-they do not accept doctrines

-test the truth of most assumptions

*fives feel that they do not have an ability to do things as well as others*

-rather than engaging directly with activities that might bolster their confidence, they take a step back into their minds where they feel more capable

-their belief is that in the safety of their minds, they will eventually figure out how to do things and one day rejoin the world

-they are not interested in exploring what is already familiar and well established--drawn to the unusual, overlooked, bizarre

-for better or worse, the areas that fives explore do not depend on social validation; fives become lost in the complexities of their own thought processes, becoming merely eccentric and socially isolated

-whatever the source of their anxieties might be--relationships, lack of physical strength, inability to gain employment, and so forth, average fives tend not to deal with these issues. rather they find something else to do that will make them feel more competent.

-learning to cut themselves off of nurturance--even from desiring it--becomes a way of defending themselves against further hurts and frustrations

-fives go through life avoiding the thing they most want, repressing their longing an dfinding substitute pleasures in interests, hobbies, and creativity

-you value and are attracted to wisdom, knowledge, understanding

-your passions are of the mind

-you are a seeker of truth

-you are a perceptive, insightful, original thinker

- you have the ability to objectively and dispassionately observe

-you are good at abstracting, synthesizing, and integrating different points of view and disparate elements

-you are a fair, nonjudgmental witness

-you can overidentify with the idealized self-image of being wise and perceptive. you live too much out of your head and forget you also have feelings and a body

-you can be overly intellectual. you may be afraid of and out of touch with your feelings

-you can become overly analytical and skeptical. your questioning can interfere with your acting

-you may be unwilling to consider others' perceptions and ideas

-you may stay in the observer position and not participate in life

-you may not make a decision or act until you have the certitude that you have all the facts. you want to know everything before you do anything

-you may be unwilling to disclose your position

-you are a good listener. you are gentle, patient, and nonthreatening

-you have the ability to get to the essence or heart of the matter. you can peer through extraneous details to get to basic structures.

-you can communicate in clean, clear, concise statements about what the issue really is

-you have an appreciation for solitude

-you are independent and resourceful

-you are reserved, respectful, and nonintrusive

-you may not contribute much to conversations. you let others do all the talking

-you can reduce life to bare dry bones and miss the juicy parts

-you can be stingy with your communications. you speak in epigrams or one-liners and are unwilling to elaborate

-you can be addicted to privacy

-you can be a loner who wants to do everything out of your own resources

-you have overdeveloped the tendency to move away from people. it's difficult for you to move forward with either affection or assertion.

-you are generous with your self, feelings, ideas, and time

It's a proven fact

that women feel intimacy from discussion

yet men feel closest through physical contact.

why would God play this joke on us?

making us polar opposites

protons and electrons

no neutrons

almost impossible

to meet each other in the middle.

modeled off of "One for Sherwood Anderson" by Charles Bukowski

sometimes I forget about him and his erratic ways,

almost unbelievable, unexpected and always hurtful.

he loved me, I think, maybe he could have, but his condition was just too much.

tonight I think about him, the way he could make everything feel light,

and his exuberance

something like a little kid. but still

he was as fickle as the wind

sometimes here and sometimes there

leaving without justification

then coming back begging me.

he didn't have consistency. he

found me weak and wanting to fix him

he didn't know I couldn't

he promised me a diamond necklace that never came

he stole from his oldest friends

he talked a big game

and started to become like a Monet painting

because the colors mashed together start to look like something bigger--in his case, monstrous

and the nice little things started to get blurred by the bigger picture

and I couldn't come to know what was what

and I couldn't tell anymore what part was him or what part

his disease.

sans parapluie

Je suis sans un parapluie

toujours.

Mais j'enseignerai

d' être heureuse

quand il pleut

quand je suis seule.

Je danserai dans la pluie.

J'ai mon coeur, et ça suffit.

♡​

modeled off of Bukowski's "hello, how are you?"

a club I was never invited to join

this fear of being what I was:

sick.

at least I was mostly functional, I

went to class, not listening to a word that

washed out professor said, my peers

exchanged inside jokes, the room smelling like a cesspool--

the stale scent of fitting in

of last night's alcohol

of crappy campus coffee

of cigarettes smoked on the sidewalk

on the walk home from the bar

with the people that live on their floor

feeling nothing

except like a part of it all

except on top of the world

at an unaffordable school

free of feelings

of antidepressants

of broken hearts

of loneliness

of avoidance

of missing people

I stand motionless, jealous of their zest for life.

I'm wondering why you left me at the worst possible time and made it all impossible to attain.

hello, how are you?

by Charles Bukowski

this fear of being what they are: dead. at least they are not out on the street, they are careful to stay indoors, those pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets, their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter. their ideal neighborhood of parked cars of little green lawns of little homes the little doors that open and close as their relatives visit throughout the holidays the doors closing behind the dying who die so slowly behind the dead who are still alive in your quiet average neighborhood of winding streets of agony of confusion of horror of fear of ignorance. a dog standing behind a fence. a man silent at the window.

♡​

♡​

nice people

nice people extend themselves to the underdog

wave to small children, coo at infants

nice people ask the library clerk her name

then engage her in lively small talk

nice people wear vineyard vines apparel and always seem to be carrying a tote bag,

they are preppy and fresh like daisies.

they smile at strangers, always say thank you and you're welcome,

are tactful when debating the price of their tuna steak at the grocery store

nice people always have permanent wrinkles from grins of white

they seem untarnished by life's tests

they make the dean's list, but it's not like we didn't expect them to.

nice people appreciate their spouses without being asked.

am I one of you?

thank god I'm getting out of this writing rut

Here we go again, I keep thinking to myself. "The dark place" is such a cliche' but I can't think of any other way to describe it right now, after having not written in months. I haven't experienced the friction of life with nearly as much fervor as I am right now.

I came to the library. I wanted to get out of my house, out of my head. I wanted to write in the artsy little cafe' by the lobby, a half a dozen tiny tables, chipping red paint of the walls, a window to write by,

But lo and behold, the tables all have two chairs, and there's just one me. The windows look out onto a ring of dumpsters, multicolored, white, green, rusty brown in their splendor.

If I focus hard enough, I can ignore the carelessly sprawled open receptacles and observe high-rises in the distance, little yellow houses with welcome mats, perhaps I'll even own one someday-- but as for right now I'm alone, and the gilded steeples are miles away. I'm too close to the garbage not to turn my nose up a little bit.

BLAH

Dear self,

Why don't you know you have every right

to feel how you feel? You do.

His sun should rise and set on your every whim.

Can you feel it?

Your face should not strain to squint,

purposely holding in tears.

What's with the chip on your shoulder?

What do you need that you aren't getting?

stronger

stronger I need to be

like the roots of the maple,

grounding. the

limbs of the laborer never quit.

they're far stronger than I

to not need you

would be easier, I think, now.

"give me more" sounds selfish,

how do I find another way to say it?

I'm picturing the roundish petals

of the flushed pink roses you gave me this winter past,

and I'm wondering why not now?

sometimes I miss having someone who understands and relates like you did

"I myself am made of flaws, stitched together by good intentions."

I'm starting to believe that, for me, life is a series of internal conflicts, and my learned response is to push everybody out. Sometimes, somebody reaches out and pulls me back into the thick of it. Sometimes they let me go. And it's just relief and disappointment, relief and disappointment, over and over again.

braindump to be refined later

Sometimes I feel like a lily.

Other times, I feel like a rose.

Lily--starts out nondescript,

bundled tight, blooming glory

controlled, clasped close.

Until suddenly, the insides are exposed,

and the flower is beautiful,

and she hides nothing, not even the seeds

that got her here.

bursting with energy.

Rose-- delicate,

romantic,

stunningly beautiful--

a breathtaking specimen

that can stand alone

and perhaps be even more beautiful.

Layered, mesmerizing.

Thorned without shame.

Happy Third of July

the scent of scorched timber

lingers strong in my hair.

last night I lit the fuse

for the first time.

it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be

it was just fitting in in my own quiet way.

you may have sat a little farther away in the beginning

than I would've liked,

the patio furniture felt cold.

but I barely give a voice to the steady murmur of anxiety.

I felt it as we got into your car and headed out--

the nerves

like a part of me, inseparable,

maybe it really is just a part of me--

I can't really be mad at you for not making me feel like I belonged,

after all it's not your battle.

stepping outside of the box

was a good idea, even if I feel awkward

like an animal in the wrong exhibit

like a different species all together.

you kissed me at the end of the night

harder than usual. another diversion from

the norm. your lips couldn't have tried any harder

to conjoin us,

and I wonder why I wonder why

you would want to be a part of someone with this incessant trepidation

about all unfamiliar.

but then I remember the way I hold your face and kiss you

and look in your eyes and tell you it will be alright,

steady and consistent when you need me to be,

and maybe that's why.

meh, mind-dump

I lose myself from time to time,

forgetting what I'm all about.

The dull clamor of anxiety

overtakes my ability to

accurately perceive myself.

I start asking him questions:

Why do you love me?

Who do you think I am?

What is it about me that makes me so goddamn special?

He mistakes it for insecurity in our relationship

and tells me to stop trying to quantify his love.

It's really just me being lost

when it comes to myself.

I don't remember

what I look like without looking in the mirror.

I couldn't tell you

how my voice sounds.

I don't know if I'm religious,

if I have friends,

what I like to eat,

or how to make scrambled eggs.

What's my phone number?

Who the fuck am I?

What a frenzy in my chest,

and I just want clarity.

I think he thinks I'm too intense sometimes.

But Jesus Christ, times like these are scary as I

clutch to what others tell me about who I am,

even small comments in passing. And I

analyze them.

I'm too scared to start going back to Church,

I think it might be a crutch for some people,

and I don't want to rely on anything

but myself.

Whoever that is. So I guess Church isn't an option.

this memory scares me but I'm facing it

teal satin dress, hugging every curve. sleeveless, skin on display for the room. the room has too many eyes I can't quite identify.

blushing pink heels, matching flush all over my face.

silver and pearl tiara.

"Where is she?" you wondered. Well damn, it took you long enough to worry about me. It can be pathetic what meager moments I savored, tiny details I twisted into concern.

I wasn't sure who to hug first. I threw my arms around my best friend after a panicked moment. You seemed offended. Looking back, I'm a little annoyed that you'd expect the first hug. Especially after avoiding me for an entire semester. As if I wasn't everything you'd hoped for. As if I wasn't good enough for you.

Did I need a haircut? Was I too needy? Can I let it all go almost 3 years later after stumbling across the diary entry that reminded me? I guess not, because here I am, writing about it like it occurred just yesterday.

Finally, I got to the wine. The guy Lauren wound up dating months later after we broke up got it open. I settled for his cousin when you stopped being an option. God, what a horrible idea. Kicking myself for that choice, too. But you and I, we were never a sure thing the first go 'round.

I'm walking barefoot up the steps. You're worried about me cutting my feet. I'm surprised again that you care, so I hang onto the moment in my mind like a grain of sand worth a million dollars.

Three solo cups deep, I'm outside sitting on your lap. Was this the first time? I'm wearing your sweatshirt. I'm smoking a cigar.

You left first, and I cried. Your fingers were all over me in the back seat. For what?

You tried to be nice to me on my birthday, saying you'd be back for Christmas break and we would see each other. I'm thinking you knew what was going to happen when we saw each other. I feel like an idiot, still, even though we bridged the gaps after some time apart. I'm still feeling dumb. I'm wanting to go back and give myself strength to stand up for myself.

Your friend gave me 20$ for my birthday, offered me a sober ride home. That's care. I said no thanks, I had a girlfriend driving me home.

Lauren said you just didn't seem like an emotional guy, a relationship guy. I shrugged her off, I lied to myself. You weren't then.

You were texting me, calling me princess, telling me I was beautiful, filling my head with lies that every guy in the room wished I were their girlfriend. You were being nice to me for the first time in five months, since we first got together. Nobody should ever have to wait like I did. Nobody.

I can't believe that's what we were. I'm so glad we aren't anymore, but I'm still scared of it. I'm scared that we were both that down and out, I'm scared it could happen again. That's my most dreaded memory, in print, and it's the scariest, weirdest combination of details ever recorded by my hand. I don't think it will ever be like that again, but if it is, I hope I recognize what I deserve, and fight for it.

Could loss of trust be the way of the world?

i hate this poem

Yesterday, I was in a booth at the pizza shop

with Josh, one of the autistic students I do in-home care with.

Eating a slice of cheese and a side salad,

I felt tiny eyes behind me,

a shallow breath on my shoulder.

I turned around to see a little boy 

ducking his head below the seat,

his curls flouncing as he hides-- 

he knew he has been found out.

"Were you eyeing up my pizza?"

I asked him, playfully.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, "It looks so yummy! 

I'm getting pizza too, whoever

wins the Super Bowl will be the best team

in the world."

Before I could reply, his mother rushed toward their booth

from the counter,

huffing out apologies. "I'm so sorry," she said.

What a spirited little guy, I thought.

Why did she seem so embarrassed?

As I prompted Josh to get his trash together,

the little boy's mother whispered to get my attention.

"Autism?" she mouthed, gesturing toward Josh.

I nodded. 

"Him too," she said, pointing to the talkative little boy. 

"He couldn't even tell me his name until recently."

As Josh and I left that night,

I began to wonder what the barricade is

between the brain and the mouth,

and how therapists break it down,

like in the little boy's case.

"Did you have a good dinner, Josh?"

I asked, as he gazed out the window from the backseat

of my car.

He offered me not even a glance.

in class exercise

I stopped going to Church

in my senior year of highschool.

My father said, "one day,"

you'll find your way back,

in a tone that sounded like

exasperation.

My mother said

nothing.

It's not that I don't believe in

One Lord Jesus Christ the

Only Son of God Begotten

not Made One in Being with

the Father through Him All

Things Were Made

I just don't even feel equipped to speculate.

Every Sunday, for the rest of the year,

my older brother and I slept in,

avoiding the 11:30 mass my family attended.

It started out innocent, my mother remarking

we should go together at 5:30 instead.

We got into his mustang,

put the top down, and headed toward

the Church.

Somehow we wound up at the pizza shop nearby,

at a whole pizza pie,

and I practiced my driving at various golf courses,

highly populated parking lots.

This quickly became a Sunday tradition.

We'd get home just as dinner was prepared,

my mother so upset that we weren't hungry

for Sunday sandwiches,

while simultaneously perplexed.

Missed the Mark

How a glaring insecurity

may yelp, may gnaw,

and won't take no for an answer--

a miniscule entity 

containing the frightening delirium

you mistook for truth.

You blamed me for your internal demons,

saying I somehow highlighted them,

made them more apparent to you,

although I don't recall verbalizing any negativity,

anything other than

praise for your talents.

I picture myself in the audience

at your open mic nights,

at every show you ever played at,

even when you had bronchitis,

even when your voice was hoarse.

Insecurity is not as tangible

as a person,

say, me,

the closest to you--thus I am

the easiest to blame. 

Projection. 

I forgive you,

I hope you know now

that I am not the reason.

the avenues of the drunk

Oft are the nights I lay in bed reeling,

waiting, weak for sleep to overtake me.

Weighted arms, legs, shoulders, run through my head,

and how they've carried me up staircases

gallantly through the scummy avenues

of the dirty, the damned, the tarnished, muck--

shielding my white china toes, porcelain

never feeling the sting of army green shards 

from broken bottles launched off balconies

by drunks in your college town. I wonder 

how much you're like them.  The savored strength of

your body, how sure, softened I would feel

if your steady hands, quiet, touched my chest, 

calmed my frenzied heart, silent lullaby...

Longing leads me to dreadful worry--

stability can't last. Could you and I 

view "us" differently without me knowing?

Gratefulness is mine, still I pray you're true 

as to never be shared with another.

But I yearn to recognize, if I'm blind.

an attempt at a villanel

Repressed memory always catches up

As suddenly as urgently as ferociously, perhaps worse, as the occurrence itself

And that's the truth of it

You'll remember the quiet behind the trees

As you were taken, you'll feel fingers fumble fragile again

Repressed memory always catches up

Damaged, vulnerable, going back to that forbidden place

You won't see it coming, like a rock to your eye

This is the truth

Do not accept Cannot accept Will not allow the new wedge between you and the thick of life

Must not fear, let the storm fall out and flow into the gutter

Accept the truth of it

Although you will recover, if you face it like a solider, unafraid of the wounds, it is a fact--

Repressed memory always catches up,

and that is the truth of it.

Reasons I'll Never Drop Out of College

"Hon, go get me some of that kettle corn,"

she'd call to me. I was her go-to-girl. 

It was the shrill voice of 

Sandy Trimble--my boss, my superior,

with her pronounced Baltimore accent

resounding through the speakers of the walkie talkie

I clutched, as though my job depended on it.

"Sure," I'd say, nervously, glancing over at her

and nodding in affirmation.

She sat on the hill in a lawn chair,

sipping cheap wine coolers,

waiting for more feed.

Every night of the July weekend,

I'd run around changing trashbags,

racing to the office to turn off the lights

just before the fireworks went off,

and not a moment too late,

under Sandy's command.

Then, at the end of the night,

all of us "concert staff" would line up, prison style,

each with a black trashbag,

picking up the wrappers,

cans, bottles, papers, that she pointed to,

demeaned by the dread

of a first job in the summer heat.

Minimum wage,

a 4-12 shift

won about 56$ big ones--

Me making 2 cents less

than my brother and his college-bound buddies,

but trying 10 times harder.

Still, we all made about half as much as Sandy,

who liked me for my obedience,

but hated them, perhaps for the promise of their collegiate futures.

I was too young, yet, for her to tell.

Sandy lived in a world of golf carts,

Sam's Clubs, and here she was,

the only thing she would ever have authority over,

except maybe her retired husband.

Her resentment of their privilege

was made clear by the way she spoke to them over the walkie for all of us to hear,

by the way she didn't thank them at the end of the night.

I had to learn the hard way

that this is how these things work,

the corporate hierarchy of the dead end job,

it doesn't pay you more for potential

that may, or may not be fulfilled.

Forced to tag along by the will of my mother,

I was too kind to be lazy,

too scared of the shamefulness

that would result in being fired.

I just listened to Sandy's orders,

tried to be cooperative,

and committed myself to going beyond.