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.

Patience.

He broke me.
I took responsibility for the small things,
the financial failure,
the breakup,
the doormat attitude.
He took eleven months of my life.. turned it into eighteen years
and never apologized or
felt bad about asking me to move into a seperate house while I was pregnant and his fiancee.
So I don't expect apologies anymore.
Nor do I give them out freely.
I built myself a bulletproof skin.
I see right through the "I want a relationship" talk.
I know what you really want
And you shouldn't be afraid to ask for it because the worst thing I could say to you is No.
It's been two years of picking myself up and putting myself back together again.
Since all the king's horses and all the king's men were cashing in on their PTO,
I've learned a lot.
I've learned the ancient art of patience.
In the past I've been impatient.
The adrenaline fuled relationship junkie.
Building new bridges as fast as I could burn them down.
Taking a swig of Jameson while asking for the keys,
Running with scissors,
Feeding the wild animals and
Leaping before I looked.
I'm a good girl.
I've broken hearts before,
But I'd swear I'd never break yours.
I've been the other woman.
I've lied. I've cheated. I've stolen.
I've walked out on bar tabs and walked into burning buildings.
But I have learned now to be patient.
I'm tired of Mr. Wonderful.
I'm looking for Mr. I Get It.
I used to find security and happiness in relationships.
Giving my heart gladly to whoever would take it,
so long as they were pretty and could give me multiple orgasms.
But now I look at them like maybe they're just a burden
and maybe we didn't sign up for your lack of communication
or my debilitating depression,
maybe we didn't sign up for the early morning arguments
or each other's late night snoring.
Or maybe I'm the burden.
It's always been so easy to feel needed
Because everyone seems to need a rustle between their bedsheets
Or a good night kiss.
But that's not what I want anymore.
I want to feel wanted, and I think,
Because I don't really feel like I've ever felt wanted by anyone in a romantic setting,
Maybe I've just been going about love all wrong.
So, when I look into your eyes from across this table
With no explanation,
When we aren't talking,
When the diner's music is
Filling in the blank spaces
I'm not looking for love.
I'm not looking for appreciation.
I'm looking for understanding.
I'm looking for patience.

Morning.

You should press your lips on mine like you want to devour me.
Twist your hands viciously
in my hair and
tell me I'm pretty
In your tobacco kissed voice.
Press your hip bones into me
While my tongue
Leaves fire trails
Down your neck.
You know my darkness.
You don't seem to mind that I
walk the grey
That I can't say no to trouble.
I don't want to be undressed carefully,
I want to be torn into
Like an early morning Christmas present
But first,
take a moment to admire
The wrapping paper.
Trace your fingertips
Over the lace and straps,
Aware of
The gift I'm giving you.
My hands are grabbing yours,
I'll show you where I keep my secrets.
I need you to crash into me,
Fuck me with the intensity
Of a dying man
Seeking god.
I'm no longer asking,
I'm demanding.
Break me
Build me up
And break me again
My body may be a temple
But yours is that of a god,
And I'll
Look you in the eye
when I'm crying out
Your name.
When we're done,
And you're curled up next to me
And our eyes close in sleep,
Know
round two starts in the morning.

Freefall.

Shit.
I swore up and down that I really wouldn't do this again,
But here I am, up late at night,
Writing you poetry
That you'll make me read you later.
I think you might have found out how
Honest I get,
Even though I'm still trying to hide behind
Metaphors and anecdotal prose.
Well,
Go Fuck yourself.
You're pretty,
But go Fuck yourself.
I'm still trying to figure out how you did it.
You keep me on the phone for hours,
Talking to me about everything under the sun.
And I'm pretty sure the fact that I hang on many, if not all of your words, gives me away.
I'm trying to behave myself,
But somehow I know you can see right through me
And let's be honest here,
It scares the fuck out of both of us.
You, reformed bad boy,
Devil may care attitude
Me, sweet on the outside,
Hellfire on the inside
And we're pretending.
We're playing the waiting game because we made a promise.
I'm not saying we shouldn't,
Because we definitely should
What I'm saying is I wonder
If you wrote a song about me.
If you wake up in the middle of the night and think about
What it would be like to wake up next to me.
I wonder
If you think about holding my hand
Or if you think about what it would be like
To know you had all of me.
I sat and thought about the fact that you might go.
And you don't want to hurt anyone
And you really care about how I feel.
But I wondered,
If that happens,
Would I be upset because you had to go,
Or would I be upset that I never gave you these parts of me?
I'm still not quite sure how to answer that question.
Because I'm starting to get the feeling I don't get to have a say.
We can change the subject or I can stumble over my words but the truth is..
The truth is...
I'm starting to feel my feet slip
And I know the ledge is right behind me.

Pretty.

Tell me I'm pretty.
You are man of many words
And I love to listen to all of them
But there's a lot you don't say.
You ask me all the time
If I'm ok,
How I'm feeling,
How I am.
And you're actually interested in those things but
I sometimes wonder if you're trying to read between the lines.
So my suggestion here is to read between these lines,
These verses
these stanzas,
Read between them.
Read them like I read you.
You're everything I didn't ask for.
I was just giving up again on finding someone to
Understand me.
Someone who was who they said they were
Someone who I had that momentary flash of connection with.
I was so pissed and disappointed the night you bumped into me I actually forgave you for not calling me as I was giving you my number.
I didn't think you would and that
Really,
It didn't matter. I was never going to see you again.
Right?
Just like,
That time we were just going to hang out and watch shows on tv that first night, but instead ended up naked and free and alive in your bed.
Just like
I was never going to stay the night at your house
Just like I said you couldn't come over
And then like.. now.
Tell me I'm pretty.
Because when you tell me I'm pretty I hear you say something else entirely.
I hear you say all the things you can't say. I hear you say all the things you might not ever say and it's
A really good thing you don't tell me I'm pretty often because otherwise I'm pretty sure
Pretty would lose meaning
And I don't ever want to be anything less than pretty
To you.
And I shouldn't have to apologize for being pretty.
Because I know you think I'm pretty.
And I think you're pretty too.