bohemian

Eyes are black holes, a vacuum in a space framed
Crystalline unmysterious, clean easy soul windows
Skin is without blemish, smooth and glowing
Flawed, spotted and scarred with past mistakes
The picture of style and trendiness, brightly stunning
Hangs limp. Frizzy, exhausted from trying to impress
Smile beckons people in, come hither smirk
Warm and comforting, but not often seen
Body is skinny, feminine in the right places, perfect
Slightly awkward, misshapen and unbalanced
Voice is strong and proud, confidence in your words
Wavers with the wind, quivering with insecurities
Words are witty and sharp, men hanging on every one
Slow, and thought-out, no spontaneity of speech
Barely a glance in my direction, no threat to you
Conflict of admiration and envy. I hate you, really
Triumphant, they fall over themselves in worship
Alas, I surrender, giving up the ever hopeless fight

thread

I return to you again.
Evermore unchanged.
My feelings still laced
With the addictive drug of indifference.
We share this small space.
Bodies intertwined.
Your hand rests heavy upon my hip,
The weight of your leg
Suffocating, over mine.
The nights stillness settles in.
I never ache for you,
I never long for you
I never desire you.
Still I return. A dog to his vomit.
Hearts threaded together,
most delicately.
Fused by years gone past,
shared growing pains,
and the terrifying possibilityof
Dying Alone.

skeletons

In the past few months, my obnoxiously inquisitive mind, has guided me on a journey to discover the truths about my past. It has driven me to ask the questions I have long stuffed into the deeper recesses of my temporal lobe. The questions, inconsistencies, misunderstandings, all which were completely out of my control, still maintain a powerful hold on my heart. Mistakes of others. Secretive scandal. Sins of the father. Sins of the mother. I claim to be doing this in a vain selfish effort to understand myself better. Curiosity. Incited by the ever-present reminder that the blood coursing through my veins, beating in my heart, fueling every breath, contains a genetic blueprint that ties me to this shadow of my past. My persistent questioning comes at a painful price. Reparation in jaded perspectives and sleepless nights. Maybe some skeletons are best left closeted.

insomnia

My persistent questioning comes with a painful price.
Reparation in jaded perspectives and sleepless nights.

ticking bomb

Sometimes I want to shake him
Rattle his little body,
In the vainest of effort,
For a simple reaction.
Inevitably negative
But an acknowledgment.
Maybe with his brain
Sloshing back and forth
Hemorrhaging and bruised
He might wake up from this.
Look around and see,
The beautiful things that remain.
Casting aside his darkened,
Cloudy lens of hatred.
Silently defiant, always indifferent.
His harsh angry scowl
Shadows his delicate features.
Scrawny arms folded,
Tiny fists clenched
As if the slightest irritant
Would trip the wire
For the vengeful ticking bomb
Inside.

Most times I just want to hug him
I want to apologize.
For every evil human
That has wounded him.
Broken his spirit.
For every bloody nose,
And blackened eye.
I could kill them.
He flinches in fear,
Eyes always downcast.
Like a beaten puppy.
When his big brown eyes well up,
With the tears of suppressed rage
It breaks my heart
Again and again.
I struggle to understand
How an eleven year old
Could possibly be so angry.
Hopelessly jaded, so young.
Seemingly without a future.
Destroying his own chances,
With every listless shove.
I long to tell him that he is loved
Without reason or precedent.
I believe in him.
I see the potential.
Inside.

recurring

I keep having the same nightmare. This dream has the same main players, myself and one other face. Together, we traverse the allusion, directing the course of events that will result in my abrupt awakening. Rousal from sleep, accompanied only by palpitating fear and cold sweat. The circumstances are sometimes different, the setting shifting, the supporting characters faces, skewed and inconsistent. But the dream remains. The theme stays the same. A premise that both chills me down to the core and steers me away from the comfortable path you present. I am not sure if God communicates through our dreams, in this modern age, however, the repetition of this reverie is difficult to ignore. So realistic and attainable, I cannot turn a blind eye. The very thing I daydreamed about in years past, now strikes such fear into my heart. The concept of Forever, with you, no longer brings the joyous bliss of teenage fantasy. Instead I can feel my very soul being suppressed. This newfound independence and strong-willed spirit annihilated and subdued by the new values you ascribe to. Why would you continue wanting me, when it is not reciprocated? When my true feelings arise even in the depths of my subconscious, the emotions that surface in the quiescent dawn.

arduous reverie

“Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again”
- Matthew Arnold

Makeup gone, my face scrubbed away
From the counterfeit performance of the day
My head rests on the cool-sided pillow.
Dreading and desiring both the soon inevitable
Thoughts rampant, my heart sensibilities unstable
Your feautures always haunting me in my dreams
The comfortable face that taunts me in waking hours
Eyes closed. I see incontestably what could be ours
You are ever consistently, my most Beautiful Nightmare.
Greet me, my love. Come, as you have appeared
Giving yourself to me. Gloriously a thousand times before.
Gazing into my soul, with that smile I adore
Only in the terrifying realm I cannot control,
The place where my subconscious takes over
Giving me the pleasure of an unreality
Wishful thinking of confidentiality
Upon waking, this alone will get me through
The hopeless longing of the day.

winter

Sly glances out
Corner of the eye
In the shadow, you are here
I snuggle closer. To him
To what is comfortable
And reciprocated
And sure, and warming.
This will do.

I loop my arm in his
Fending off the stares
Unwanted hollers
Eye undressing
I wish it was your arm
Not his, protecting
But for now,
This will do.

pigments

Irises lock.
Across this wide space.
Mine icy lavender and blue.
Yours warm brown and gold
And just for a fleeting moment,
We connect.
Unspoken words,
Rise above the din and clatter.
My hands grip tighter,
Comforted by the warmth
of the styrofoam coffee cup.
Embarrassment creeps up
Face flushed with pink chagrin.
I smile beneath my skin.
Nothing will come of this, I know.
Self-imposed reality
as my tongue is marred by shyness
and a reliable lack of confidence.
But only for a moment.
We connect.
Antipodean irises.
Yours warm brown and gold.
Mine icy lavender and blue.

canvas

Blank-slated soul
Void of all emotions
Or perhaps, too many
Deep chasm of indifference
Alabaster, achromatic.
Blasé, discontent.

Here, only, in the crust of creation
I see most clearly
The whole of the land
Laid out before my feet
Your first blank canvas
Constructed flawlessly
Erected beautifully

Above, tiny pinpricks of light
The descendents promised
Further evidence of One greater
Stronger than my fears
Longing for my heart and soul
Loathing only of my doubt and misery

My future is your canvas of late.
Smooth and stark white.
I will remain.
Until your unwaveringly steady hand
Strokes a glorious picture,
Brilliantly hued.
Perfectly clear.

nostalgic

scatological catalogue
of unrequited memories
best left buried

a conversation

I hate you--
Words cold and bitter
Icicles on my lips
Breathed aloud
As if to convince
Myself of their sincerity

I want you--
My body moves
Suggestive, implicit
Deep longing and desire
Masked in calloused curiosity
Coated in defensive anger

Individual daggers--
We slay each other with our words
Twisting of the blades
Serpent tongues,
Belying true yearnings
Easier to maim than to trust

Paint and plaster—
Absorbing the impact
Merciless words reverberating
You lean closer
Still fighting myself
Still deceiving myself

Twisting blades--
Your words cut deeper
An ongoing battle
You lean closer
Alcohol on your breath
Gray smoke curls from your lips

Skittish eyes--
Darting around the room
Afraid to focus, connect
You lean closer
My hands fidgeting, grasping
You reach for them, for me

Deepening kiss—
Angry tensions hightening
Our mouths communicate volumes
No space between
Motives clear, intentions explicit
Finally, a conversation...
that I can understand

cracked rear view

I have very few memories of my father. They are weathered and worn, distorted over time. Some only reappear in my dreams and I question their honesty. Yet here, in the sobering hours of daylight, I can clearly recall that his Jeep Wrangler smelled of piña colada air fresheners and there was always a 12-pack of beer in the refrigerator. I remember that his new wife never seemed to like me around. I can still hear her screaming at him, their verbal abuse barely hampered by the paper thin walls of the apartment. I remember being homesick, and crying myself to sleep at night, the pillowcase soaked with salty tears. I remember him being strong and tanned, this vision accompanied by his musky scent of stale cigarettes and sweat. I remember he used to make promises all the time that he would never keep, like visiting Grammy that weekend or driving to Disneyland to go on my favorite rides. I was always left disappointed, and finally I just stopped believing him altogether. I remember being left in day care, with all the stupid whiney babies and the cranky overworked sitters, huddled in the corner of the noisy playroom, alone, missing my mother so much I could barely breathe. I remember Rick would always mumble the words, 'cool beans' when we spoke on the phone. I hate that fucking saying. I remember being eight years old when the Hootie and the Blowfish album was released. That tape played on repeat for the entire summer, and when we got into his red Jeep, the one that smelled of piña coladas, I would beg my daddy to crank up the volume as high as it would go. I would sing those lyrics at the top of my lungs, the wind whipping through my stringy brown hair and cooling me from the suffocating Utah heat. That was the last summer that I spent with my father. There isn’t another memory more distinctly palpable than that one.

“She sits alone by a lamppost,
trying to find a thought that's escaped her mind.
She says Dad's the one I love the most…”