untitled

Possessing a quiet, secret love
muffled by silence of sleep.
Eyes darkened, eclipsed golden suns.
Simple warmth in which to crawl
curled fetal, enveloped by twin orbits.
Still desiring his touch
held underwater in slippery hands.
And his easy words they melted her
so few and far between.
Into a drowning, milky puddle
of hopefullness and a scant few tears.
Perhaps the beginning was their curse.
Salvation lied (she hoped) in their soft love.
Yet, no Savior did he prove to be
That starlit sky was not her heav'n,
and shared breath is weakening.
So in the blossoming morning dawn,
swollen lips should breathe their last.
Until the next, the next, and next
Where the warmth becomes sole comfort
Crafty blanketed tortures, blinked back
Just to breathe together (together)
In and out, weakened by each lisping gasp
While the slowness creeps cold and still.

black

Unending apologies could never suffice
Nigh, they would ring untrue still
My love remains for You, of course
But like death with ribbons
Or pain with sprinkles.
Beautiful garments for luster lost.
At first I swayed carefully. Wary
Of stampeding Your invisible heart
With my vile idolaters heels
Yet slowly I turned my wayward step
Feet scorched on the embers of cautiousness.
I chose wrong instead, tripping into his arms
He—who haunts my sickly-sweated dreams.
Your saccharine words once enveloped me
The printed characters stained in Red.
So cocooned I was in bloodied Truth
Eloquent, but alas they don’t quite fit.
The tongue ferrets out my secrets instead.

child-painter

Fingers dipped,
smearing the brilliant colors
into brown swirls of shit-stained mess.
Paints only vibrant in separation.
Instead the child’s digits,
are dripping wet
and poised for the kill.
Her mission: to blur lines.
Rainbow rouge-stained fingertips,
soiling frilly pink clothes,
white carpeted floors,
coloring book pages.
Former art and beauty,
of suburban tidy
transformed into soiled disorder
at the reach of the small hand.

She is still the same-- that little girl
now a grown woman in form alone.
Hands smoother, manicured and adorned.
Her world is the artists glossy dream,
Relationships beautiful--
Vibrant and lively
in their original separation.

Composed and collected,
packaged and presented.
But compelled by her own
feverishly inexplicable streak of
masochism-- she destroys the good.
Twisted and sickening
she bewilders them all.
Her mission: to blur the lines.
Overlapping and muddling,
Mixing and rejecting.
Toying with helplessly
trusting hearts,
sweaty grasping hands,
red swollen lips.
Until nothing is left, but
brown-shit colored pages.

emotional reallocation

It is always fascinating to me when those palpable memories of years gone by take that inevitable shift into a new place in your mind. A place that is marked by a welcomed acceptance of present moments or a genuine indifference for the past hurts that once felt so insurmountable. After the passage of time you can look into the eyes of a person you once loved, one who broke you into a thousand, seemingly unrepairable fractions of your former self, and a completely foreign feeling is evoked. Or sometimes there are no feelings at all. In those days past, your reason-voice told you that mending takes time. This, you knew all along, repeated over in the terrible cliché we all spout, time heals all wounds... But an aching heart never listens to reason, instead it sorrowfully acquiesces to the intense throbbing of the soul. As if someone took to it with a hammer, beating the bloody fist into a shredded and bruised pulp of mess. That pain, oh nothing stops that pain in the moment. No assuring words, or compassionate touches, no bitter tears or punches thrown can assuage the agony. But as the days, months, and years roll past, something changes inside the brokenhearted. Now, recollecting that moment when your world was shattered and you thought you could not endure, you stand in complete awe at the subtle entirety of the emotional reallocation. Our sentiments are fickle, they move about space and time without coercion or prompting. I consider the moments when my heart has been broken. They have been few, but no less excruciating, and I am struck now by a complete shrug of apathety. Those experiences and people have shaped me, yes, but they are nothing more than distant memories. I am no longer revisited by the sting of old wounds upon recollection, for my injuries have all completely healed. This astounds me. This provision of our heart; the resilience of our soul to learn to let go of what once was, and look onward. It is beautiful, and nearly certain. And that hope, the desire for a more perfect love, is what drives us to risk it all... again and again.

winter storm

I have lost my muse. Or the muse I thought I had. For it was really nothing more than a self-imposed direction for my thoughts, a purpose and meaning of my own creation in a blinded effort to corral the inexplicable emotions of the day. I genuinely miss this fallacy I constructed. The non-existent siren of my words has been replaced with a void of silence and emptiness and nothing. Only blank, open space where nouns, verbs, and adjectives used to roam freely, tripping off my tongue without restraint or compulsion. Now even when forced to materialize, I cannot will the words into being. They have become dormant in my mind, hibernating perhaps, till the next winter storm of sentimentality.

always worth it

It is exhausting, this daily grind. It wears on my bones. They ache and burn at menial motions, so weary of picking up trash and stacking chairs. My eyes, red upon wakening in these earliest morning hours. I sacrifice much. My immune system, and my social life. Hours of sleep, and possibly my sanity. But the rewards are great. For I smile daily. At the many stories told, and at the antics of these small clowns. Laughter assuaging my headache for just a moment, and that moment is beautifully sweet. I swell with pride. When I discover a budding artist or a hidden talent, for there are many. For in my room might be the dawn of a brilliant poet or a wizened philosopher. I feel accomplishment. When I walk to my car, lesson plans and textbooks juggled in my arms. Fuel for the next day’s journey. I grow. I develop a necessary patience and calm temperament, and I am no longer rattled easily. I learn. I watch and appreciate each childish individual for their unique soul. I study. Becoming a scholar in the art of people. So yes... It is exhausting, hardly glamorous, and I sacrifice much. But I would not trade these rewards for anything.

you're magic

This is one of my favorite songs in the entire world. Top five at least. It is a pretty obscure choice, and I would be willing to bet that you've never heard it. It's precious and wonderful. I wish I could sing this song to each of my friends, to remind you how incredibly perfect and brilliant you are... but Jason is a much better singer than me. So please, enjoy. This song is for you.

provision

This has been a ridiculous week. No really. This time, last Friday I had just gotten out of an interview at Lakeview Middle School that I was absolutely convinced went terribly. I was nervous and genuinely unqualified for the job. I knew that dozens of people had applied for the position, which only heightened my fear. I do not thrive in competition. When it came time for my interview I was ushered into a room with five people surrounding this long intimidating wooden table. I was asked to sit at the head, and basically answer questions about my educational philosophy, disciplinary strategies, organizational skills, and student relations in rapid fire succession, as these five strangers furiously scribbled notes onto their papers. My voice was quivering, my hands were shaking, and I kept tugging at my fingers in an effort to stop myself from pulling out my hair. I finished the interview and I was quite certain I had sweated through the three layers of shirts I was wearing. I shook everyone’s hand, and was told a flippant “we’ll be in touch” as I left the room. I was shaking all the way to the car, and then after collapsing into the car seat, I called my mother.

“Hey Meg. Soooo, how did it go?”
“Well, ummmm, it was the single most terrifying experience of my life. I hate job interviews. I don’t think I blew them away or anything, so let’s just chalk it up to practice for future scenarios..."

About an hour later I was sitting on Kate’s porch hanging out with Jahred, doing basically nothing. I went to check my e-mail, and I noticed something strange. Two jobs that I had been signed up for at Legacy Middle School (the school where I did my senior internship and substitute teach most frequently) had been cancelled. This was extremely bizarre, because they were two different teachers on two completely different weeks. Well, to make a very long story short, after some phone calls I was able to say with certainty that I had been put on the “substitute exclusion list.” Basically, I was blacklisted from subbing there. And no, they don’t have to provide me a reason. Anyways, this really hurt me. This was the second time I had been screwed over by this school. (Remember that unfortunate case of nepotism?) I felt the tears swelling up, and instead of letting Kate (shhhh, don’t tell her that I have emotions) and Sonny see me cry, I left the house in a hurry and drove home to drink a lot of wine and crawl under my covers.

Saturday morning I woke up totally discouraged. Depressed, even. Nothing was working out. I couldn’t find a job anywhere, my one semi-steady income was just taken away from me without reason or precedent, and my mom and I got in a fight over the phone.

Skip to Monday morning. I wake up and log onto Kelly Services to look for substituting jobs outside of Legacy. Within 5 minutes I had found work for the rest of the week. That has never happened to me before. Ever. Then these words came to my head "In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps.” In that moment an overwhelming peace filled my heart, and I knew everything was going to be okay. I didn’t know how, but I just knew. Shoving logic and reason aside, I relinquished myself to the peace and let my soul breathe for a moment.

Skip to Wednesday morning. I arrive at the UCF campus at 8:30am for the College of Education job fair. There are about 38768726 million other education majors attending. I’m standing in this line that extends out of the door and around the corner, and fighting the urge to just turn on my heels and leave. I hate big crowds. Despise. Loathe. But I remain, because reason and responsibility always prevail in me.

I finally enter the gymnasium and after signing in, I pause by the Page Private School table and survey the room. I overhear the Page woman telling an eager group of elementary education majors, “no, I’m sorry... we have no positions available at this time.” (Just as an aside, I can’t help but judge all elementary education majors. I know this is terrible, but it spawns from four years of volatile frustration at being forced to attend classes where they tell us that giving “gold stickers to good students” is an effective method for classroom management. Ummm, if I give a 13-year-old boy that attends public school in Orlando a gold star for behaving well, they will probably cuss me out.) Anyways, I’m standing there, rolling my eyes and smirking to myself, and the woman says “we are actually looking for a middle school language arts teacher, is anyone interested in that?” Ummm, perfect. My passion. I raise my hand, and of course I am the only one in the group because honestly, who in their right mind WANTS to teach in middle school? So the woman glances quickly over my resume and tells me to stick around so she can talk to me. I stand nearby and listen to her talk to another girl who had apparently done her internship at Legacy Middle School as well, and the woman from Page says “Oh, do you know Tammi Jones?” The girl didn’t, so I interrupted the conversation (the look I received from this girl for interrupting her probably could have melted cement). Ignoring her obvious disdain (C'mon girl, it's a job fair. You need tougher skin) I told the woman that Tammi was my supervising teacher and I pulled my recommendation letter from Tammi out of my portfolio, and hand it to her. At this point the woman dismisses all the other girls, and basically begins interviewing me on the spot. Apparently Tammi worked at Page for about 15 years, and knows the entire faculty, and is even best friends with the Director of the school. Ummm, perfect.

I leave the job fair with a promise from the woman that I will be receiving a phone call in the very near future. Discouragement evaporated. I talk to Tammi on the phone on my way home, and she assures me that if I really want the job… it’s mine. She carries a lot of weight with the administration there, and with her recommendation I am basically a shoo-in.

Skip forward to today. Around 4 o’clock this afternoon I receive a call from Lakeview Middle School telling me that they are going to “recommend me for the position.” Really? Really??? The gifted position is technically only till the end of the school year, with the possibility of renewal next year. The Page Private School position will begin in the fall. Basically, within one week I went from tears on Kate’s porch about the futility of a job in education, to possibly having two positions to choose from.

Are we serious right now???
Ummm, thank you Jesus.

P.S. Kate and Alecia, please feel free to speak scripture verses over me as often as you like. That shit apparently works.

yes, yes, yes

"In his heart a man plans his course,
but the Lord determines his steps.
The lips of a king speak as an oracle,
and his mouth should not betray justice.
Honest scales and balances are from the Lord;
all the weights in the bag are of his making."
-Proverbs 16:9-11

goodbyes

This poem is for Jenna and Bryan. A tribute to the countless hours spent on the Bren Lee porch, the hundreds of cigarettes smoked, the millions of tears and hearty laughter that the crumbling walls have seen. And of course, wine. Lots and lots of wine.

Dripping shards of yellow light
Streaming through these open blinds
Sounds drone hum of city round
Accede to sleep, refuse to fight
Dreaming dreams. The panicked sort
Of friendships lost and love alone
Behind closed eyes I see this sign
Painful looks and time cut short
Pretty girls with perfumed hearts
The boys who love them too
Join here in this final dance
To celebrate arm in arm with you
Whistle and lyric and laughter bound.
In witching hour, midst swirling storms.
Toothy grins from cheek to cheek.
We dance, we dance! Across your face
Over you and under you,
We spin and tap and clap in time.
Treading and twirling on violent stilts,
Aloft our parting hearts.

library silence

"He wondered how it would be, to lie in the biggest, dustiest library silence of all, dreaming endless, thoughtless dreams behind gummed-down eyelids, dressed forever in your Sunday suit. No worries about money, success, fear, joy, pain, sorrow, sex, or love. Absolutely zero. No father, mother, girlfriend or lover. The dead are orphans. No company but the silence of a moth’s wing. An end to the agony of movement. The body in peace, stillness, and order. The perfect darkness of death."

how pleasant and fitting

Dear Jesus,

Prayer is hard for me. Despite knowing better, I still feel like I am talking to the wall, my bed sheets, or the back of my eyelids. It seems that whatever inanimate object I am facing at the time tends to become the recipient of my words, and then I can’t help but feel a little foolish. My thoughts always come out better in words on a screen or scrawled in a notebook anyways. They become more cohesive when tangibly tapped out on a keyboard. In writing, my thoughts flow most freely, often moving through my mind faster than my fingertips. Which is a good thing, right Jesus? I mean, I have a lot to tell you, and we desperately need to catch up because I've been seriously sucking at this lately. So this may not be poetry, and it probably won’t be eloquent or beautiful. But it is truth. And I mean every single word.

Jesus, thank you for placing certain people in my life, and giving me the wisdom to trim away those that do not edify my spirit or encourage my growth. I have beautiful friends and I praise you for your artistic touch in creating them each unique and wonderful. Thank you for the gift of discernment and I pray that you will help me to use this gift on myself a little more often.

Thank you for reminding me that even though I am called to love everyone as you have loved them, that does not mean that I need to invest my energy and resources into people you have not ordained me to be in community with. There is a season for everything. Thank you for the talents that you have blessed me with, and I beg for you to continue breathing life and passion into them. I do not want fall back into the apathetic laziness and complacency of the past. You deserve more than that.

Thank you for your Word, and how even on the roughest of days I can open its pages and my spirit is rejuvenated. Thank you for challenging me every day. It feels as though each moment is presented with a new struggle, in addition to my consistent usuals, but you take these moments to teach me your love. Thank you for making me increasingly aware of these lessons.

Thank you for the beauty of your creation and your people. Mostly Jesus, thank you for being patient with me. I always seem to remember your incomprehensible grace, unconditional love, and your unwavering faithfulness... but your simple patience is what really astounds me. Because I can be a brat sometimes, but you always wait patiently for me to come around.
And Jesus... I think I’m coming around.

I love you,
Megan

How good it is to sing praises to our God,
how pleasant and fitting to praise him!
Psalms 147:1

ndimakukonda

Sometimes I just need a little perspective.


"Your word, O Lord, is eternal;
it stands firm in the heavens.
Your faithfulness continues through all generations;
you established the earth, and it endures.
Your laws endure to this day,
for all things serve you."

Today was a good day. Really.

good friday

His silhouette rests atop the hill, framed by ashen clouds and a bloodstained sky. The wooden planks reside on the skull-shaped rock, Golgatha. Flanked on either side by common criminals, he gives himself for such as these. Between them he hangs, his arms raised from his side as crimson blood streams down his forehead, mixing and dancing with the sweat and bitter vinegar. A violent shout escapes cracked lips as his face winces in the agony of death, oppressed by the weight of the whole earth and its one thousands sins. Tears do not escape his eyes as the scorching heat of hell evaporates them in a gust. Demons shriek and the devil rejoices as both the worlds of supernatural collide upon his chest. Desperation in his voice, he screams "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?” The sky blackens, there are no stars to brighten this night. No holes to the heavens. Nothing remains but the coldest emptiness as the Creator averts his gaze, my human sin and filth too much for the Father bear. My Savior is left alone in death.

"When he had cried again with a loud voice, yielded up the ghost. And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent. And the graves were opened." -Matthew 27:50-52 KJV

feel good music

I woke up all wrong today.
My attempt to get right.



Ummm, so great.

love-tricks

Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall
Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop
In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage
In the morning they wore each other's face
-Ted Hughes "Lovesong"


Oh, to write like this...

happy place

I was told by a friend to start writing happier things. I tend to be more artistically inspired by the darkness, but that is certainly not an accurate representation of my personality. So even though this is mostly uninspired, I am working on implementing discipline into my art, and not just waiting around for inspiration. So here you go... this is my happy place.


This is my sanctuary. Surrounded by the photographs of my smiling family and friends. One hundred books line these shelves, most of the pages I have read. The color palette is reminiscent of the ocean, soft blue and green pastels. The wind drifts lazily through the open window catching the white curtains in its unpredictable wake. They flutter and float in the breeze, the sunlight streaming through them casting a glow on the whole room. Incense burns from the shelf, filling the space with the sweet smoky musk of lavender. Jewelry spills out of the box, and brightly-colored scarves and purses hang from their hooks on the wall. Dallas is curled on his corner of the bed. He stretches lazily in the patch of sun that he claims as his own. The iPod plays Sufjan quietly from the nightstand as I tap out these words. Memories in every corner, and upon a desk of organized clutter. A stack of novels and my bible are piled on the unused side of the bed, forever my nighttime companion. Lying on my stomach sprawled diagonally across my bed, I survey my small world. My safe zone and my haven. My undisturbed sanctuary.

I am queen.

broken

She smashes it. Again and again. Splinters and fragments hurtling through the air like tiny spears, miniature daggers. A warfare of sorts. She strikes again, her fist bloody, the remaining shards streaked in red. The color immortal. The liquid of life. She smashes it until she can no longer see, her face broken into pieces, melting and deformed. Finally a true reflection.

whispers

I tuck you even further away
Like the others deeper past.
Be still, admidst the swirling
Bright lights and smoky clouds.
I saw your face between the shards
Of light and smiles and dance.
Eyes blinked twice, confused and torn
And just like that you were gone
Which best, for hence I sleep tonight
And find my quiet peace again.
I exhale you on these whispering lips
Your name escapes and flees.
Released into the atmosphere
To assemble itself again.
I tuck you even further 'way
Exhale you on my breath.
I wash my hands, both polished clean
Rub my eyes. Your image gone,
I turn my head to someone new
And smile again, no longer you.

fractured star

महात्मा

Seven Social Sins

Politics without Principle.
Wealth Without Work.
Pleasure Without Conscience.
Knowledge without Character.
Commerce without Morality.
Science without Humanity.
Worship without Sacrifice.
-Mahatma Gandhi

Dwell on these. Please, soak them in with me. Consider how they affect our world, our relationships, our government. Love does not equal hand-outs. Faith does not allow for laziness. Grace does not relenquish personal responsibility. We do not own morality, nor is it assumed based on our beliefs. Worship cannot be mere words, action is required. Sometimes we must check ourselves, lest we get wrapped up in false ideals and popular trends.

one night stand

First of all, I readily admit that I don’t know everything about politics. I only wish I was as well-versed and could explain my thoughts with as much eloquent fortitute as my brilliant friends Nathan Alan and Shawn Romano. However, despite my obvious inadequacies I would still like to offer up my opinion on the state of our country, be it ever so humble. Please disagree if you like.

During elections I tend to get very involved, battling out my voting decision as if my very life and soul depended on it. Perhaps it is because I am one of the naïve people who cling to the belief that my vote actually can make a difference. Or perhaps it's just because I love to argue. I spent hours analyzing the pros and cons; weighing each topic based on its relevance and moral importance. I watched every presidential and vice presidential debate. I read articles, I argued with anyone that would listen, I researched, I debated on facebook notes (which got me in trouble). In the end I voted for Bob Barr. No, I don’t consider my vote a cop-out or a waste. I simply could not bring myself to vote for McCain (or the frightening possibility of Palin) and there was something about Barack Obama that I just did not trust, although I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I still can't. So because I generally feel like Republican and Democratic parties are just two versions of the same clumsy government establishment, I decided to use my vote as a meager protest against a faulty bi-partisan system by going Third Party, hoping that others would follow suit. Perhaps future elections will take notice.

I did consider voting for Obama though. Most of my friends did, some whom I respect greatly. I kicked the idea around my head for a couple of weeks, despite a multitude of threats from my father should I choose to vote Democrat. Obama oozes charm and charisma from every pore on his body. His voice is steady and controlled, strong and reassuring. He makes me want to believe his words, to hope for this undefinable 'change.' The eloquence and uplift of his speeches, combined with his personal grace and dignity still gives me goosebumps. I bought into the hype. But my cynical nature kept me from jumping into his camp. He seemed too good to be true; he is only human, but his words conveyed otherwise. I think my cynical side was correct. Thus far his saccharine promises have left me feeling empty and a bit scared. The novelty has worn off and there is so much work to be done. I know that miracles do not happen overnight and Obama has only been in office for two months. But everything that I have seen thus far has left nothing but a sick, hollow feeling in my stomach.

I’m starting to feel like I’ve been taken advantage of. Like President Obama bought us all strong drinks at the bar, whispered sweet nothings into our ear, and finally took the American people back to his place. But now the sun is up, the alcohol has worn off, and I am left only with bitter disillusionment and a hangover.

So Mr. President, you smooth-talked and dazzled the American people into your bed... now what do you plan to do?

bitchier bedside

Oh god, I am in such a terrible mood. I am not sure where this sudden repulsion for life materialized from. I got plenty of sleep last night. I had a very full and exciting weekend. I even ate breakfast this morning, Fruity Pebbles to be specific, which is such a joyous and colorful cereal that a bowl of it really should make me feel better about being a human. Nonetheless, every time the telephone rings I am inclined to chuck it across the room, preferably shattering it into a million tiny plastic unrepairable pieces. Yes, that would be satisfactory. Every pop-up on this broken-down computer releases a torrent of dangerously murderous thoughts. My clothing is uncomfortable. My skin is uncomfortable. The voices and laughter of the ladies in the office sound something akin to nails on a chalkboard. All music I attempt to play is annoying and gives me a headache. My coffee tastes burnt. My hair is making my neck itch. My contacts are attempting to suffocate my eyes. As a female I am prone to blame my irrational emotions on my menstrual cycle but if I were completely honest with myself, I am probably just crazy.

Now this particular girl
During a ceremonious April walk
With her latest suitor
Found herself, of a sudden, intolerably struck
By the birds' irregular babel
And the leaves' litter.

By this tumult afflicted, she
Observed her lover's gestures unbalance the air,
His gait stray uneven
Through a rank wilderness of fern and flower.
She judged petals in disarray,
The whole season, sloven.

How she longed for winter then!--
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock, each sentiment within border,
And heart's frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.

-Sylvia Plath "Spinster"

miami ultra

friday 5am wake up, Steve Holt!, 90 mph photo booth, richard simmons, penthouse clear, i'm in miami bitch, "are there drugs in this?", free all-access backstage passes, two long epic days, eight different stages, oh hey fergie, phoneless all weekend, 100,000+ people, black eyed peas, the ting tings, shiny toy guns, two full memory cards, too many energy drinks, free VIP bar, DJ tiesto, miami transport, two dollar fun, promptness fail, stolen parking, mango daquiris, wedding crashing, timbaland, deadmau5, LMFAO, Miss Jane, unfortunate drunk dialing, crashing on floors, Robert is Here foodstand, theological bickering, precious lovely friends, jamie, sean & brian, sunday 8pm finally home = Awesome














You looking kinda cute.
Ultra Music Festival 2009

honestly...

marriage scares the shit out of me.

beast of this field

Fully armed with weapons--
the destructive tools of craft.
A perversely cunning tongue,
cupped by sultry lying lips.

That Jezebelite temptress.
She is not intimidated.
By you, no longer enslaved.
For she is prepared to Own.

Enigmatically silent words,
will resonate inside of you.
Her red blood runneth cold
or boil tempest-- perhaps both.

The poison of ruthless vipers
is ever bitter to the lips,
but so supple in your hands.
Swept up in the torrent.

Between your thumb and palm,
you had her once-- or could have.
But alas you will no more!
Rosy Siren, hence untouchable.

Her convincing shield of coldness,
Flirtatiousness aloof
Slowly vanity destroyeth.
Entangled by it, you will Fall.

take it easy

The year is 1994 and I am eight years old. My daddy and I are on the way to Uncle Rob's so I can play with Katie and Cameron. It is a stifling 90 degrees; typical summertime in Salt Lake. He unzips the faded tan top of the red Jeep Wrangler, and stuffs it in the backseat. With his tanned muscular arms, he lifts me up into the front seat, reaching across my lap to buckle me in. He smells like wood chips, pine needles and sweat. “Daddy, can we listen to that one song, pleaseeeee?” I ask. He knows the one, and pushes it into the deck, turning the volume knob all the way up at the same time the engine rumbles to life. 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... He backs out of the steep driveway, and I rest my arm on the window, letting my fingers dangle and the wind wrap and tickle across my palm. Darting out onto Highway 15, huge gusts of wind blow in through the absent roof, swooshing my brown hair upward, the individual strands each doing their own unique dance, cooling me from the suffocating Utah heat.

The year is 1999 and I am thirteen years old. A group of us pile into the white GMC van, settling in for our journey home from summer camp. The bus is hot, so we crack open the windows as we merge onto the highway. I lean into Adam’s chest, letting him wrap his skinny dark arms around my stomach. He lets out a contented sigh, the sound of a boy who is exactly where he wants to be. I sigh in exasperation, close my eyes and pretend to drift asleep. His arm is heavy across my chest, causing the sweat to drip down my stomach and soak into the top of my khaki shorts. I want to shrug it off but I don’t. I too am tired. Besides, I need to keep up this stupid charade. I strain to hear Josh talking in the seat behind me, whispering quietly to Tiffany. I hate her. FIF is blasting from the van’s weak speakers, and the wind keeps mussing up my hair. Dear Father, I need you, Your strength my heart to mend. I want to fly higher, Every new day again... Despite my efforts, I cannot hear Josh’s words over the music. I give up and settle into Adams chest. This will become a trend in my life. It is not what I really want, but it will do. For now.

The year is 2003 and I am seventeen years old. After backing the car into the sandy beach Josh stops his dad's Cherokee and pops the hatchback. He clambers in, moving his guitar over to the side and arranging pillows and blankets across the floor. He pulls a white rose from his guitar case and hands it to me shyly. With shaking hands I take it nervously, smiling genuinely. He helps me into the back and we turn to face the indescribable beauty of the sunset. Josh strums a quiet background to my thoughts, my favorite song. I fear this love reaction, just like you said I would. A rose could never lie, about the love it brings... He picks through the love song, and then rests the guitar against the seat, reaching for my hand and lacing his fingers through mine. Brilliant hues of pink and orange paint across the sky, and the sound of the lapping waves is soothing. Leaning into the pillows, Josh's arm draped around my shoulders, I close my eyes and breathe in the perfect innocence of the moment. I cannot think of anywhere else I would rather be in the entire world, than here with him. Right now.

The year is 2005 and I am nineteen years old. I push Carlos out of my way, and run through the front door slamming it behind me. I sprint down the stairs, taking them two at a time as the tears streaming down my face blur my vision of the Lake Claire parking lot. I unlock my car and jump in, flipping through my CD case to find the one thing that will feed my fury. In Love and Death screams through the speakers and I crank it up, rolling down the windows. If we cut out the bad well then we'd have nothing left, like I cut up your angels, yeah you stabbed me to death...I want him to hear, to feel the sincerity of my wrath. Sure enough as I peal out of the parking lot, leaving behind long black skid marks on the asphalt, I glance up to the third floor and I see his face fill the window, shadowed by the darkness. We'd had another fight and perhaps this one was the last. Furious words were shouted, each one dripping with more disdain and hopelessness, verbal grenades reverberating off the whitewashed dormitory walls. Our relationship had always been volatile, marked that way from the beginning. I scream along with the band as I merged into traffic on I-4. I don’t have anywhere to go, but I need to drive. Fast. Protected by the iron and steel body of the Oldsmobile my music screeches out of the speakers. Deafening. The outside world whips by the window and I ignore it all, forgetting everything. For now.

The year is 2007 and I am twenty-one years old. “You’re driving” I say as I toss Andrew the keys. He opens the door for me, and I curl into a ball in the passenger seat, wrapping my arms around my legs trying to warm my body. I brush the sand off my feet. He walks around to the driver’s side and turns the heat on extra high, angling all the air vents towards me. We had just spent the cold December night at the beach, wrapped in blankets, singing and dancing in the moonlight. A wonderfully spontaneous evening under the stars. I lean across the seat and kiss him hard, running my fingers through his blonde hair. He is so beautiful. He smiles that perfect grin. With his blue eyes twinkling he picks up my iPod and after scanning through the artists he finally comes to rest on Marvin Gaye. He holds my hand and sings to me in his soulful pitch-perfect voice. We’re all sensitive people with so much to give. Understand me sugar, since we got to be, let’s live... I laugh, kissing him on the neck, momentarily distracting his attention from the road. I lean back in the seat and rest my feet on the dash. It won’t last. Saccharine smooth-talking never does, the shallowness shows eventually. But he’s gorgeous and charming and he makes me feel pretty. It won’t last. But for now, it will do.

The year is 2009 and I am twenty-two years old. I wake up slowly, pack my things, grab my car keys and hit the road. I drive too fast, but I am skillful and confident; whipping around the slow-moving trucks and hopelessly lost tourists. It is a balmy 85 degrees and all four of my windows are rolled down. I pull out onto 1-4 and the wind catches my hair, twisting it into a messy red knot that I will assuredly regret later. But right now I don’t care. The Eagles are blasting through the speakers, forever my comfort music, as I leave Orlando behind in a bitter trail of dust. Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy. Lighten up while you still can, don't even try to understand. Just find a place to make your stand, and take it easy... I am stressed, and tired, and lonely. But tomorrow will worry about itself. Right now I want nothing more than this exquisite tango of rubber and pavement. For the next two hours I will relinquish my fears and insecurities. I will forget their faces and I will find my community in these lyrics. I will wink at my fellow patients of the road, relax in the therapy of the drive, and sing unabashedly at the top of my lungs.

home sweet home

I feel like I am running away.
From what, I am not sure.

Palm Harbor till Saturday.

because I love you...

...and few things bring me greater joy than this video.

the lovely broken

*The world is broken, and it broke me. These words have resonated in my mind for the past few weeks. The world is broken. It broke me. I AM broken. My heart has been broken a few too many times, my faith is constantly being tested, my resolve is steadily weakened. I am jaded, bitter, cyncial and skeptical. I have been trampled on and walked over. I exist in these mundane day-to-day moments because I have to, because there is no visible escape and I genuinely have no choice. The sun still rises bringing the dawn, whether or not I want it to. The minutes tick by, some more slowly than others, and I cannot speed or still this time. I am not depressed, I am unmotivated. I have nothing driving me to waken, to dress, to move. And in this mundane existence I find myself broken. I am left to the malicious devices of my thoughts or the unpredictability of fickle emotions.

However, this nature of brokenness has allowed me to see the shattered pieces of the world. I have shed the distractions of self-preservation; the unpredictability of my own reality has cleared my normally clouded vision. I find myself less irritated with people, better able to love them in their current state. Their pain hurts me. Their joy brings me joy. My opinions of others are no longer shrouded in a false-superiority. Because I am my own brand of mess, I can see their mess for the complex beauty that it is; unique constellations of attributes and flaws. When my circumstances are stable I only see people as wallowing in their own filth and misery and sin, so I lash out in frustration and judgment. Now, I understand brokenness because I am visibly so. I clearly see this broken world, because I am broken too. So my dear friends, in all your broken glory, you are perfect to God and you are perfect to me. And I will love you, just as you are.

“Let's not just talk about love; let's practice real love. This is the only way we'll know we're living truly, living in God's reality.” –1 John 3:18 (The Message)


*kate lynch brilliance cred.

stifling atmosphere

“For my part, I am going to boast about nothing but the Cross of our Master, Jesus Christ. Because of that Cross, I have been crucified in relation to the world, set free from the stifling atmosphere of pleasing others and fitting into the little patterns that they dictate. Quite frankly, I don't want to be bothered anymore by these disputes. I have far more important things to do, like the serious living of this faith.”
-Galations 6: 11-17 (Message)

I wish I could breathe only this.

shout out

This is my best friend.
She writes really good shit.
http://deahnaescobar.blogspot.com/
She also makes super cute babies.

do your magic

"We cannot attain to a vision, we must live in the inspiration of it until it accomplishes itself. We get so practical that we forget the vision. At the beginning we saw it but did not wait for it; we rushed off into practical work, and when the vision was fulfilled, we did not see it."
-Oswald Chambers

I am so practical that I forget the vision. For those of you fluent in Myers-Briggs-ish you can immediately get a sense of what I am talking about when I tell you that I am an ISTJ (Introverted Sensing with Extraverted Thinking). As the “duty fulfiller” I tend to have a strong internal sense of responsibility. I am organized and methodical in my approach to life situations. Basically, I am boring and predictable, but I will get the job done! Just kidding. Sort of.

Please, let me explain.

I never impulse-buy or make plans beyond my means. I am obnoxiously frugal. I am good with my money, and I tend to freak out if my bank account dips below a certain amount. Really, I lose my shit. I do not undertake tasks that I think I might possibly fail at, which is why I did not write for years. I did not think anyone would care to hear what I had to say. I chose a career path based on its assumed “security.” (Ah, what crap that turned out to be... thanks, economic recession. Perfect timing, really.) I hate to take risks when it comes to relationships because there is the possibility of rejection, which I equate to failure. That why I tend to return to the old familiarities of those relationships already established. A dog to it's vomit. At least it's familiar vomit. I could go on and on. Lately, God has been beating me over the head with the same concept. Basically he says…

“Megan, stop being so damn practical all the time, and just live in the gifts I have given you. WAIT. Just live in my inspiration. ASK for my inspiration. WAIT and ASK. Wait and ask. Wait and ask. Wait and ask...”

(I am pretty certain that He says it like that in heaven, sighing in exasperation and rolling His eyes at me. God, I really hope so.)

Sounds simple right? Humph. Well, no. Waiting and asking are the two hardest things in the world for me to do. I have never been a procrastinator. I was that jerk in high school that was done with the book report two days after it was assigned, just because I would rather get it out of the way than have the impending doom of the deadline hanging over my head. When I moved into my new apartment in Winter Park, not only did I move all my shit over there in one day... I had the entire place DECORATED before I went to bed that night. I don’t wait. I hate to wait. Waiting makes me a crazy-stressed-insomniatic-bitch. So okay, God. You want me to wait. Cute. I’m already in a bad mood.

What?!? I’m supposed to ask too?
Now You’re just being smug.

Okay, I know that asking for God to show his purposes and plans for your life seems like a completely reasonable and common-sense “Christian-y” thing to do. I know all the verses about asking. Zechariah 10:1, Matthew 7:7-11, Luke 11:9-13, John 14:13, John 15:7… need I go on? The common thread is obvious. “Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full” John 16:24. I get it. I know all that. But I am fiercely independent, bordering on arrogant. Reconsider the analogy about the high school book reports that I gave earlier… If that were a group project, not only would I have finished it well before the appointed due date, I probably did the whole thing myself, in an effort to avoid asking my classmates for help. I can do it better anyways. I prefer to work alone. I don’t ask for help and I don’t work well with others.

I have had a job since I was 13-years old when Winn-Dixie hired me as their “cart-girl” (keeping it classy). Not one day since then have I been unemployed. And now after slaving away at the university for four years, making excellent grades and throwing myself into my education, I have nothing to show for it. Except student loan debt and additional stress. I was passed over for a job that I was better qualified for because of nepotism. I can just barely pay my bills. Savings are gone. Nothing supresses my soul more than having to be dependent on others. Or God, for that matter. Which is stupid, and makes no sense, and I know that. I just have nothing to give anymore and I am so exhausted.

Okay, I’ve been rambling. If you're looking for a point I apologize because I'm pretty sure there isn't one. I am stuck. I don’t know where to go from here. I’m floundering about this life, fucking up just about everything in the process. I live and eat and breathe and struggle to get by, but that is the sum of my existence. If life is a highway then I am completely drunk at the wheel. So for lack of any better options and because I have exhausted all my futilely pathetic efforts to control my own life, I acquiesce.

God, I am asking. Do your magic.
You’re better at this than me.
I will just be here. Waiting.

Oh, and God? I'll try really hard not to whine so much.

scientists and lovers

I am going to start researching the science behind love.
Why the hell not? I will write about it later.



We were all basically alone
And despite what all his studies had shown
That what's mistaken for closeness
Is just a case of mitosis
And why do some show no mercy
While others are painfully shy?
Tell me doctor, can you quantify?
He just wants to know the reason why...

she wept

She holds herself together on the short walk to the car. The dimly lit neighborhood street seems to stretch forever. Staring down at the silver heels, her rapid steps thud rhythmically on the weather-worn gravel. Choosing her steps carefully, daintily dodging the many potholes and heat cracks. Propelled forward. Left, right, left, right. The back of her throat prickles with the dull indescribable pain of a Thousand Tears suppressed. Grabbing her elbows, she folds her arms across her chest squeezing tightly to assuage the aching pulse of her heart.

Fishing the car keys out of her purse she doesn’t even look up from the shoes. The ground is blurry, liquid glass windows obstructing her view of the silvery sodden footwear. Fumbling with the keys, she unlocks the driver side door and collapses into the seat. Shoving the key into the ignition, she kicks the car to life, the engine sputtering. Music fills the car in an instant, those mournful lullabies of jilted lovers.

That was all it took, a few harmonious notes.

The sob catches in her throat. Followed by the Thousand Tears. One by one they spill over her lashes, dark mascara-stained rivulets streaming down her face, pooling at her chin and falling onto her lap. Tiny waterfalls.

She collapses her forehead into shaking hands, fingers tugging at her bangs, nails ripping the flesh of her scalp. She doesn’t even bother to wipe her cheeks. The salty rivers continue their silent journey, trickling down her forearms and soaking her sweater sleeves. Each river leaving behind unpredictable lines of grey on her porcelain skin. These tears hold meaning. Each one has a history, an exhausted acquiescence of failure. Her tears are cleansing, carrying away the blackness that shrouds her vision. Dirty symbols of human brokenness. Fear, anger, rejection, apathy, unworthiness, heartbreak, resentment, loneliness.

Each emotion of this sinful condition, concealed in it's own watery capsule, muddied by her vanity. Filthy with conceit.

"Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts." -Charles Dickens

afternoon repose

Dripping shards of yellow light
Streaming through these open blinds
Sounds drone hum of city round
Accede to sleep, refuse to fight
Dreaming dreams. The panicked sort
Of friendships lost and love alone
Behind closed eyes I see this sign
Painful looks and time cut short

holding my breath

My community has just recently delved into the idea of “holistic ministry” as an approach to our spiritual health and well-being. I love this concept, and I was really stoked when we made this shift. However, the more I think about my excitement I realize it stems from a place of fear and selfishness. I like the idea of addressing my relationships, gifts and talents, finances, emotions, and physical life because it requires me to make tangible step-by-step changes in my life. Devoid of any real interaction and communion with God. As I sat down and flipped through the pages of our Relent & Respond journals I realized I was approaching it with the same mechanical methodical mindset that I read self-help books. I ask, what is my problem and what can I do to fix it? See. Infer. Conclude. Solve. I have not entered God into the equation at all. Oh, how I dread the Spiritual Practices week.

Sometimes I question whether I am truly even a Christian. What does that even mean? I do not question the existence of God or the basic tenants of this faith. I can argue intellectually my belief in a higher power. However, I never do anything I about it. I don't even attempt. I exist here, festering in His Grace, making a complete mess of things in the process. I struggle so deeply with a desire to control my life, so I don’t pray because the answer might not be one I want to hear. I think it is amusing how I am in the middle of writing this blog about faith (or lack thereof) and I get a phone call from a stranger, offering her services to me in helping me find a teaching job. The catch: she does not work in Florida. Faith. Do I have any at all?
Perhaps I should pray about it...

“Joy comes from seeing the complete fulfillment of the specific purpose for which I was created and born again, not from successfully doing something of my own choosing...We each need to find a niche in life, and spiritually we find it when we receive a ministry from the Lord. To do this we must have close fellowship with Jesus and must know Him as more than our personal Savior”

Oh hey Oswald Chambers, thanks for the kick in the ass.

the awakening

When I read any significant literature I almost always have a pen in hand. I underline powerful lines, jot notes, and deliver compliments to the author (I am quite certain the Orlando public library appreciates this). As I scribble, I fester in my supreme jealousy over the powerful ease these authors have in painting glorious pictures of our (human beings) strongest emotions. Through their strategic placement of words they construct sentences that rekindle past emotions, flaring them up again like they parted. Hatred, love, lust, passion, despair, hopelessness... Anyone can describe a setting. It takes a deeply intelligent person to understand human emotions, and then a literary genius to convey them properly through written word. I envy this talent.

With that said, I just finished reading Kate Chopin's The Awakening. This novel is about an obedient wife and mother who through a series of events and relationships is "awakened" to the stifling reality of her life, both sexually and emotionally. Stuck in a loveless marriage, painfully bored at 29, she sheds the conventions of her time and begins a liberating quest for her own independence. It was released 1899 and received awful reviews at the time. While reviewers acknowledged Chopin’s masterful literary technique, they were absolutely shocked with the protagonist’s independence and sexual liberation. Women simply didn't talk like that. While exploring the pages, I found it compelling that the emotions she describes in her book, the romantic infatuations, unexpected moodiness, her boredom (bordering on depression)... these are emotions that I feel every day. Women have always been the same, whether oppressed by social conventions or fear of retribution has blocked their voice. True, we have variances in personality (just ask my friend Kate about Myers-Briggs) but literature is the most effective medium in guiding us to understand our common behaviors as humans. These words transcend.

“An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul’s summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar: it was a mood.”

“She was still under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him, realizing the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like an obsession, ever pressing upon her. It was not that she dwelt upon details of their acquaintance, or recalled any special or particular way his personality; it was his being, his existence, which dominated her thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the mist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity that filled her with an incomprehensible longing."

“There were days when she was happy without knowing why. She was happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole body seemed to be one with the sunlight, the colors, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and be alone and unmolested. There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why, when it did not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms struggling blindly towards inevitable annihilation. She could not work on such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her blood.”

december's gravity

You got under my skin. You scratched and pulled and clawed your way through. And now I am stuck in your gravity, pinned to these thoughts and unanswered questions. My head tells me it is stupid, that there wasn't enough, that I knew better all along. My head assures me that it isn't reciprocated, it never was. My head says I grew up and forgot your name. My head says I took a deep breath and forgave you. My head is smart. My head knows better. And on the good days, my heart believes my head. So I laugh and crush and dance and flirt; spinning circles round my heart, moving too fast to notice the tug and pull. But then I hear that song, or I dream that dream, your laughter bounces off these walls, and your gravity stifles me again. You hold me without chains and nothing is taking me down. Except you, my love.

witching hour

The lilted bloom
of spring approach.
Dark batting lashes,
flirtatious smiles.
Once music enchanted
now platonic endures.
Whistle and lyric
and laughter bound.
Efficacious rhymes
echo dancing feet.
In witching hour--
midst swirling storms.
Toothy grins from
cheek to cheek.
I dance, I dance!
Across your face
Over you and under you,
I spin and tap
and clap in time.
Treading and twirling
These violent stilts,
Aloft our parting hearts.

parallels and metaphors

I hurl my heart to halt his pace,
To quench his thirst I squander blood;
He eats, and still his need seeks food,
Compels a total sacrifice.
His voice waylays me, spells a trance,
The gutted forest falls to ash;
Appalled by secret want, I rush
From such assault of radiance.
Entering the tower of my fears,
I shut my doors on that dark guilt,
I bolt the door, each door I bolt.
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:

The panther's tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs.
-Sylvia Plath (of course)

Totally worthwhile purchase. Buy it.

cold coquette

I pull one of my legs up under my body, curling myself into the couch irrationally determined to fill the smallest space possible. My manicured fingers grip the Camel Wide cigarette, chunks of ash dropping onto dirty hardwood floor. I shift my eyes around the porch resting them momentarily on various faces, their features alternately contorting and relaxing in the ease of conversation. I take a long drag from my cigarette and allow the smoke to uncurl lazily from my lips. Then a swig of wine from my glass. "God, it is fucking cold out here," I think to myself, shrinking deeper into the couch.

It is Alecia's birthday party and the house is filled with the usual faces. Conversations take place around me and I listen in, not quite eavesdropping but not quite a part of them either. I breathe in my own stillness, engulfed and drowning in the rise and fall of cacophonous voices. The sweet smell of hookah and pipe tobacco wafts over from the other corner of the porch. I know the crisp night air should feel pleasant on my skin, but the biting January wind crawls up my leg, searching for a way into the crevices of warmth under my skin.

Swimming up from my thoughts and taking a desperate gasp of air at the surface, I turn back to Jahred and Jamie and rejoin the conversation. Jamie is reading The Art of Seduction by Robert Green, and she and I have been tirelessly trying to categorize our friends by the various types of sexual seductors.

“I’m the cold coquette” I declare, to no one in particular. Jahred’s inquisitive eyes turn to me, begging for further explanation. Jamie leans forward in her chair.

“What is a coquette?” he asks, one eyebrow raised and skepticism lining his words.

“Coquettes bait their targets with the hope of physical pleasure and happiness, but they never really follow through. They are self-sufficient, reserved and often manipulative.” I explain methodically, while Jamie nods in agreement. Nobody challenges my self-assessment. Why would they? I am those things; cold and reserved. I don’t need anyone, not really.

I take another drag from my cigarette, and stub it out in the ashtray. Uncurling my legs, I stand upright, straightening my black cotton skirt and brushing stray ashes onto the floor. The porch spins, the very first indication that the alcohol is doing its job. I’ve always been partial to the image of liquor as lubrication— a layer of protection from all the sharp thoughts in your head. This party was filled with sharp thoughts and shitty memories and far too many familiar faces, and I needed my armor tonight.

I steady myself and pick my way through the crowd, slowing every few paces to greet people, give the requisite hugs, compliments, and empty promises of coffee the next week. I glance in the mirror on the wall as I pass, and force a smile. I look pretty good tonight, I made sure of that. I saunter into the kitchen and pour myself another glass, filling it to the brim. Armor. Protection. Right. Sonny hands me a glass of scotch, and I drink it in one gulp. I half-smile at him. But it's false, and he knows it. I take a long swig of my wine, shrug my shoulders at his probing stare, and turned to face the crowd again for my journey back.

My head reels and my legs feel a little weak. With an uncoordinated stumble, I sidestep my way back to the front porch, tiny waves of liquid sloshing out the top of my glass and onto my hands and ankle boots. I settle back into my empty spot on the couch, the cracked dirty leather once again cold from the freezing night air.

I shiver.

tiny vessels

So one last touch and then you'll go
And we'll pretend that it meant something so much more
But it was vile, and it was cheap
and you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me.

splinters

It dropped to the floor. Splintered and broken, I swept the fragments into my hand. Clumsily I tried to glue it back together, but after a few feeble attempts I reealized that I was missing pieces. I recall leaving a large piece in the smooth hands of my first, his freckles and green eyes melting me into a pliable mess. I handed it over to him, it was still whole back then, and he cradled it in his gentle way. For a time. But something shifted and the ground shook and it slipped through his fingers, shattering on the pavement. We stooped to fix it together, and when my back was turned he deftly shoved one of the fragments into his pocket. I imagine it stuffed away in his guitar or perhaps his army-issued gun case. A holy temple to love lost.

I moved on, the gaping hole in the pulsating flesh making my movements difficult and laborious. My health suffered. The next sauntered along, his dark hair and shifting eyes were both charming and dangerous. I did love him, in a different way. It was volatile and violent. Words thrown back and forth as grenades, the craters left behind we patched up with false hopes and disillusionment. I was a child then, as was he. It was doomed from the beginning. But he still has his fragment, probably hidden in the liquor cabinet behind the half-empty bottles.

Others I did not love have held onto pieces I never freely gave away. Treacherous thieves that swept me up in their empty promises and saccharine words. Some have jagged pieces that cut as easily as knives. Others have splinters, beckoning for infection. There is the dark shadow of my past who comes and goes, crooning sweet lies into my ear with perfect pitch. He fools me every time. And so I kiss him, and we swindle ourselves into thinking it is so much more. There is him, his tattoos and piercings or the All-American with his blonde hair and blue eyes. There have been those in between. The mysterious charmer and the blatant asshole, the sincerely hopeless and the casual smooth-talker. I no longer care for any them.

I just want the pieces returned.

ineloquent truth

Well, fuck you then.
You were just like the rest.
Spinning your glittery web,
Entangling me in your lies;
Saccharine words spat out,
to rest in their grave
along with my pride.
In the enveloping dark,
I whispered distrust
But I relinquished, my love,
Resolve no longer strong.
Here we are, my adversary,
as I originally predicted.
You, victoriously satisfied.
Me, vengefully bitter.
Well, fuck you then.

galaxy tango

So minimal in chance-- When stars collide.
Possibilities. Phenomenons of the universe.
Two neutrons join-- Magnitudes swallowed.
Within each other, they become one of the same.
Glorious light, strengthened by the rendezvous.
Or there is us-- Each entity meeting its match,
Counterpoint in the other. Unfalteringly stubborn.
An astrophysical train wreck. Inevitable.
The explosion! Translucent, fiery. Milliseconds.
Unstoppable shock wave -- Flash of brilliant light.
Pulses and energy gone. The universe left with nothing.
Nebulas defying predicted stellar evolution.
Lone blue straggler remains. Weakened and dull.
The death of a star. What does it matter anyways?
Stars are just old light. Brilliant, disintegrating bodies,
Incandescence of years old. Supernovas and Casanovas.
The death of two is inconsequential, unimportant.
Countless remain -- raptured in the glittery death-dance.
Life goes on just fine, I suppose. The planets encircle.
The galaxies watch on, in spiteful scrutiny. Lurking.
Globular clusters bemused and entertained. Hypocrites!
Taking pleasure in this entertaining destruction.
Sadists, the lot of them. Enjoying the shining demolition.
As the luminary slowly dies – Old light extinguished.

acetic

"My thoughts are crabbed and sallow,
My tears like vinegar,
Or the bitter blinking yellow
Of an acetic star.

Tonight the caustic wind, love,
Gossips late and soon,
And I wear the wry-faced pucker of
The sour lemon moon.

While like an early summer plum,
Puny, green, and tart,
Droops upon its wizened stem
My lean, unripened heart."

"Jilted" by Sylvia Plath

metaphors

Shrouding words in ambiguity, does not alleviate their sting.

eros

I am stuck on the idea of love. I ponder it not in the overly sentimental, femininely obsessive way that you might expect. I refuse to stay in on Saturday evenings with a box of chocolate and a stack of sappy chickflicks, ruminating despondently about love-lost. Rather, I have been examining love in the same method I approach everything else in my life; through the analytical lens of a scientist masquerading as a romantic. I dissect and scrutinize every element, every attribute, and as a result slaughtering the joy that love in its various forms, brings to me as a human.

I desire to categorize and classify, mentally filing away each relationship that exists in my limited universe. I need to understand situations in their entirety, not out of curiosity or intrigue, but rather a revolting need to control. With the goal of protection. A methodical outlook as fortification from all the sharp and jagged thoughts in my head. Cleaning house, to avoid the ambiguities and unanswered question that can fatally wound.

And yet there are still powerful mysteries, dangerous enigmas that I am utterly incapable of explaining. There is the ripping of clothing, grasping of flesh, and lascivious mashing of lips. Caresses and sweaty heat. Whispers of the god Eros in the dark. Erotic love. Interactions fueled by mindless passion. Suggestive movements and serpent tongues are his preferred form of communication, because words and emotions are too laborous.

Eros is the inexhaustible source of my emotional strife, and yet the primary fuel of the lyrical imagination. He makes his rounds, fulfilling the empty sensual desires that rule the night. Selfish and panting, his smirk is so alluring and charming it is capable of weakening the resolve of even the most guarded woman. Once compromised, she will inevitably find herself broken and bruised, discarded among the pile of those who came before her.

photo album

Compulsively, she is drawn to that forgotten corner of the room. Her feet continue in their forward motion, as if propelled by another force more powerful than her own. It is there, tucked discreetly between a flimsy, leather-bound bible and a stack of trashy romance novels. Fitting, really. How many times has she glanced this way, considered taking it out and scanning its pages? Today. Gingerly she pulls the cloth-covered album into her unsteady arms, sliding it through the filmy coating of dust lining the shelf. The flowers and cartoon bunnies on the cover have long since faded into mere dingy remnants of what they once were, the soft pastels of a little girl’s childhood. She exhales, shooting spirals of dust into the air, the light streaming through the partially-drawn window shades catching the particles in their weightless dance. Gently tracing the embroidered MJS on the cover, she fights the rational urge to stash the book back into its rightful place on the shelf. The voice returns, reminding her once again that she has no idea the significance that this moment might hold. Ignoring it, with cautious intentionality she turns the cover.

The first page is a familiar one, the very same photo has been hanging in the hallway of her home for as long as she can remember. The squinty eyes of her newborn-self stare back from the page, full of innocent perplexed wonder, her forehead crinkled in confusion. She turns the page and is instantly struck by the unexpected, yet eerily familiar face of the man grinning back. Holding a tiny baby in his arms. It is funny how our mind plays tricks on us, how our memories become distorted over the years. She had always pictured a handsome man. One with rippling muscles and a serious, stern face and dark unreadable eyes. Bronzed skin, leathered by the dry tan of decades working in the unforgiving sun. Tall, dark and handsome she pictured. Perhaps she wanted him to be this mysterious brooding stranger. He would fit more easily into her perception of him, easier to picture that type of man as the mystery of her past. Instead, the smiling face on the page is startlingly similar to her own. Ivory skin over a round face. The same unremarkable nose, with a speckling of brown freckles, surrounded by full fleshy cheeks. The same impish lopsided grin warms his face, making him both mysterious and approachable at the same time. Dark hair. Full lips. Their eyes are hauntingly the same. Identical, actually. A deep crystalline blue, with the same flecks of turquoise and green. She looks just like him. The spitting image. Almost every physical trait that she has, comes from this man. A complete fucking stranger. Oh god, why does she have to look like him?

She recognizes this moment for what it is, understanding why the voice warned her to stay away. She can no longer detach herself from this part of her past. She is deeply and indisputably tied to this man. The flesh of his flesh. Like salt to an open wound is the pride and joy beaming off his face. He gazes at her infant-self with such unbridled adoration, like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. His hand is resting atop her fuzzy head, as if to shield her, his precious baby girl, from the harsh realities of a strained life. The love is written plainly across his face. She was once the sole object of his affection. Captured by the flash and the shutter, and even if just for one fleeting moment, his love for her is undeniable. When did this change? When did this passionate fire extinguish from his eyes? When did this girl become nothing more than a financial burden and baggage, holding him back from his more promising future? A future alone, without her. Unhindered by the responsibilities of parenthood. He was not the father he promised to be. Selfishly, he wimped out.

She closes the faded album, her heart and mind unable to continue with the self-inflicted torture. Instead of answering her questions, she is now forced to contend with a thousand new ones. She was sheltered by her ill-conceived notions and the distorted memories she manifested about her past. It was so much simpler to believe that he never truly loved her. That she never lit up his eyes. That he never cradled her in his arms. She could no longer feign ignorance; she had photographic evidence. Her father’s love, was not hers to keep.

favorite

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

"Mad Girl's Love Song" by Sylvia Plath

alena

A friend asked me the other day, “when was the last time you felt alive?” Just like that. No pretense or frivolities or small talk, just a direct and pointed question, one that cut straight to the source of the seeping black, pus-filled infection in my heart. I stalled for a moment, parroting the question back to her, allowing the mental wheels to start their backwards motion. When was I last alive? When? Hm. I probably gave some generic answer, throwing together strings of words and shoving them in her direction, mumbling my way around the question.

But I honestly could not remember.

Her question plagued me for a few days. Constantly in the background of my thoughts as I traversed through my daily routines. Obviously, she meant more than simply existing, waking and sleeping, eating and breathing. The question is deeper than that. Now, I am sitting in my bedroom, gripping a mug of hot coffee in both my hands trying desperately to warm my insides. I have dozens of photographs spread across my bedsheet. I remember now. I remember the last time I was spiritually alive. It was July 13th, and I was saying a painful goodbye. I cupped her beautiful face in my hands, pieces of my heart breaking off with every tear that squeezed from the corners of her black eyes. “I love you” I said, and I meant it. Probably more earnestly and truthfully than I had ever said it before. It was not the sappy love of romantic relationships or the comfortable love of families and close friends. This was a raw, unbiased, unconditional love. I saw Christ in her eyes. Her smile. Her joy. In the way she always took my heavy camera bag from my arms and looped it over her own tiny shoulders, before grabbing my hand and pulling me down the dusty street. Saying goodbye to Alena was one of the hardest things I have ever done. On the walk back to the compound, my own shoulders were shaking, wracked with the sobs that came from somewhere deep inside. But, I was alive.

I saw Christ. We walked together. I held his hand.
That was over six months ago.
I want to feel alive again.

sharp objects

"We needed a lot of room to stray away from each other, to avoid rapacious lust, to wall ourselves away from sticky emotions. Extra space is always good."
-Gillian Flynn

the box

I am the duty fulfiller, you say?
How dare you typecast me in such a way.
You wait patiently. Predatorily watching.
For me to cease my kicking and squirming
Just long enough. A moment. A mere breath.
Pushing and prodding for my very soul's death.
Till at last, the final violent shove.
The reverberating collapse from above.
Enclosing me eternally, in this tight space
Trapping me in the proverbial case,
Built of rules and restrictions and roles.
Only to suffocate here, with my unrequited goals.
Gasping for both freedom and air.
No! I refuse to meet your expectations.
Myopic and limited as they are.
Claustrophobia was never my dream.
I am far greater than your vision of me.
I am unsuppressable fierceness,
Hidden behind this gentle reserve.
I am unbendable and steely strength,
Masked in an unpretentious humility.
I am impetuous and fiery passion
Without a worthwhile direction, just yet.
I was formed in the Image Of My God.
Elohim. Moshia. Yeshuah.
I was created for such greatness.
And you can never confine me.

zackary

Zackary is his name. He has all the familiar symptoms of an awkward and fumbling 6th grader, lost in a new school, scrambling to find his niche in the sea of faces or perhaps to disappear in the walls altogether. His greasy unwashed hair hangs in his eyes, beautiful blue eyes, rarely seen, constantly shifting or glued to his scuffed hand-me-down Nikes. Zackary is precocious, to say the very least. A brilliant and talented child. Yet, he is plagued by this sense of inferiority. He is self-punishing and self-deprecating. You can reprimand him for the smallest thing, and he will completely lose all emotional control, burst into tears, and accept this manifested failure with the most distressing heartbreak. It is as if he believes, to his very core, that he is such a monumental disappointment to others that he should quit trying altogether. He has loving hippie-parents, who never punish him, so this self-belittling attitude is such an inexplicable mystery to me. And yet, Zackary reminds me so much of myself. How often do I come to God with something, and I am struck by such a sense of hopeless unworthiness that I would like no better than to climb under a desk, and wallow in a pool of my own wretched, pathetic tears? Such is the great enigmatic mystery of grace.

the letter

My biological aunt sent me a letter today, a most unexpected suprise. I have not seen Linda since I was a child, since I last saw my father over 12 years ago. In her letter she said this...

"We can always ask - is it Nature or Nurture? But I think it is the combination of both. Yes, you have the physical looks of a Snow. But you have the emotional well-being of your family. You are a lucky woman to be surrounded by all this love."

Indeed.

core

“Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self-- like a disease of the blood dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion.” -Sylvia Plath

apathy

It is Saturday morning, and I have about a million things that need to complete today. I have friends to visit, community to build, conversations to have. And yet, it all seems so exhausting. I would rather spend the morning on my porch, the living and breathing recluse. I didn't sleep well last night. In fact, I haven't slept well in weeks.

I haven't talked to God much lately either. I'm not angry, or doubting, or bitter, I'm just bored. I am weary of the same circular spiritual conversations. I sick of reading spiritual books. I have this faith, and it appears almost unshakable, and yet with all my faith why do I have no desire to speak to Him. Really, the only time prayer crosses my mind anymore is when I need something, or I'm depressed, or stressed. And in these moments I usually stop myself midsentence, when I realize how utterly selfish I am being. I am like the friend who only calls you when she has nothing better to do, and just needs someone to listen to all their woes and issues.

I hate that person, and yet I am that person.

whispers

I find myself on my porch soaking in the glories of the day. I am not usually an outdoor person. That is, I am not the type of girl who needs to spend time outside on a regular basis. I have been known to spend entire days in my apartment without ever setting foot outside. However, this porch has become my safe haven of late. Perhaps it is the aged wooden planks beneath my feet, which speak of years gone past and many walks of life trodden. Or maybe it is the canopy of trees that partially obscure the suns glaring rays, allowing just enough light for it to play across the floorboards and stream in through the leaves. The squirrels are an added bonus, scampering through the trees, fighting and bickering all the while. Little snippets of the life outside my own.

Normally I come out here for the silence. Not the deadening silence of my room, that often becomes a tomb reverberating my obsessive thoughts and depressing ruminations. When I escape out here it is usually with a mug of steaming coffee, and some distracting fiction book. Today is different. I came out here with the intentions of eating my tuna sandwich and stale chips and to read Nick Hornby’s How to Be Good. However, after only a few turns of the page I found myself repulsed by the bitter and anguished humor of its pages. Moreover I was sickened by how easily I related. God, when the fuck did I become so terribly cynical? I set the book down. The silence out here is different today. Living and breathing. Alive and whispering...

fierce

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned.
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
-William Congreve

dancer

I cannot stop the persistent feet
Of the little dancer in my head
Adagio! Arabesque! Plié!
Sir Cavalier. Leading and pushing.
He treads on the right side of my brain
Doing tap dances and pirouettes
Fucking with my intuition, my emotions.
He saunters to the left. Gracefully.
There he moonwalks and shimmies
Distracting me from logic and reason.
Leaving behind footprints and scuff marks.
Permanent reminders of an unpredictable dance
Others cannot see his leaps and jumps.
Cannot hear the constant beating of drums.
In vain desperation to stop his performance,
I try to smoke him out.
With a clove. Or two. Or three.
Or maybe I could drown him?
In a glass. Or two. Or six.
Perhaps a scalding shower?
Another feministic diatribe?
Soothing songs of melancholy?
Meaningless fiction books?
Doubtful. Fleeting distractions.
It's all bullshit anyways.
I suppose... I could just run?
Doing my own pirouettes and pliés,
As I sprint for the fucking door.

father of lies

This time I will fight it.
The stronger demon inside,
constantly spewing his lies,
Blackening my soul.
Hardening my heart.
I will fight, I will try.
It will take all my strength,
Not to disappear within my self.
My struggle for stability.
Self-preservation
Becomes an harmful act.
Self-destruction
Resulting in a prophesy.
Self-fulfilling

"You belong to your father, the devil, and you want to carry out your father's desire. He was a murderer from the beginning, not holding to the truth, for there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies."