Good Witch, Bad Witch

My day today was an apple core
with seeds like a flower and
a stem, sticky and wet.
I had no napkin to hold it with,
no place to dispose of it;
my hands still smell sticky sweet.

My day today was an apple core
with bite marks and bruises.
But just like a lonely apple core,
it's still hard to forget the fruit
that had been.

You weren't here
and I missed the seconds
we usually get to share
even if they are
just seconds.

You weren't here
to see me go back on my word
and unravel when
the ink and paper didn't
speak the truth
I wanted them to.

You weren't here
but you'll be back to see
what kind of fruit
tomorrow brings.

Copper and Cigarettes

(Alternate title: Flower Petals and Precious Metals)

She was wearing a jean jacket
when I found her behind the school
trying to smoke in the rain.
She didn't believe in the physics
of water and ashes.

We kissed because we could
and she seemed to trust my paranoia
as much as I trusted hers.
Her lips tasted exactly like
copper and cigarettes.

I took her home in my beat up two-door
with her in the backseat and me behind the wheel.
I wasn't sure about the color of her eyes
but her skin and denim in the rear view
turned my foot into a brick on the gas pedal.

My room was a shrine
to American girls with American skin.
She traced the posters on my walls,
tasting the corners with her fingertips.

She was wearing her heart on her sleeve
when I found her wearing my sheets like a toga,
her hair a tousled mane.

I don't write much
about the curves
or the porcelain,
but something about
the arch of her eyelid
turns my chest
into flower petals
and precious metals.

Just Right

In this sweater,
I am three sizes too small
and my feet feel
four inches too long
and my heart is
five heartbeats too fast
but my hand is
just the right size for holding.
So, maybe you should
find me again among the
old hallways and roses
on the way to heading back home.

This sweater is yours
but I've been wearing it
every day since
you left in on my bedroom floor
that night we slept together.
And no, I don't mean
slept together, I mean
slept together with
zs over our heads
just like in the movies.
That night was perfect.
And even though your
heartbeat was five heartbeats
too fast,
we kept rhythm
and your arms were just
the right size
for holding.

Blossoms

You won't show me your elbows
but you cut your soul open
like a coin purse and
share a thousand pennies
for the thousand thoughts
that crowd my skull
whenever you're on the stage.

I've shaken your hand,
my palm sweating against yours
along with my heart and
my brain stem-
which was blossoming, blossoming
against the walls of my skull
when I held the proof
of your heartbeat
between my thumb and forefinger.

I've woven your songs into
a velvet jacket
that I wear on Sunday morning
when I need to be purple and red.

Basket Case

Slightly edited from the original.

---

This is the dirt and graffiti.
This is the pavement and metal.
These are the bright lights and cigarettes.
I find the city in the lining
of my pockets, in the swinging
of my arms and in the beating-
the beat beat beating-
of my skyscraper heart.

This is the smoke and fire.
This is the color and coffee.
These are the dreams and heartbreaks.
The way you chew your gum
and tell me things I rarely hear
makes me wonder where I should go
when you can't sing loud enough
for me to hear.

This is the picture frame moment.
This is the metal beam that is
wrapped around my heart.
These are the crowds and souvenirs
that I take with me
like sand in my shoes
whenever I leave.

Dreaming Porcelian Dreams

I remember calling you from the bathtub
of my hotel room.
The tub was spacious
and my family was one collective pile
on the hotel bed sheets.
I think David Letterman was on.
I remember cradling the phone in the palm of my hand
and trying to describe the
snap, crackle, and pop of my heart
using only the words they taught me in grade school.
My feet were huge against the white
of the tub.
I watched my toes wiggle
deliberately off the rhythm of the conversation.
They were saying the things you couldn't hear.
I remember sliding down into the depths of the tub
when I tried to explain
the jealousy that was always hiding in my back pocket.
My heart was running hot water through my veins
and I was sure
I would be turning into a memory any minute
but you held me in the present
with the sound of your phantom voice.
I remember calling you from a partially horizontal position
in the bathtub of my hotel room
and telling you all about the cloud I was inhabiting
and the man who was putting me there.

Slipper Socks

Whenever I tell people

"I don't eat meat."

They tell me

"Oh,

I've been thinking about

being a vegetarian."

But they never follow through.

I remember

the car ride

that I shared with you

when I told you

"I don't eat meat."

And you said

"Oh,

I've been thinking about

being a vegetarian."

But here we are

on the couch next to the

Christmas trees

(that has lights

sparklier than the Eiffel tower)

and your plate of meatballs

smells like

things I can't have.

I like celebrating

our aversion to celebrating

with pizza and television.

In ten minutes
the door will open
and my jeans will be new
and my smile will be real
and today will vanish.

Wednesday Ashes

Your kitchen cupboard arms are open
in a rare display of mother hen affection
that you are exhibiting for not me.

I can still see the eyes you wore last Thursday
when your voice was like a velvet ribbon
and I was in love with the thought that
things might change.

My sentences are stanzas that litter the
alleys of my mind.

They never find their way to my mouth
to acquaint themselves with my tongue
or my teeth
or that little dangly thing in the back of my throat.

I ride the bus home and listen to The Beatles
and tell myself not to worry
and stare out the window
and I rise from the ashes of the day.

I cut my finger on Thursday night.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
it bled all the way to the bathroom.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
I rinsed it under water that turned it pink.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
people were all asking me if I was alright.

I could see the drops of blood I spilled
on the tiles in the cafeteria.

I could see the white of the tile on the bathroom floor
and the way it looked like it was bleeding
when my finger flooded the paper towel I had covered it with.

I've had my finger for as long as I can remember
and when I cut my finger on Thursday night
it had to get acquainted with a bruise and a slice
the shape of a wheelbarrow (with much more dirt.)

I cut my finger on Thursday night.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
I could see you out of the corner of my eye.

Braille

I remember the books with the yellow spines
and the browning pages
that you used to read to me like they were
new.

I remember the pink carpet
that you put over the plywood floor
to make me feel like I was a queen

(when in reality
I was nothing more than a daughter).

I remember wanting to burn down the walls
and walk away from the ashes.

I remember loving the smell
of the grass in the morning
and running my fingers through it
like it was a head of hair
even though I knew
that the dew would make my fingers wet
and cold.

I remember reading the world like braille
and not understanding a word.

15

Ever since I was a kid
I've wanted things I couldn't touch
so my fingers are inexperienced
but my heart has always been
steel wool and tweed-
hard and soft, heavy and comfortable.

That's the way I've always lived.
I'm happy with the things I don't have
because they still belong
to my mind just as much
as they belong to the world
and other people's hearts and hands.

I've been reading this story for ages now
so please don't spoil the ending
until I've figured it out for myself.

Won't even Shine

I know you want me to go to sleep,
but this room is half dressed in shadows
and I'm not ready to let go
of consciousness for a black blanket
that will only stretch into morning.

Don't remind me that you're not here.
I know it's going to be a long night
when the stars won't even shine.

Burger King Floor

In exchange for some Orbit gum:

---

Last night was a whole lot of dark
filled with bright smiles
and too loud laughter
that made anything worthwhile.

Sometimes, I have a tendency to
say far too much
when I should say nothing at all,
so please ignore the words I scattered
on that Burger King floor
if you didn't like the way they sounded
all strung together.

Last night was a whole lot of fun
filled with scripted beauty
and a voice from the backseat
as we drove along,
three amigos in the nighttime.

Sometimes, I wonder who I would have been
if I had stuck to my decision
to bury myself in myself and give up
on nights like this.

Nights like this
are my salvation
when I forget how to laugh too loud.

Leave your gum under the table
so that the next unsuspecting customer
will know that we were young last night.

4:56 AM

this is one of my favorite things i have ever written.

i wrote it in august 2008.

---

Five o'clock in the morning: I am born.
Every word I see has double-meaning and
every idea is a chain reaction. Remembering
things not fit for any other time of day
or night, (I count the seconds before the sun
breaks into my world, a vast orb of indifference;
always there.)

In a haze, I think of what it's like
to dream when you know it will come true-
I have become the patterns and solids,
intricate against each other, layered over
the world. Everything is laced together.
The trees hold hands outside my window,
whispering to me in silent breaths.

Can I describe the lonely feeling
of being everything
with no one to witness the rise?

Stutter

Don't think that just because I stutter
what I'm saying isn't true

because my heart may be buried in the gutter
but I'm still in love with you.

Dreamy Head

I want to throw a brick on the gas pedal
like a foot to my chest, force the air out
of me and into the world as I speed down
an endless highway.

I want to choke on salt and sand
with a belt of sand dollars to hold my heart
in place while I dance, dance, dance
and I forget the world.

I want a playground of pavement
and bright lights to play in while the dawn
settles over my tired, hazy world
and I still dance, dance, dance.

There is running and there is sprinting.
There is speeding and burning rubber.
There are dances and there is music--
in my dreamy head.

My Flannel Heart

My heart is a flannel shirt,
buttoned up and folded neat
at the foot of the bed
after I awake each morning,
waiting for you to come home
and to sleep each night.

I'm warm against your summer arms,
covered in tans and burns.
I'm warm against your winter chest,
coated in a blanket of pale.
I'm warm in the autumn,
and I'm warm in the spring
and you wear me all year round.

Because my heart is a flannel shirt
that I wrapped up in matching plaid paper
and gifted to you from under the tree,
hoping, crossing my fingers
that you might even try it on.

I love a love that lasts till Christmas,

when you can put a price tag
on a feeling in the hopes that it
will last long enough to see the sun
again
to feel the warmth of spring,
to pick a flower or take a bath
in new found warm weather.

My heart is a flannel shirt
that I gave to you
to make my efforts tangible.
You wore it with an eager smile,
making promises with your eyes
that your heart
(like wet cardboard,
like tattered fabric)
couldn't exactly keep.

We never made it past the gates
of winter,
dying out in February
before I ever got a chance
to see the sun.

You took the pajamas
and my flannel heart.

A Puddle of Red, White, and Blue

So, you're a puddle of red and white,
while I sit here in my bunny slippers
and a greasy hairstyle:
the epitome of blue.

It was what? a week ago that you
decided you wanted "something else"
and left me here
to cry myself into oblivion.

So, you're a picture of a boy in blue
with a smile on your love drunk face
and I know that curve of the lips
will never be mine again as long as I'm
me and you're
an ass.

Rationality

There's a boy in the box with a smile so warm
that I'm not sure how people can give them their ice
and think it won't melt.

Cross your fingers, folks because he is
beautiful and hot all over and he isn't going to back down
just because you bury him in frozen treats.

We are strong in the face of what you have in store,
our fingers laced together in the perfect portrait
of the confidence we have built.

Though, I must admit,
I shake more when the voices elevate
and I have a tendency of forgetting how to spell

r-a-t-i-o-n-a-l-i-t-y.

So, I'll keep my focus on counting the pearly whites
he loves to flash

and keep my hopes up that I don't fall short
compared to someone with such grace
and beautiful idiocy.