Friday, February 29, 2008

to my pathetic little uplifted hopeful self

i want to say,
what the fuck you were you doing
hanging a hundred stories in
the air?
don't you know even optimism
can die,
by falling so hard
that when you hit the pavement
they need to scrape up
with a shovel
what is left of you?

your wishful, smiling face
cannot alter the dangers
of suicidal behavior.

little self, you make me sick & now
you are hiding in the ranks
of my amazons
begging them
to protect you
with their arrows & shields.

try this:
hope all you like.
but next time,
take your own weapons.
buy your own armor.

Thursday, February 21, 2008


sometimes it becomes
the hardest part
not physically, i mean
but the type of shock
that sets your head spinning until your chest
is on fire from lack
of oxygen.
what you hear
doesn't matter, the end result
is the same -
a racing heart skittering in sync
with your gasping,
the oxygen deficit
pounding in your skull.
never hurt as much as this
razors never made so much
of an impact, not in a visceral sense -
a small cut never seized my entire body
and froze my senses, temples
pounding as your vision
goes black
and you sink,
to the refrain of
"hello, are you
okay, can you hear
me? can you
hear me?"

Sunday, February 17, 2008

how to deal

i often wonder
if i couldn't stop screaming, how
you would handle it
because what i want
when i do
is to be muffled, crushed
against someone's chest
and held firm and still,
until all of the chaos

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

home calling

it's not so impersonal
as it appears
so many miles make familiar
voices easy to hear,
hard to let go of
once they've rooted, again
within you.
i still make my sweet tea
sugary enough to be a southerner.
it's quiet, if cold
and the blankets on my couch match
the ones in my mother's closet

home is not
a location. it's a sense
of belonging.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

who will watch

it's sick, but she's really
getting the last laugh

are tied into knots desperately holding
our maimed friendship's wounds together
with bloody hands,
and our relationship's
remains, they are wheeling

so neither one of us gets
what we desire.

she's enjoying the reaping of this
in a half-guilty, fascinated
sort of manner,
the type of pose
you strike when you know nothing
of loss,
and stand
amidst the wreckage
untouched, saying,
"not me, not me, not me."