When I was New

When I was six I caught pieces of sunlight, and used them to mend her tattered soul. She gifted me with knowledge of what life would be like, if lived with all honesties.

When I was seven I broke treaties and snuck downstairs when the darkness came, I saw shapes dance across the walls of her bedroom and choked back all of my sobs.

At eight, I saw seven eat nine and cried until I ran out of fears. I found a place deep in the Midwest wood where I stored my screams, at the base of a gigantic oak tree.

At the tender age of ten I could dim the moonbeams that fell through my torn curtains, I slept in a nest constructed of wolf like pillows. I filled jars of fireflies and placed them at the foot of my twin bed. So the monsters that lurked would have to face their own reflection before crawling into my sheets.

Eleven found me cuddled in the corner of womanhood, bleeding through hand-me-down memories, I wore pastel pink sweaters with lockets containing grown up shame. I pocketed daydreams to unfold sanitary napkins in bathroom stalls.

Twelve gave me nightmares in the middle of the day, we spent afternoons sneaking peaks of public library women’s magazine reads; big bold letters on how to make him love you! Forever! Lunchroom lessons on how to kiss my own hand.

Thirteen was unreal, I was never sure how to feel. Always accused of feeling too much. I built a house in my head and stored my heart in a locked box.

Sweet sixteen was all but gold, I looked forward to looking back on it all, and my new daydreams were this tall! I couldn’t keep my head above the high tide, and wasn’t sure if I could commit to the ride.

I missed being new.

When I was new I was the perfect place to start.

When I was new I was barely a whisper, but everyone heard my little heart thump against the back wall of my chest.

When I was new I could see through all of you.


People Too

Today we will start being cordial with one another. And tomorrow you will admit that you do not like me, not my appaearance, but the Me only you sees. 

You’ll become flustered in conversation and your in depth observations will nag at you into the night. You’ll wake up angry and wonder what I was thinking when I confessed to all of the lack of feelings. 

You’ll believe that I use my experience as excuse and look past my attempts at wearing my heart on my sleeve. Convince yourself I’m just a naive woman being historionic and filled with too much angst, for someone her age. 

You’ll begin to be passive in our passing conversations and push my words aside. I’ll start to walk by with my eyes glued to the ground, counting steps and pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth. 

And if we never speak again, remember; Introverts are people too, people just like me and you. 

The Bearer of Bad News

the weight of the world filled 

her womb, 

four failed times.

she hushed galaxies,

the forget-me-nots wept,

for none was as beautiful as

her sad song.

we eavesdropped 

on her mourning.

gathered thorns, 

to cover the ground

she walked on.

worshiping, her sad song.

The Death of Me

industrialized the human heart,
fixated, on that spot.
objects, in the making.
death of the individual,
reshaping replica roles
to fit predestined molds.
fight or flight, follows
hierarchy of needs.
follows through with
the destruction, of me.

Sweet, like Honey

you smell sweet, like honey.
so he’s reminded of you
in the heat of summer.
your kisses are hard soft,
when your teeth pulled
at the corners of his lips,
he ached for more.
he misses your
whiskey with ice cubes
sting the squareness of his jaw.
you smell sweet, like honey.
he misses this about you.
he tells you this, often.
your hands were always warm,
he longs for your touch.
but he can’t stand the way you
talk so much.
your opinions still echo
through the halls of the house.
your half-finished projects,
to make this house a home,
litter his thoughts.
your hairbrush,
tucked away
in the top drawer of his nightstand.
your side of the bed,
still empty
he’d fill it,
if he had less heart.
you smell sweet, like honey.
so he’s reminded of you,
when you drop your son off.
he’d ask you to come home,
but it’s still just a house.

Speaking Silently, pt. 2

pricked my finger trying to sew
my own lips closed,
lessons in how to save a life.
i rehearsed those words until
they were no more.
meaningless piles of unsaid things,
tangled on my tongue,
dangling from an eternity
of intermittent explosive
oppression to shape you.
aggression to shake you.
repression to save you.
to speak into this world
i am compressed into,
oppressed through,
this! is like holding my hands
over my mouth and screaming.
muffled messages.
drown her voice,
the tone, the high pitched cries,
lowered the struggle into the 70’s,
sales woman savvy,
just to win at losing!
and you’ll never even see
you’ll never even hear
the most precious parts of
particles, pieces of thousands of
missing souls
that crafted this universe
with their wombs,
with the strength of character
and misunderstood frailties.
and still, i rehearsed those words until they became part of me.
but what became of them?
everything that is something,
that is nothing, that is the missing,
that is the invisible girl
you see through,
that’s the grandmother who
died unsure of her life’s worth.
and i ate those words,
i recited them until they danced,
like tiny anxiety flavored moments over my tongue,
stopping at my lips.
confused love with hate,
infused friend with mate
just so i could keep my
womanly curvaceous shape
from failing me, what frames me,
what saves me,
this mangled version of truth!
i will speak no more.
i pricked my fingertip,
trying to remove
the stitches from my lips.