again

Alone
and exhale
chest sink into heart
feel it swell
with blood
or hormones
or anticipation.
Alone with adrenaline
no wonder he's so lonely
no excuses
no forgiveness to his face
smh
what a waste.
Alone at the apartment
except a heartbeat
that's steady
faulty
rhythm gone
doesn't drum for strangers anymore
 its bored.
Alone
inhale.

First prompt

First you need patience

and a set of wide eyes

to look over the latent

disregard for other’s lives

 

Then you need teeth

enough to fill a grin

better make them shiny too

your boss loves his reflection

 

Third you’ll need a voice

but it doesn’t have to speak

one that just sounds pretty

and is able to repeat

 

You’ll have to sell your ears

for a firm handshake

you wont get paid to listen

so there is no time to waste

 

Last of all you’ll need a suit

and bathtubs of money

and a wife to come home to

that will lie and call you honey

No Longer Driving

As I sit in the passenger seat

And rearrange my feet

I ponder this man’s intentions

As we listen

To the sound that our minds make as we see that shooting star

And he says I know it’s cliché but I belong up where they are

and he acts like a gentleman

and I don’t know how to react

but he seems amused by the way

I cower when I can’t answer

what he asks.

And this is the first time ever

that I can remember feeling short

because no matter the intelligence

I always felt above his sort.

But he uses words like upwell

And melancholy

He has a library in his room

And knows more than me about everything

And for the first time in my whole life 

I feel intimidated

By a man.

And as were riding in his car

I don’t think he understands.

Spells at the Bookstore

          It’s become obvious that I’m attracted to old things. Not old people or objects that were made to look vintage, but actual old things, things from a time before my own.  There is a bookstore down the street, too far to walk but close enough to ride to, although I haven’t rode a bike in ten years.   The bookstore’s name is “BOOKMAN” and it sells used books, much of which are older than me. Used books are always better than new ones, they offer just a little more history than the book itself, and even though I will never know what the history is, it comforts me somehow. The same way walking down the hallway of countless words comforts me, knowing I am inches away from a different world.  It’s as if every book has been tucked in to bed, covered with a blanket of dust. I sometimes imagine myself sleeping with the books, just another author waiting to be woken up by delicate fingers. I imagine a strange girl gently pulling me from bed and stroking my back, waiting to hear the right words for her to give me a chance. I have never slept on a shelf.  But I do sit on the cheap carpet and let my eyes wander side to side, up and down, tilting my head so I can read titles. 

Carmen never seems to mind me sitting.  Carmen is the witch that works there. I’m not sure if she knows who I am, but I know her probably too well considering the short amount of words we have exchanged.  She used to date another witch that I know in town, Ac. He works at the little corner store and gives me hugs that are a little too tight for our age difference.  He always kept my dad in the store too long while I waited in the car, he rubbed oils on my dad’s hands and promised changes in his financial situation.  The hugs started when my dad left.  Anyway, Ac had a website with Carmen when they were together that sold witchcraft supplies and other little trinkets. He let me post my hemp jewelry on the site. Nothing ever sold.  My grandma got mad at me for associating with witches, but it’s hard not to living in this town. As much of a recluse as I am, I still talk to people here, only older ones though, the young kids all think they are the next messiah and shoot up heroin behind the stage in the park.  I try to scan the ground that’s ahead of my dog when I walk him at night.

          The bookstore has a cat that is there when Carmen is.  The cat is normally very shy, but one day while I was sitting it pranced up to me and flopped over on its back for a good ten minutes while I stroked it. It didn’t mind when I got too focused on mouthing titles that my hand stopped. It just laid there.  It’s a grey cat, not black, just to help deter that old stereotype. But this was a strange thing considering how shy the cat is. I secretly wondered if Carmen had transformed, or had some sort of spell to cast on the cat.  Some people say that cats can tell the nature of one’s soul, I think most people can too, and the ones who can’t are the ones who own cats. Grey cat or not, the bookstore is full of magic.

          As I walk in I feel transformed, like I’m on some sort of laughing gas high. I move slowly and peacefully, taking my time when I was rushing outside only minutes ago. The books send out little messages to my subconscious; “Read me because I am dull in color and therefore older” “Read me because your classmates used to argue over the true meaning of my last pages” I pick up every one that speaks to me. But the ones that speak to me most are old.  That is why I am so drawn to used bookstores, there are old books there, and old books have the old book smell. A smell I grew up on and quickly learned to respect.  I remember the first time I smelled it.  I walked into a room to see my dad with his nose in a book and his eyes shut. I must have been about four years old and said “What are you doing?” He just told me to come over and gave me the book and said “Smell it.” He said it with this wonder in his eyes as if he was giving me a gift to unwrap.  So I tried to do it like he did, with my eyes shut I held the book to my face and focused only on the pages in between the cover. I inhaled, and have been hooked ever since.

          I have asked for a job at the BOOKMAN a number of times throughout the years, but they are never doing well enough to hire. So once I asked if I could work for a discount on books, and even that was shut down just as fast as the idea came to my mind. Even though I don’t get paid, sometimes I just organize the books as I search. They have shelves that lay bin-like on tables that are filled with books for a dollar. They are always in messy, over stacked piles, so I just tidy them up as much as I can before I get antsy and go over to my spot, LITERATURE. That’s where all the oldest, best books are. And POETRY is right next to it, sometimes my eyes wander over just enough to see a copy of something in poetry, and my hands follow. This is dangerous because once my hands follow, my debit card is not far behind. And that gets swiped without me realizing the total, and ends with me not asking for a bag and balancing, sometimes seven, books out to my car. My keys jingle as I walk up my red cement steps to my front door and when inside my dog quickly knocks them over in his excitement, and cowers when they hit the floor like mad ghosts. The books lay on my shelf or cradled in hands until I am once again back in the BOOKMAN trying to remember authors that old professors spoke of.

What's Up?

your “once upon a time”

is filled with lies

your eyes can’t hold attention

to see in to our dimension

these prescriptions you've been written

don’t allow you to make the right decisions

your precision is amazing though

you love to draw back that bow

and pretend you didn’t know about the arrow

but say so casually that you love to sew

your requirements for love

are based on lullabies and drugs

and the hugs you give are a formality

you’re a technicality

that's technically a girl

trapped in a woman's body

that's why you fight so much

but don't let the others see

because your world is a boy

that's in the state penitentiary

and he is stuck like you

and that's why you connect?

that's why you love to respect his selections to neglect

you feel like a queen!

that’s dressed as a jester

waiting to impress all the sinister sisters

and ready to stress over all their gestures

you silly little girl

you're smearing your words

your world

is actually a pencil

because it doesn't make you speak

it just lets you release

all those hopes and hormones crowded on to one sheet

and if you can’t find any sense in them

just make something up

and say it with a smile when they ask you what’s up.

An American Girl's Morning

She awakens

from a much more pleasant

reality.

Caffeine withdrawal stabs the skull

starving veins scream: “nicotine!” “nicotine!”

sunlight whispers through blinds: “squint.”

while dog digs at her face.

Dog smiles

at nothing.

Achy knees bend

stiff arms stretch

toes curl and release.

Splintery wooden floor creaks hello.

Speaks like her grandma,

like it wasn’t expecting her.

Shoulder grazes the doorway

out of the bedroom

in to the bathroom.

Greasy eyeliner gathered in creases

she didn’t know existed,

black, like the rubbery filling

that sweaty men inject

into pavement cracks.

Forehead smushes upwards and down

as she examines the face.

“this is it?”

she thinks out loud

to the mirror.

Only to the mirror.

It replies with a shrug

that’s her cue to walk.

feed the head, the veins.

give the dog a biscuit.

Mister Cloud

A cloud drifts in the corner of the sky,

my head shifts to center it in my eye.

I see you cloud, you carefree being,

I watch you closely, imagine what you’re seeing.

I take note of your shape, and watch you dance,

you fear the sun will dissolve our romance.

Smarter than a moth, but dumb as a rock,

I envy you still! Even as you mock.

But you cannot see, or imagine, or breathe.

You cannot feel or fear, there is no need.

You simply move, with no effort made,

a friend of the wind, or maybe a slave.

Or maybe just vapor, with no other name,

Just my imagination, creating your fame.

Oh old man, young child, and widow,

why must you observe me,

through the dirt on your window?

Why do you ask and plead

with such wonder?

As if I had a voice other than thunder.

Some of you see my shadow as a burden,

while others choose to show envy with a pen.

Some of you think I make shapes for show

while others don’t notice, as my tears grow.

I watch you search the sky for a clue,

no rain today, just white and blue.

And through all of this, I lay in my sky,

and see you shift your head, to center me in your eye.

Waving From the Past

I’ve seen the way you process but I don’t understand

because processing your processes

wasn’t part of my plan

in fact I didn’t have one

you caught be by surprise

when I looked up from my desk and saw the intensity in your eyes

which held our fate, I saw it.

clearer than your intentions

clearer than the dimensions we created from the tension

clearer than the prison walls we stared at every day

clearer than the look you gave when I said I shouldn’t stay

but I did

and look at where I sit now

I gather dust on this green hill but I still sit proud

I still sit with a smirk and constantly look down

I still sit with your words and I spin them around to process more delicately

what  I thought I found

and what I found was a boy still jumping off the playground

still screaming inside but un able to make a sound

so you crawled back into that prison I once sat

and wave to me on my hill and constantly think back

back to the past where we once used to live

where we once used to give kisses on the cheek and slaps on the wrist

scars on the heart and blood on our lips

the taste of fate

it was too much to digest

butterflies and stomach acid made quite a mess.

so we scrubbed

we bleached out all our past crimes

offering our fate a fair chance to unwind

and it did

but not the way that I had seen

so I walked cautiously down a path that lead me

to a valley surrounded by hills

so I climbed up one to see the walls you had built

so I wave

I wave back at you

you’re waving from the past but I can still see you

you’re waving from the past but you still get through

me.

Im the daughter of a mad hatted mother who couldn't read emotions even written on my face with eyeliner.
I have a father that money ate and threw up, i watched him get so mad, keep filling up his cup.
I grew up alone developed a personality, when no one could decipher it i questioned my sanity,
began to hate vanity when it took the people around me for a ride inside the mind of who they were supposed to be.
I learned to take what I make at a young age, I pay for what I break and I grow from my mistakes.
Never let anyone too far in, theres too thin a line between love and a trash bin.
I tie knots on string until my fingers bleed, was a hobby until it turned in to a need to expose the bones under my flesh to let you see more of what I am than what you thought I might be.
and I can guarantee what you thought was wrong, because I changed myself to not fit in your palm.
I'm not a liar, but I've told my fair share of lies. I'm not a follower, but I've seen through others eyes. I'm a leader in disguise of a girl with a sad life, I've been called a goddess but was never baptized. And I dont take shit for that to easily, you want me to feel guilt? your going to have to force feed it to me.

october

She looks like the first leaf
to fall off of a maple tree
mid-october.
she wishes for the man passing by to frame her
hang her on a wall.
but she knows when his shadow falls over her fragile body
that she will just be stepped on again.
breaking in to more and more,
smaller and smaller
less significant
peices.