thoughts for carolyn

did he love to read?

when he shot her eyes….do you know?

you crushed him, and this weight

on all is not yours. Do not pretend

you loved him.

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everything is full of ghosts.

they are dead on replay, they rise

out of a song lyric

a water bottle

friendly shoulders

some chairs at night.

one specter awakens and calls up all the others,

their bones rattle as they write

words with their fingers and tongues

┬átimes when you wouldn’t be forgotten outside in the cold

quiet art galleries

being asked to dinner

really white sheets and A team

you’d have people to sit with at the show

though these are all good things

they sting as all broken promises do. So I commune with these spirits,

tired of avoiding these commonplace terrors,

wait for those to come forth that calm the others

the peaceful, quieter, subtle loves

the stories that did not end in heart-wrenching shame

they come close and silence the ghosts which say

life will never be any better than failure.

NaPoWriMo

I was so excited for April this year – this time, I was sure, with working internet and everything, I would be able to finally participate in the blogging world’s National Poem Writing Month. 30 poems in 30 days.

Then I got sick on April 1 and have been sick since then. Since my very limited energy has been largely devoted to schoolwork, I have had little to no interest in trying to construct any sort of worthwhile writing whatsoever. (Hopefully I will get it together before the paper I have to write this weekend)

So, it is with much sadness and as much grace as I can muster, I must withhold my participation from NaPoWriMo this year.

­čśŽ

drawn

being drawn feels interesting,

you get to see yourself the way

someone sees you, your real physical outsides

sculpted onto paper by

their scribbling marks.

being drawn out

brought out, seeing yourself the way

they see you is scary

dangerous, the mirror of their eyes may actually show truth

you are unprepared to see.

homesick.

repeated dream:

you and i push off in a little boat, laughing

breaking the filmy layer of ice

using our oars to guide us around the frozen chunks.

Every time, we begin to sink

the boat tilts, spilling us

I crash into the waters, which break

and I fall into the river of home.

It is warm, and my eyes open

emerging from the gloomy depths,

weathering crocodiles,

I gasp onto shore,

a rocky bank breaking the rapids.

You are gone, and I know where to go from here.

I tear my clothes from my skin and fly into the waves, carried

on a current I understand.