When the sick get angry and they won't stand still it's hard.

She shrinks when she sees you grow.

She's sick and she knows it,
but shame hardens the soft spots in her and
anger shields her
vision.

Can you penetrate armor without violence.
She could peel it off with patience but she won't
stand still.

And you are busy, too.

By Definition

Insubstantial, but weighty: defects of character.
I am
With them,
Laden.

No Comment (Revised at a Later Date, When I Wasn't Feeling So Sad)

I've spent most of my second life
in fear of exactly this:
the return of Heavy Darkness
(now in in blazing HD!)
eye sparks flattened like lightning bugs
smeared on the sidewalk at dusk
glow-in-the-dark chalk
A bargain buy
at just one
little
lightning bug life.

Yesterday, I stared for fifteen minutes
at my own reflection
and felt nothing.
It did not bother me,
I inhabit my body from a distance
for my own comfort;
it's an improvement.
lately when I run in place,
I focus on my feet
since, of all my body's moving parts,
they offend me the least.

It's as cold as I remember,
Or maybe it's worse.
Definitely,
maybe it's worse.
It's the worst way you can imagine being,
but probably it's not that bad.

There's really no way of knowing:
The most important year of my life
couldn't be reached for comment.

Ghosts Need Voices

We're on the verge,
we inmates and captors,
of mutual understanding -
a riot without resistance
impends.

it's been a decade and a half
since we began dividing
each separation a burial,
building layer after layer
with hands misguided
to cover the Wound with dry dirt and ashes
as if by concealing
we could heal
by suppressing
we could control what was impossible
to tame or contain or suffocate

but a voice still rises
beneath all that dirt
a child's eyes, leaking red and bewildered
deprived of comfort, except in the warmth
of restriction, which infants crave
and against which
the rest of us exhaust ourselves in combat

We thought she'd be a statue
by now, petrified by time and pressure and abandonment.
She was a story,
but not ours.
A myth,
but not heroic,
Timeless,
but without substance
We thought she'd fade away.
What use could such a shadow serve
our purpose,
which is survival at any cost.
She enraged us by persisting.
So we buried her,
beneath every failed attempt at transformation
15 years misunderstanding

She is the root
of our family tree,
and what good is it to bury roots,
which thrive in the dirt
while we in the sunlight are blind,
and she in the soil is voiceless,
one resenting the other
and the other nourishing the ones who curse her.

This is an apology,
and it's only a beginning -
Years of abuse
demand decades of repair.
but her voice still rises
and we captors - for shame -
have begun
to yield.

This wouldn't fit on Facebook

Yesterday's coffee and artificial tears.
It's not a good day for sunshine.
Exhaustion causes inflammation
results in heightened sensitivity to sunlight.
As if this body hasn't suffered enough heights.
Assaults. Without strength or desire to defend,
Defeated.
Or maybe just resigned.
Maybe just too fucking dramatic
maybe you're laughing
and rolling your eyes
and maybe this airbrushed life is good enough for you
so sensitive to human frailty which you might call ugliness
not fit for magazine covers
unless washed clean by photoshopped wishes.
well excuse us. we're sorry for ruining the aesthetic.
but this sunshine
is
fucking
bullshit.

False Memories

I once went sailing on an ocean of blueberry pudding, and when I reached the horizon, I spread my diamond dragon wings and flew into the ether. Now I live on the moon with the rest of the weirdos.

We live communally, and it's my week to make dinner, so I'm slicing purple potatoes while the elephants and ewoks play dress-up. The pianolin plays itself, with a company of accordions and cellos.

Sometimes it's sunny, others it's dusky, but we're never lonely or yearning or lost. When the sickness creeps in, we take turns flying backwards and down, to taste the blueberry pudding salt water from which we came.

We always leave lilies as thanks.

Chocolate. Or Attention. Online Dating. Adrenaline, and Jokes.

I get carried away.
I blame impulse, and a lack of patience. I'm certain it's now or never. Forever, and always.
An excess of enthusiasm. I'm addicted to endorphins and the abandonment of accountability.
Too bad it's only temporary.  

It's Lessons.

I can do anything, with effort.
Like perform twenty push-ups while telling you about my family's upstanding citizenry.
Or turn a casual acquaintance into a best friend. Now, when we fight, it makes my stomach hurt.
I can even wake up early to meditate on my limitless potential, and pray that your husband comforts you from beyond.
I often forget to pray for you, but when I do, I feel lucky, for the opportunity.

I've broken free from compulsive escape routes, several.
Once, I rappelled down a cliff to show my boyfriend I was stronger than he (he never respected my strength).
I used to smoke cigarettes, but I quit out of spite, to prove to a different boyfriend I was stronger than he (he respected me more than I loved myself).
My last boyfriend didn't love himself, and I knew better than to think I could make him.  
I've learned to learn, instead of resist. I seek to amend for the collateral damage, the cost of my education.

I can do anything, with courage.
I can do anything, with wisdom.
It is my responsibility, and my privilege, to seek my unbreakable joy.
And when I throw rocks in protest, I'm grateful that your hand finds mine in the night. 


 

Garbage Bags, or, Next Time Find a Kinder Container

Garbage bags. Presented to me in person or dropped at my door, they contain a number of small personal items. A toothbrush, a travel-sized hairdryer, a pair of socks, maybe a paperback or a magazine. Traces of my presence, packaged like banana peels and used q-tips. Their meaning clear, the energy that created them as cold as the wind that blows in my face, when I open the door to discover them, or drag them downstairs to my car.


They succeed in transferring my old friend's anger and pain, and they sit on my kitchen floor like lumpy misshapen amends that I now owe. After a while, I cut them free from their plastic tomb, and warm them with the reassurance of home. I want to be indignant, but I accept my role. I find comfort in being home and warm. And I look for the lesson, as icicles shrink.

The Return

strange
that having loved,
and having battered,
and having hardened against its demands,
that love
once an instinct
at liberty, at home
is a stranger now,
how strange.


I marvel at the heart's forgetfulness
the side effects of resistance
I wonder at the mind's defensiveness
the consequences
of placing faith in fear

and the promise of love, rediscovered,
wavers and quickens my pulse
and then I walk away,
assuming the manner of the unaffected
who fear less and love with lower stakes.

how strange,
to love and not fear.
it doesn't suit me
I stand still
and wait for the stranger's pursuit 

Early warning.

melancholia and hot coffee.

dreams of being in love
with a man I know only in song,
and abandonment. 

reckless imaginings,
The Fall.

The extremities of ambivalence

Nostalgic for nothing definite.
More like a feeling, or a version of me I'll never be again
and yet always am.

Moments slip away and return in unexpected bursts
of memory that leave me breathless.

There is a universe inside of me,
and it is my own. 
I fight to let it out
while I reinforce its walls with whispers and rage

This is private

Beware of hungry hounds
and misappropriated affection
and remove your shoes and inhibitions
before entering.

This is a warning, this is a welcome
this is home.

The Soothing Delusions of Solitary Confinement

I met a man who suffered fear
because he mistook his work for his worth
I shared with him some wisdom I'd found
admitting that I, too, was prone to similar delusions

but he laughed at me
and shaking his head
claimed a physical intolerance of guided self-improvement

I could tell he was trying to conceal his contempt
out of consideration for my feelings
because clearly
I was the sort to succumb to self-help

and honestly, my feelings were hurt
momentarily
but I put my ego back in its place and moved on

I didn't explain, or belabor the point, that his handicap was mental,
unwillingness
and a steel trap protecting his pride
fearing change, shirking responsibility
content to be occasionally content
and postponing freedom
until his prison cell caved in on him entirely
and desperation awakened his demand for freedom

I'm familiar with the tendency
after all
having made a friend of misery for years myself

You are not a mirror.

I measured my beauty
in a neutral gray room
your heart was an island
my fingers slipped through

You're over there
I'm standing here
You keep your balance
I'll keep after truth

Peel-Off Frown

my insides an earthquake
my skin melts the moon
the whole world streaks through me
like smoke fills my room

windows scream whispers
door hinges groan
I'm waiting in starkness
all heavy of soul

blood tunnels gushing
limbs treading sound
puddles like pancakes
as sticky as frowns

Like So Many Broken Yolks

The splatter pattern
cracked a grin
Toddled sideways back at him
Pinched a nerve
Proclaimed him cured
and Spat it tattered out at him

Friendly Analogies and a Shameful Ought.

I know a guy who sees the world
through rose-colored glasses.
In quite a literal fashion.

I think the world sees me
through x-ray goggles, or an MRI scan.
Defying my right to wear skin.

I'd rather they think me impervious.
I'd rather I thought me impervious.
If only I'd been impervious
when I first seduced destruction.

I've never been shy of flying
but now the noise of machines
makes my stomach heave
and long for the ground 'neath my feet.

My meaning needs liberation
or even a weekend vacation
I'm so sick of this form, of its wanting
when what I ought to be is grateful.
Shameful.

goddamn these winters linger.

The special secret sickness

I fear my heart's come down with sadness, she said
and walked away
Nothing to do but wait, he said, as his fingers soothed the ivory

he sought the appropriate tone to mirror the weight of her affliction
imagined she'd be drifting in the notes of haunting melodies

they were strangers then and separate
and the lonely weighed so heavy
there wasn't anything to do but wait for waves to take their love away

The Jarring Words Cure

caged by glory shouting names
creak and hobble toward the rain
crackpot
bangup
starcrossed
hiccups
all parading down the drain

cram the poignant pepper puffs
headlines tell of loudmouth stuff
crazy kooks
immortal dogs
pray that preaching's not enough

snarky sounds will soothe your cool
give the quickness ample room
bleed out
scream out
let it out
speak the sticky passion pools!

Instinctive feelings

worry is such a joyless game
but what if god's an empty phrase
who will watch the boiling pot
to keep us floating to the top?