Strawberry juice and bent knees
fling me to manic highs:
hot veins on warm hands, shoulder blades
pulsing like running pavement.
Jolt across the fabric of thieves,
a belt thick across my hip bones.
Shaken and sprinkled with glass;
wrist, skull, chest.
August 31, 2013
August 17, 2013
August 17 2013
Petals like eyelids, like shells, like dresses,
like scoops that hold dear every tear that it gathers.
In fragrant handfuls she waits for bits of soup:
my heart soup that's dripping through
my crevices that I try to squeeze tight.
Vines like fingers, like rivers, like ribbons,
like incomplete reaching toward the farthest gasp of air.
At my core, behind my ribs, he's grabbing at guts;
keep going, keep going,
so those toes can always wander.
like scoops that hold dear every tear that it gathers.
In fragrant handfuls she waits for bits of soup:
my heart soup that's dripping through
my crevices that I try to squeeze tight.
Vines like fingers, like rivers, like ribbons,
like incomplete reaching toward the farthest gasp of air.
At my core, behind my ribs, he's grabbing at guts;
keep going, keep going,
so those toes can always wander.
August 7, 2013
How I fall in love.
Times I've fallen in love: 2.
The first time was procrastinated, avoided, and denied. He was my best friend and we were separated by exactly 100 miles.
My childhood best friend lived in the house right next to mine, where we would easily send messages to each other by paper plane and spend every hour of the day together. Few understand the inevitability of taking those who are only inches away from us for granted.
The distance of 100 miles grew us together. Phone calls tethered us with consistency and thoughtful discussion.
Average phone calls per month: 23.
One of his favorite lines was: "Saying, 'nothing' is just a cop-out. C'mon tell me." He had a way of making you want to tell him what was on your mind.
We grew together. Ideas and beliefs strengthened, intertwined.
After months and months and months and months, I relented. Complete romantic vulnerability.
Instantly pushed away.
The second time was inevitable, tearful, and lost. He was my outline and we were made out of the same kind of stuff.
I would always wonder what it would be like to meet myself. Would I like her? Could we be friends? My verdict was no. Imagination conjured predictability, battles over influence, and subtle habits clashing. Since my firm conclusion, I put in no further thought of the subject.
Days together confirmed our congruency, including height and shape, restaurant choices, birth order, and a 13 year old brother named Joshua.
However, our similarities extended beyond the physical coincidences. Two hearts brandished little pits that were covered to hide the shame and sadness. Readily recognizing the sight, we took out little shovels to climb in those tunnels, unbury the secrets.
Number of my secrets: 8; number of his: 8.
We tangled ourselves together, passionately, hazardously, like electrical cords with worn plastic coverings and wires poking out like needles. There was nothing like it and I thought I'd never let go.
Then one day he cut a little too deep.
So I ran.
The first time was procrastinated, avoided, and denied. He was my best friend and we were separated by exactly 100 miles.
My childhood best friend lived in the house right next to mine, where we would easily send messages to each other by paper plane and spend every hour of the day together. Few understand the inevitability of taking those who are only inches away from us for granted.
The distance of 100 miles grew us together. Phone calls tethered us with consistency and thoughtful discussion.
Average phone calls per month: 23.
One of his favorite lines was: "Saying, 'nothing' is just a cop-out. C'mon tell me." He had a way of making you want to tell him what was on your mind.
We grew together. Ideas and beliefs strengthened, intertwined.
After months and months and months and months, I relented. Complete romantic vulnerability.
Instantly pushed away.
The second time was inevitable, tearful, and lost. He was my outline and we were made out of the same kind of stuff.
I would always wonder what it would be like to meet myself. Would I like her? Could we be friends? My verdict was no. Imagination conjured predictability, battles over influence, and subtle habits clashing. Since my firm conclusion, I put in no further thought of the subject.
Days together confirmed our congruency, including height and shape, restaurant choices, birth order, and a 13 year old brother named Joshua.
However, our similarities extended beyond the physical coincidences. Two hearts brandished little pits that were covered to hide the shame and sadness. Readily recognizing the sight, we took out little shovels to climb in those tunnels, unbury the secrets.
Number of my secrets: 8; number of his: 8.
We tangled ourselves together, passionately, hazardously, like electrical cords with worn plastic coverings and wires poking out like needles. There was nothing like it and I thought I'd never let go.
Then one day he cut a little too deep.
So I ran.
August 2, 2013
Blackberries
You and I are filled with purple
spilling over fingers with juicy stains.
Frame us in porcelain bowls and
the warm, folded crease of a t-shirt.
We tangle through the deep, wet soil,
clinging to riversides and forest edges.
Venture into the wild with me,
stretch out your limbs; come and see
The forgotten trails that house us,
keep us through the first blush of Spring,
Harvest's sweet pangs and lingering cold.
Rest your head against the curve of my shoulder
As we linger on, spreading our roots wider still,
like fingers interlacing; you and I.
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