Metaphors

I have so many goddamn metaphors for you. 
It’s adorably annoying. 
I wanted to start this poem with a metaphor about rain in the desert. 
Or something about using punctuation to remind me to breathe like you breathe next to me when you’re settled in sleep. 
But see the thing is
I could compare you to a million different things and while they would be accurate,
They still wouldn’t accurately reflect
Exactly how I feel. 
Some days I’m really annoyed with the fact that when I’ve reached a lulling place in thought
I start thinking about you. 
And just how good that makes me feel. 
And yes annoyed is the right word
Because the thought of you
Directly impacts the memory of how desperately I tried to keep my head above all this emotion. 
I didn’t find you because I was looking. 
Believe me you were the last place 
I thought I’d find a piece of my heart. 
Because I’d blocked and barricaded
Thrown up walls and shielded myself
From the flood
Of grief that the idea of love gives me. 
I’ve got so many fucking metaphors. 
I’d built up this idea that love is a metaphor for disappointment. 
For pain. 
For hurt. 
And in you I’ve found
Joy 
And comfort
And intimacy
On levels which I had forgotten were actually real to begin with. 
I don’t know if this is love. 
I know it’s like. 
For sure for sure. 
And I know how I feel
When you look at me with that sideways snarky grin on your face. 
And when I think about how I want to fall asleep
I know it’s next to you. 
I’m not exactly sure what the next days weeks or months might bring. 
Hell I don’t even know yet how this whole thing plays out. 
I just know 
that you make me feel like writing metaphors for hope 
instead of writing
Metaphors 
For
Sorrow.

Author

I have so many words.
So many words that I use in these
Stanzas
So many words I could use to paint pictures in your mind’s eye.
So many words I keep hidden.
See I’m pretty big on communication.
Constantly reminding my friends and family
To keep talking.
To keep sharing.
To keep using their words when they’re uncomfortable or sad or happy or excited.
I use words in poetry to always say what I feel
Because I learned a long time ago that if I can’t say it out loud,
I could write it.
Writing has saved my life countless times.
Writing has been a beautiful beginning
To many of my relationships.
Writing, however, has not ever
Saved me from heartbreak.
From loss.
From grief.
Not being able to say the words to someone’s face has also often been
A point of contention.
Because instead of getting angry
Or saying how I feel out loud
I sit and I write everything out
With bulletpoints
Or purposeful indentation
Or capital letters
Just to hammer points across.
When I write,
Punctuation becomes a kind of afterthought.
Speckled in between
Consonants and vowels.
A reminder to pause and breathe.
Breathe heavy.
Breathe evenly.
Breathe with purpose
Because I get so caught up in the words
I forget to breathe.
I want to feel love like I feel letters.
Like I feel when I’m sharing poems.
Like I feel when I’m writing them.
The content isn’t always pretty.
But the subject is always clear
And the passion, the emotion,
The heartfelt notes in the sound of my voice
I want to feel that,
Outside of this.
Outside of black and white.
Outside of the sounds of my pen scratching this paper.
I want to feel alive and free and endlessly drifting
On this plane of presence
Where I have purpose.
Where words are more than just words.

Edge of the World

I have drank the blood of a lamb. 

And whether or not that purified me is still up for debate. 

I have watched myself bleed 

From countless wounds

And maybe it wasn’t enough. 

Maybe it wasn’t enough to stop this sickness from taking over 

I have been bit by a venomous snake 

And watched the wound boil

And I still wasn’t worthy enough. 

All I have ever been is second best

As I stood at the foot of

Gods 

And goddesses 

From countless religions

And I still only worship

The way you look at me. 

I still bow at the alter of your body and pray

Pray that I am worthy enough because I know

I’m not a second choice. 

I’m a second chance. 

I am everything you ever wanted and I saw you

Tonight I saw

You. 

And you told me you think the world of me 

But even I know the world isn’t enough 

 I am not going to hide in the shadows. 

I’d much rather walk from the theatre with you

Than be center stage alone. 

Tonight I was in the presence

Of a Norse god

Screaming and shaking

Bearing his load 

In front of an audience 

That had no idea

No idea of the sacrifice 

I’d laid at your feet a few nights before. 

I am not a second choice

I’m a devout without an agenda

And I’m hurting

I know my god has a tough choice to make. 

Because even the pantheon 

Suffers. 

But I’ll eat this pomegranate

Not because I’m starving

But because I know 

You’d offer it to me

To keep me with you. 

You are my world. 

And maybe this is love

And maybe we aren’t ready for it 

But we won’t know

Until we take that leap

Off of the edge of the world. 

Whisper

I whisper in my sleep

Things only I know

Things not meant for mortal ears

There are those that call me oracle

Those Who converse with the sleeping 

Version of me,

learn things of unspeakable beauty

And

Unspeakable horror. 

When I sleep

 I dream of demons

That steal my voice

Render me paralyzed

And 

Sit atop my chest

And grin as they rasp 

And click

And seethe 

Over my helpless body. 

I dream of Elysium. 

Untouched by sorrow

Where the ocean breathes 

And there are flowers 

the colors of sunset skies. 

When I lie next to you

I can smell them. 

When I sleep

She wakes. 

She says things hidden deep in the recesses of my subconscious. 

If you’re lucky enough to hear her

Know she doesn’t mean you any harm. 

But remember to keep her secrets close. 

Because she trusts you enough to share her world. 

Vagabond

He said he was a drifter

Spanish moss and slide guitar

And I was learning to fly

On mended wings. 

We burned hours talking

The smoke scorching our lungs

Swirling our breath

In and out

Like fireflies 

Blinking

On and off

Sending quiet signals

That maybe you were nervous

And my anxiety isn’t anything to fool with

But he set me to ease

When he leaned back in his chair. 

Body language just opening up doors. 

I don’t think for a single second I really relaxed 

That deep relaxation you get around someone

Where your heart settles in your chest

Like fog settles around

North facing rocks

No my heart was humming

Because I’m just a person out here

Lying flat on my back

As I wind down this lazy river. 

Barely breathing to stay afloat

And it sucks to be a poet sometimes

Because I wanna write about every little heartbreak. 

Every little “I miss you”

Every little encounter 

Every time I just can’t quit a person

The irony is the person is me. 

I wanna write about how going slow is sometimes just as dangerous as moving fast 

And how time, no matter how fast or slow I’m moving, stands still

When I think for a second about what could be. 

Or what could have been. 

Or what’s next. 

I don’t mind shooting from the hip 

But the truth is I’m better at bleaching bones

Then going in for the kill. 

So when he kissed me

I felt it. 

Deep down in the recesses of my poet’s heart. 

And it was sweetly terrifying. 

Magic

I have always sought out magic in places.
A garden in my neighborhood,
Decorated with crystal balls
Wind chimes
And gnomes.
A small cave
Made of boulders
And moss
And grass
In a midwestern park.
An abandoned tabernacle
In a camp ground.
Fairy circles
In apartment complexes
And
Islands in lakes.
I have always sought out magic in words.
Putting together the perfect sentence, paragraph, story, poem,
Full of adjectives and Similes and metaphors.
The placement of punctuation,
And the voice the reader hears in their head.
To present a vision that manifests in their minds
And stays with them.
I have always sought out magic in people.
The way their heads tilt
When in full blown conversation,
The fire in their eyes
The stolen glances across coffee shops.
The cigarette that hangs from a mouth but never gets smoke in the eyes.
The gestures,
Weaving in and out between spoken words
To paint pictures out of thin air.
I know magic in places. In people. In words.
I'll tell you a secret, though.
The most magical place
In the world is in your heart.
The most magical words are simply, I love you,
And the most magical person,
Is you.

Oceans.

I'm sorry I loved you
The way I did.
See,
You seek to blame yourself for not loving me
The way I loved you.
Truth is,
It never phased me.
I knew you didn't have the capability
The culpability,
To love
How I do.
I told you
As much
On that long drive
To a city built
Into a cliff side
But you
Couldn't understand
Because you were drowning
In your
Own ocean.
That same ocean
Is how I love you.
And I refuse to let you
Be pulled out into a riptide
Or let
Any hurricane blow though
What I feel.
What I felt.
Because you
Were the moon
That influenced
My waves
To crash into shore.
Until you were eclipsed
By the sun
That was the center
Of your disaster.
But the ocean
Never forgets
Her moon.
Her stars.
Her beaches.
Her reefs.
Just as I will never forget you.

Brunch

I slid out of bed in the early morning,
From under twisted sheets
And twisted actions.
And I made him breakfast.
I never liked pancakes but I made them for him.
Sometimes, you give up a little when you love someone
Pancakes were minor tribute
To how I had been feeling.

He always came in the night
In shadow
With rain.
Like something out of
A dreamscape,
Or maybe a nightmare.
I held him
Close
Told him
I loved him
Without ever saying the words,
But with screaming sighs and
Crying climaxes.
And with breakfast
In the early mornings.

I knew there were other women.
I knew there were other angels
Other princesses
Other little darlings.
But I knew I'd be there
When they couldn't.
When they wouldn't.
When they ceased to be useful.

For as much as he loved me,
He still couldn't love me the way
I loved him.
Often I would stand on the sidelines.
Waiting for night.
Waiting for breakfast.
Waiting for him to find the little pieces of himself that he kept buried
After he burned the treasure map.

I remember when the nights came without him.
I wept
Knowing I didn't save him.
Knowing I failed
Knowing I could never trust him
Maybe even love him
The same again.

I knew these things.
But I always remembered
Breakfast.

Babylon

I am a body of water.
I am wet
And wild and free.
You
Are a desert wanderer
You are dry and parched and cracked
Aching
To drink your fill.
I can feel your heartbeat
Next to my shoreline.
You are the conqueror
You will burn cities
And collect your gold
And I am a whore of Babylon
Hell bound
A seducer of kings.
I will be your greatest regret.
You can only hold so much water
Between cupped palms before it escapes.
You can only carry so much gold before it catches the eye of a thief.
You can only burn so many cities
Before the destruction
Haunts you in your sleep.
You can run,
But lust, like water will always find you.
Will always be in you.
I may be a sinner
But if seduction is my death bringer
Can you imagine the stories the devil and I will share?
Lust always burns
So if my soul be damned
At least I am used to the flames
You...
Conquerer.
Desert Wanderer,
Warrior.
You may not understand the burn
You
Understand thirst.
Cup your hands,
Traveler.
And drink.

Moirai

My cards always pull the tower.
A card that symbolizes change. Liberation. Danger.
I don't consult the cards often anymore
Because the only constant in my life
Is change.
I am of the water
Astrologically.
An arachnid
That sheds its exoskeleton five to six times
Before it reaches adulthood.
A clawed
And aculeus armed
Insect
That will violently sting itself to death
Rather than drown.
I was born in the year named Ox.
Under the element of Wood.
Restless and straightforward,
Steadfast yet unpredictable.
These horoscopes I put down years ago,
A personality mechanism
Designed to fit me neatly into a box
Which I have no intention of staying in.
Some days I wake up
And I am a stranger in my own body.
My consciousness seemingly ripped away from the fabric
Of time.
No king's horses
Or king's men
To put me back together again.
So I have become a seamstress.
Constantly making alterations,
Steadfastly adapting to
The changes I don't have control over.
And ripping out the seams
When those particular stitches
Are no longer needed.
I am Clotho.
A daughter of Necessity.
Spinning the thread of my life.
A symbol of both life and death
A fate.
A goddess.

Woman

The last time I was here
In the vast red mountains,
I buried a song for you.
Let the red dirt
Sift through my cold knuckled
Fingers.
Dyed my hands
The color of life,
Though I was
In mourning.
Visiting this place,
Being here
Among the juniper
And the
Angel's trumpet
Breathing in the
Sage scented air
I am home.
I watched the clouds
Roll off the mountains
Like a funeral procession,
A death and dream fog.
I am a woman of secrets.
I am a woman
Who's scarlet knowledge
Will go to the grave with her.
This lake is placid
And though the reflections in it often mirror things of such beauty
Things of awe,
They are meant to keep you content
While something far more sinister,
Far more brilliant,
Far more seductive,
Lurks under the surface.
Like the symphony
I buried for you
In the red dirt
That stained my hands,
And named me woman.

Stars

I am the wild.
I told you,
And I don't think you believed it
Until sunset caused us
To hike past a beach
And into the night.
You always told me you were
All or nothing
And I responded
With heartbeats.
You
Told me you were a shadow
Of your past self
And I promised you
In sighs
And broken screams
That I loved you anyway.
And if one
Can love the darkness,
One can surely
Love the light.
You told me
I was a star
As we laid
In the grass and the dirt
Underneath the trees
Upon the red earth
Under an endless sky.
But i felt less like a star
And more like a supernova
When I touched you.
And I still feel you even though
Your breathing is
Miles away
We are
Interconnected
Through
Unspeakable truths
And
Spiritual loopholes.
I know
Now is difficult.
Now is an awful space
Now is abyss that may not have a safe place for us to cross.
But believe me,
The Balrog that is your demon
Shall not pass
Further than you let it.
I told you once that I had to allow you to drag me down with you.
I have that choice.
But you forget,
Darling,
I am a creature of the dark
And I have seen its depth.
And so if you find yourself wondering
If the dark
Has taken you further than you thought possible.
Further than you can handle.
I will be your light.
I have always been the grey
But I will be the white for you.
I will fall from the night sky
And explode
Like a firework
Over your soul.
Believe me,
I have enough gunpowder
And light
And fire
To light your way.
We are like that beach
Skipping stones on the surface
Reflecting the light we see
From above.
And I am your North Star.
I am your guiding light.
I will show you the way home.
You just have to let me
Run wild, like the creek
That runs through your heart.
Unconditional.
Always flowing.
So pull the rock
That is holding the dam together.
Let me show you
What a star can do.

Untitled

I've waited two years.
I'm not really sure what I was waiting for.
A sign,
Maybe god calling me on my cell phone in the middle of the night
To tell me
I was going to die a spinster
Or maybe about this really cool guy the devil wanted me to hook up with.
But for two years,
I wandered aimlessly through the desert,
Waiting for some version
Of a heavenly text message,
Or some magical conversation
To pull me out of
The numbness I wrapped myself in
To keep warm
And protect me from the elements.
I don't know what I was thinking
When I went to the bar that night.
I just wanted to remind myself
That humans are funny creatures,
And though I didn't feel like one,
I was related to them.
I sat with a man
Who calls me Oracle
Maybe because I'm psychic
Maybe because I know how to read people
Maybe because secretly he hopes I'm able to promise him a better tomorrow in some way,
And we didn't speak.
We watched people.
And suddenly you were there.
I looked at you,
Wondering,
What kind of man you were.
A feeling of peace came over me
Almost as if the ocean had swallowed me whole.
I knew this feeling.
You were touched by unconditional love
Or were pushing it out into the universe
Like a riptide.
And I spoke to you.
I don't remember what it was I first said,
But I remember
Thinking how lovely it must be
To be loved the way you were.
I remember getting drunk and laughing like a fool with you,
And how awesome that was
Because
I hadn't laughed like that with a stranger for years.
And that's how we started.
Two drunk fools in a bar
Laughing.
Later I got the chance to tell you some of my story,
And we've progressed in making a story of our own.
But.
There's always a but.
Even though I have a hard time leaving you in the morning,
Or at night,
And we talk and laugh and adventure,
The skeptic in me lives on,
And I'm more scared now
Than I ever have been of losing a person.
We haven't said the words yet,
But you cause me to feel,
Feel things that were once a distant memory
Like a ghost that haunts the hallways of my soul
And my heart is pounding as I type this out on my cellphone
Because I'm afraid
Afraid of allowing the feelings
In again.
But the reality is
They never left.
They never left.
I've been so afraid of falling that now,
When I know I am
It's the hardest thing to admit.
So instead
I wrote you a poem
To tell you,
I'm here.
And I'm afraid.
But I'm here and it the most glorious feeling
Like a phone call
From God
Telling me
It's gonna be ok.
I'm ok.
It's ok
To feel
Again.

Daddy Issues

He asks me if I'm unhappy.
In the moment all I can do is offer a sideways smile, and look him dead in the eye as I lie to him.
No. I'm not unhappy, Dad.
Lies I have had to tell my father. In order:
Yes. I'm glad you're going to meet your grandchildren.
Yes. I am glad you are in town
Yes. You are welcome into my home.
No. I'm ok.
No. I'm just stressed out.
Yes. Let's have dinner there.
No. I'm not in a hurry
Yes I'm fine
Yes everything's ok
I love you, dad.
I love you dad
I love you dad.
I am the girl who has daddy issues.
I never was the girl who never met my father
Never was the girl who's father died at a young age,
But the caveat to those two statements is
I wish I didn't know who he was, so I didn't have to go through the grieving process every time he decided to not be here.
I used to love him.
I used to live my life
Based on his approval
What little girl doesn't want to hear
Her daddy say he's proud of her?
I can count on one hand the times my father said those words to me.
I can also count how many times he told me that:
I reminded him of my mother.
I drink too much.
I was damaged goods because I was too independent
I didn't know how to be his kid
I wasn't a good person because of my sexuality
I wasn't a good person because
I invite drama into my life
I was a terrible daughter because I thought for myself
And why wasn't I a better wife to my ex husband.
And why wasn't I a better woman because a better woman would have stayed married to someone she couldn't trust and birthed babies
And why wasn't I a better woman because a better woman would know how to cook
And why couldn't  you just make the right decisions
The whole six years I refused to speak to you because you were no longer a human being in my eyes, Jessica?
My father
Is never the catalyst.
My father wrote his own story to read:
"I did a great job raising my two kids, but they didn't understand me and blamed me for everything. "
He wrote my story and titled it "Jessica Renee: The child I raised to blame"
And he wrote my brothers story:
"Matthew James, or how my greatest legacy is a fuck up."
It had been eight years since I had seen him,
And when I saw him standing in that hotel lobby I stood taller than I have ever stood.
Because now.
Now I recognize
He doesn't get to write my story.

Happy Thoughts.

As I stood there, on the balcony, with my arms outstretched,
staring at the second star to the right I wondered, can I fly?
As a child I used to climb as high as I could on top of my father's bookshelves, just to jump off,
He'd always be angry with me.
You see,
I believed I could fly.
It has been seventeen years since Peter entered my life and whisked me away to Neverland.
I taught Peter and the lost boys how to take care of themselves,
you see, I was their mother.
But that wasn't what I really wanted.
What I wanted was to be
Young and wild and free forever.
I wanted to tease pirates and
Play with mermaids
And learn to dance
With Tiger Lilly.
I wanted to be in between the place of sleep and dreams,
With a boy who loved me forever
But not as his mother.
I loved Peter.
I loved him in the only way a thirteen year old girl knows how to love a fourteen year old boy,
Unconditionally.
See I taught Peter to sew his shadow back to his feet
But he never taught me how to
Lose mine
Nevertheless,
I fell in love
With the boy who never wanted to grow up
But the boy who never wanted to grow up never
Fell in love with the girl who never wanted to grow up
He fell in love with me.
His Mother.
He never understood that I never wanted this.
I never wanted to grow up
I never wanted these feelings
I never wanted
To be a mother in
Never Never Land
I wanted
To love him.
The simple boy who's idea
Of a kiss was a thimble
And who
Understood
The word forever.
I realized
He would never need me the way I needed him.
We would never grow up and marry,
Have children,
So I left.
I came home.
I grew up.
But I was never satisfied with my new life.
I married,
And had daughters.
Peter came for them because instead of
Growing into the man I knew he could become
He stayed young.
Always seeking a mother like me,
A mother like his mother.
I never stopped loving Peter,
I never
Stopped thinking happy thoughts
But I'll be honest as I'm standing here,
On top of this balcony railing
I'm starting to really question
If I can still fly.
My arms are outstretched toward the second star to the right
And I'm staring
Straight on til morning
But I'm growing tired.
The poison I drank for you, Peter,
The poison that made me fall asleep,
I felt no pain.
All I feel now
Is pain.
The pain
Of losing my
Childhood
The pain of losing you.
Peter, if you're listening,
Are you listening?
Do we ever really grow up?
Are you crying?
Boy, why are you crying?

Salt Water.

The last time I saw you,
I told you I remembered how you fell asleep.
You'd have to have the room cold,
And you'd rub your feet against each other
Right over left, left over right,
Over and over until your breath came deep and drawn,
Like ocean tides.
We sat at the lake's edge, and you thanked me for bringing you back
To your childhood neighborhood.
You sent me a letter recently,
Asking for a friend
To hold you up and stand beside you
During a difficult time.
I didn't know what to say to you
Except I'd be there.
And that when you and I had ended our relationship eight years ago,
I said I would always be your friend,
And I intended, come hell or high water,
To stay true to that vow.
You contacted me again,
Last night.
Said you were in town for a little bit,
Asked to see me.
I said yes.
I stood up and hugged you for what felt like forever.
Old friends.
Like ocean and sand.
Always touching
But never in quite the same way.
We talked for hours.
Shared some drinks,
Told stories of our pasts,
Eight years is a long time.
I'm not sure if the closeness or the distance of sitting at that table with you
Was the cause or the effect,
But I remembered your arm draped casually over my shoulder eight years ago,
Sitting in a bar,
Singing Sweet Caroline
And Margaritaville,
And how my heart beat just a little faster,
And my head felt a little fuzzier,
Because you were there.
We used to joke about how if we ever had children
What a funny story we got to tell them about the night we met.
I bought you at a single's mixer bachelor auction,
You bought me drinks.
Eight years is a long time,
But I felt it rush back into me
Like the tide turning.
Before you left,
You kissed me.
Said I was beautiful.
I'm not sure how I outwardly reacted,
Inwardly, though,
Inwardly I heard the ocean roar.
This ocean is dangerous.
It's full of rocks, and things that sting, things that bite, things that are unknown and secret.
This ocean has sank ships, melted icebergs and drowned men.
This ocean also is peaceful, and beautiful,
It preserves artifacts from the past,  houses things of such vivid color,
And gives as much life as it takes away.
This ocean is who I am.
And I'm left wondering if you'll let my tides chase at your feet,
Or take a chance and brave the waters again.

His Name Was Drew.

His name was Drew.
I never got the chance to meet him,
but I know he was a kind soul.
I looked through his instagram and saw so many photos of him
and his boyfriend, Juan.
They were so happy,
you could see it in their smiling faces,
their silly pictures.
Their love shone through a screen and hit me straight in the gut.
His name was Drew.
His mother loved him,
you could hear it in the way she talked about him,
He visited Seaworld that day, and his Mom
told him she loved him.
His name was Drew.
I never got the chance to meet him.
I was told from an early age,
that there would be people who wouldn't like me because I was a girl.
Because my parents were divorced.
Because I am Native American.
Later I was told people would hate me because I was a single mother, living on foodstamps and government assistance,
I would be hated because I like both boys and girls.
I would be hated because my children had two different dads.
I decided I wouldn't let that hate bring me down.
I wouldn't let someone else's opinion of me hurt me, or drag me to their level.
Being who I am is a radical act.
Drew, being who he was, was a radical act.
Drew was at Pulse along with his boyfriend, and over 300 other people,
drinking their last drinks
in the wee hours of a sunday morning.
I won't pretend to know what it was like to be there when
the first shots were fired,
I won't pretend to know what went through Drew's mind
in that situation,
I won't pretend to understand what went through his mother's thoughts
as she searched for her son, in the aftermath.
And I certainly won't pretend that this horrific tragedy didn't change me.
The places I once sought freedom of expression in,
aren't safe anymore.
This incident was horrific. It was chaotic, it was a travesty,
But I have seen so many people,
So many people like me, bond over it,
show love and courage in the face of hatred.
There is help for those who need it,
People are giving each other strength to be who they are
and giving support to those who lost loved ones.
Being who you are is a radical act.
Hold on to that.
I will never remember the name of hatred.
But I will always remember his name.
You should remember his name, and the others who passed with him,
Remember their names.
His name was Drew.
And I never got the chance to meet him.

Home

You were my shelter.
I was broken and I walked through your front door,
Sauntered in like I owned the place, Noting the cobwebs and the
Virgin Mary, holding her newborn baby  as she
hung next to the porch light.
Your floors were tile.
The walls were bare except for a single dirt outline of a shoe,
Where someone had mercilessly murdered a crane fly.
Your backyard was weed covered,
full of dirt and drywall.
Speckled by dandelions
that had yet to turn into
wishes.
In your tiny bedroom,
a window air conditioner,
Which betrayed the antique look
of the rest of the place.
I was broken.
When I signed the papers,
I collapsed on your floors.
This was the first time I had cried in weeks.
You stood silently over me,
Listening to the sound
of my gut wrenching sobs
as they echoed in your tiny spaces.
You made me feel safe.
I started to take care of things
Did the dishes,
folded laundry,
Hung pictures and made the bed.
The Virgin Mary and
baby Jesus watched,
because I could never bring myself
to remove them.
And you were ever watchful, ever silent. Standing vigilant.
You were there the day
I opened the front door
and left to go to the store,
And came back five minutes later because my water had broke
and the life that grew
within me had decided it was time.
Time was all I had with you,
after he was born.
You were there when
he laughed for the first time,
Ate his first solid foods
and when he learned how to walk.
You protected us.
You kept us close during storms and Watched us grow.
You stood by when
I went to school
And held me up when
more papers came for me to sign.
The day I left you,
You didn't cry,
But I expect you felt a sadness
because you knew
it was time for us to move on.
As I shut your front door
for the last time,
I whispered goodbye.
You were once again left empty,
Just as I had discovered you,
Two years before,
Ready and waiting for
someone new
To call you home
Once more.

Concrete

Somebody once told me that I fall in love with someone
Like it's the first time,
Every time.
These words echo around in my ribcage often.
Take root in my brain like a moral blood clot.
The last time I saw him, he said,
It was too bad I was jaded.
My heart was made of concrete.
And I tried explaining to him that no,
I've just hit my cornerstone.
The turning point.
Maybe I just let too many little pieces of my heart go
Every time I loved someone.
Maybe I just chalked one too many red flags up to
This will be fine,
But it wasn't ever fine.
It was anything but fine.
Maybe I let too many barriers down
And watched too many soldiers cross
And let enough war parties burn my castles down.
The foundations I've built have always been of paper.
And I should have learned how to pour concrete because
I never had a backbone.
Maybe I should be bitter.
Maybe I should stop writing about how much I want to love and instead
Write about how much I
Want to live without being haunted by past shadows.
I want to live.
But living and loving are synonymous in my world,
And I can't take one step out of bed
Without thinking about
What it would be like to wake up to someone every day for the rest of my life
Or going on a first date and
Falling for the way the light hits their jawline
And yes. I still fall in love every time like it's the first time.
But the difference between now and then is
I've learned how to pour concrete.