Thoughts while listening to a friend think of love.

I had just woken up from a life gone when you showed me your antique dark blue dress decorated with delicate ornate beading. When you were little you always wanted something nice.

“Isn’t it nice?” You asked and continued talking to me about the assholes and the lovers you had cut up and put in your freezer. You’re a horrible at playing unaffected especially when I can see the scrapes and scars on your knees and knuckles. I wanted to warn you of the possibilities that sometimes love doesn’t come in a letter written out and addressed to you. I wanted to hold you, keep you steady, when the ground came beneath your feet. It would be something small to cause it to all come down.

I didn’t want you to go through your personal apocalypse.

Instead I told you how
I sometimes buy plants. I don’t know how to care for them and don’t make an effort to learn. Usually the soil dries out and the leaves brown. Sometimes I’ll be drinking iced green tea, watching Little Britain and pore some tea into the pot. It’s always too late.

manual

i was one who was taught
to be quiet whenever
i laughed too loud, got too angry or hurt too much
and when the guilt i felt for breathing came crawling out of my skin
i knew nothing in the world was better quiet, and a lil nyquil
i was taught fear

girls like me were ugly enough to be hit
and pretty enough to be forgotton
with our boring brown eyes
and sincere “i love you”

and when life said bend bend bend or break
i sat there twisted as a pretzel
on the verge of tears, still smiling

so if i can hand you an explanation
a manual of sorts
before you get lost in the romance of courting
before you do what you can to get what you want
before you disappear

don’t waste your time with decorations
not for me at least

i am not going to bite your head off
or curse your mother for creating you
i’ll most likely curse that god i’ve got hanging on the wall

good or bad and let me deal with how much
truth you have

because by nature i have quiet footsteps
because by experience i have logic
because i might just like you
but not as much as i like me

you see my knees are scratched and sore from
praying and
blow jobs

both done with everything in me

and if you desire, feel free to lock the door behind me
because there is good reason to believe i’m not coming back

i am still sensitive to the weight of promises and gossip

to a little alcohol and sex

i’m sewing the wholes in my pockets
but now i’m reading instead of screwing,
sighing instead of crying,
and planning instead of forgetting

and if you ask me i’d say that it sounds like a life without much room left for
an alarm clock, a waiting room or a polygraph test
now, sweet sweet sweetness,
i like you, isn’t it obvious by the way
i say with a smile, “that’s something charming” about you when you aren’t around
and say “hello, baby” when you call (only the second word is silent)

and when you say “hi beautiful” i cover up the fact that i heard you by making up a nonsense joke about red butterflies going across the moon
cover up how much i like the way it sounded,
its like hearing you say it is an exclamation point to how you make me feel.

because i like my autonomy and those sub-sort-of-lover clothes
i used to wear no longer fit me i won’t tell you how
the next time we meet i’ve schedule time with my mirror
to stand alone in front of to take inventory of my ribs, two legs, my bellybutton
my heart

i will say out loud to the army which is my body
“prude!” i will say “whore!”

i will laugh really loud at my absurdity
and see how my body parts react
and find something in between, to wear.

before i see you i will say i need nothing and know that it is true
i will curse any fear in you
and believe you’ve none
i will pretend i am going down on a rollercoaster and my stomach
is giggling and i will pack a puzzle of color beneath my eyelids in case i get bored
since i glued all my broken parts back together there is very little i fear anymore
so i am ready for you to love me, forget me, move me, remove me

i am ready to remember your twitching fingers on my skin as you fall asleep
i am ready for the fairytale of the song that is being played on my hip bone.
i am also ready for you use me against every good intention you had
or for you to like someone just that much more than me
i am ready to hear that you say that you hope i understand how special i am
(i do, i do, i do)
i really do, so don’t you fret.
because there is honesty and integrity
and curiosity and bravery
there is pain and survival and
gains and losses
and smiles and tears and that’s not all there is
there are warm baths and glasses of wine
and a good books and enough time
there are dancing in chaos or in the comfort of socks
there is you and there is me
there is me…
i was one who was taught to be afraid
but regardless,
along the way I've learned not to fear.

Lemonade

I considered agreeing with you on a certain memory uncompromised by the two of us for certain; it would have inspired something out of us - the numb.
So obviously unbalanced and excessive
I squeezed two whole lemons, added 8 tablespoons of sugar and put it in a gallon of water.
I called it lemonade
You called it sour
Or my sun-lit-salt-smelling-sex
You said was "a way to wake up"
Or the joke you explained
That I said, "I got it-but it's just not funny"
I wish I could have inspired a poet in you
But you only said, "can you put your shoes away?"

My shoes in the living room
Planted, for you to trip over
So that I can climb you
Bite into your skin
Find some poetry.

the german

he
drinks cutty sark
watches the discovery channel
eats the left over lasagna i made with
kraft american cheese (that no one else will touch)
he takes me fishing every week still
even though i am too old to talk to him sweetly
and too young to talk you him with respect
its been years since he quit smoking but
he smells of smoke and whiskey and hearty smiles
he tells me what a good cook i am
and that my hair looks nice today
he hands me condoms
and begs me not to have sex yet
he loves my mother the way i won't see again
until my brother meets his wife

i am eighteen
seeing my father for the last time

he is sitting on the couch
drinking cutty sark and
eating the left over lasagna i made with
kraft american cheese (that no one else will touch)
he says, "you're a good cook"
and i forget to say,
i love you.

An old letter, never sent.

I grew up with you. Smiled and cried while you lived in and out of me through the years. You would invite me to your apt in Spain when you were lonely or not invite me to Finland when you went to see your girlfriend with the wonderful breast.

You always handed me insults decorated in compliments and compliments decorated in insults. You would bore me with your various successes and conquests, looking at me, evident, for any sort of movement of expression.

I let you down every time, I was bored.

You were always welcome to come back and tell me that my hair smelled nice and clean like no one has ever touched it.

Once when I lit a cigarette, a kindly old gentleman said,
“Oh, you’re to pretty to smoke.”
“I am on strike against vanity; this cigarette is my protest sign” I responded.
“I love you” you said.
This was the first time you said this sober.
It would seem lovely save it was only said as a pat on my back for treating the world (other than you) indifferent.
It was why we were, us.

(I’m sorry I fell. I skinned my knee. I was sober too.)

You didn’t like to see me laugh in the company of strangers if:
The stranger were as handsome adjective like, hmmm…”beautiful”
Could be used in the same sentence as the words “move”, “pursue” or “fuck”.
Was a noun any noun, pronouns like “you” were okay though.

I listened to your rants of women you’ve worshipped and the ones you wanted dead. I really couldn’t tell the difference between the two. I knew however that I was both to you. You spilled your secret every time you’d get drunk and curse me for not loving you.

I would never give you the satisfaction.

Didn’t you get it?!
That sort of love. That sort of love that you wanted from me reminds me of sitting in a reversed seat of a empty waiting room with the with a broken sign flashing exit, exit, exit.

We were. I thought. We were more than that.

Thick promises that later feel like shit and long painful goodbyes that look tragic when held in a charming sort of light. They were not for us, you and I. maybe for us with others and others without us but not for us, you and I.

We were. I thought. We were more than that.
“Do you think I am possessive?” You hesitantly tempted a yes.
“We’re friends, I’m your’s and you are mine” I’d placate with puzzle piece honesty.

(Come here. I held your head and through your thick hair drew an outline of your brain)

The last time you had kissed me you- you came to claim me, save me once and for all. I guess you must’ve forgotten the 2 years prior when you “disowned” me for “being the kind of stupid regular girl who would even consider marrying a guy like that.

It had been so many years yet you came around like I could somehow keep you. I could never keep you. I would never say this to you but you are far too blatant. You would want my bones just so you could bury them.

We walked with your eyes glaring at my “last cigarette”
“That is so disgusting” you’d spit with such nurture.
“Yeah well sunssshine, I need something to regulate the diet pills, whiskey and stalking fits I’ve made habits lately.” I’d roll from my eyes.

You cursed my broken heart for being broken over a boy
who could care less about me and
you were
right.

7 out of 10 times you were right. It was the most consistent anyone has ever been with me so in turn I believed you (for the most part)

Your cold words on the tips of your fingers always felt like prayers when being pushed into my warmest parts.
I packed my things. You packed my things and declared that I wasn’t living my life, that I would die if I lived in tedious monotony and that I could not die because you needed me.

You saved me in a way.
Exposed me.
Loved me, naked.

I’d cry now but I’ve allowed my tear ducts to rust and can’t.
I’d be angry but I’ve never been able to hold unto anger long enough for it to matter.
Its like I said,
Thick promises that later feel like shit and long painful goodbyes that look tragic when held in a charming sort of light. They were not for us.

Now, I admit in the face of sounding so awfully entitled,
You let me down, man
and I think that
you suck.

Love Me

Love,
Me

girl

you don't have to smile
no need to be polite
you've fought the good fight
names I won't name
battles named Temporary
its okay to say the blame is not yours
cry and smile with conviction
scream and demand without shame
all that will last won't break and fragment
all of it is out of your control
let it go what will last will span time
your bones are strong
the air is yours
your belly can bear babies
your eyes can tame lions
there is no shame in salt taste tears
and your dreams being too colorful
You can dance You can love You can respect
You can laugh You can breath You can ask You can take
You can fuck
Contrary to how "perfect" you were raised to be.

Today I am a girl
An emotional thick-skinned free smiling heavyhearted girl
It is less than what I am but what I am nonetheless
reverie finds a place in mesneaks in like a selfish lover as I sleep
seeps down my leg as i walk into the bathroom
gender shouldn't be such a privilege
but on a cold day it sure feels that way
shadows keep the dirtiest secretsand manners are just perfect
she speaks with a smile
she'll never want back everything she gives you
it astounds me how much little girls are born against.
It amazes me how fucking tremendous women arebut how little we claim.