Anger, you

you heart shaped box, you
you pride
you burn, burn, burn
familiarity, you
you dark deep you
you own me, you
I surrender, me
a black dark burning hatred heart, you
get away from me, you

growl
fight back
don’t fight back, you
I’m mad at you

you give me the smallest space
a heart shaped box
a hollow you
a me shaped body

a heavy cement slab floating on
dark water
where I live underneath but I don’t die
a lifetime of the burning in my lungs

My still trying to please you, you
My who am I without dankness, you

A Piece of Paper in my Pocket from 4 years ago

I’m vomiting.
This is poetry this time.
This is above what it is you want from me.
This is putting my head down because every bit of energy is going into

This.
This is salvation.
This is fear.
This is hope.
This is cliche.
This is everything I fear it is.
This doesn’t make me feel better after,
it’s just something that has to happen.
This isn’t healing.
This is existing.
I have to exist first to heal?

This is tired feet and exhausted will power.
This is mandatory.
Everything always is.

This is a piece of paper.

Do it
Don’t talk about doing it.
Show us
Don’t tell us.
How do I feel more heard?
I have to talk to myself first?
My first friend- this piece of paper?

She’s wearing a blue hoodie and has rusty blonde hair in a ponytail and thick glasses.
I’ve seen her before.
I don’t know where.
Do I know that girl?
Does she know me?

Every city has girls that look like other girls.
My brain scans it’s memories.
Some stickier than others.
Trying to differentiate memory from stories, emotions, fear.
I don’t think brains are very good at that.

When I was back in Ohio, after 2 years in California I knew every face at the grocery store.
Brains aren’t built to not know anyone.
Brains are built for the familiar.
I’m trying to change.
Everyone I meet keeps reminding me of someone else.

A Piece of Paper in my Pocket from 4 years ago

The Pronouns of The Sun

I talked about how modernity personifies god.
He talked about personifying nature.
Like the sun, my teacher.
I couldn’t decide the pronouns of the sun.
The trees today are paternal but they have been female before-
The moon, last night, a her
I was in her too.

What’s the reverse of personification?
Can one make a person resemble nature like we make nature resemble a person?

He, the tree, my teacher
said to close my eyes-
feel something that was undoubtably true.
I’m excited.
Something big is coming.

Today is cloudy and I’m inside.
Yesterday was sunny and I was alive.
My pronouns are ambiguous today.
But not in this photo.

This is a photo from yesterday.
I am more me in this photo than I’ve been in a long time.
I am in the sun.

Stay With Me

The red light ended so quickly-
how I would imagine a solar system would look
coming to a silent, peaceful end

There was a woman dancing in the streets
she felt free and perfect-
connected to
the cold air and
scared up trees

There was a little girl
with the same green eyes
crying on the concrete 
under the same trees

She came at her to fix her
but the girl turned away
thinking
please don’t lie to me about how ok I am

What do you need?
thought the woman
Stay with me.
thought the girl 

no one said anything
no longer attempting to amend reality

She sat. 
The girl cried 
She sat
Stay with me,
the girl cried 
The woman sat. 
She cried. 

I've tried everything to fix the lump in my throat
A lifetime, maybe more,
Of denying reality 
Stay with me,
it said today,
In the red light of my meditation lamp. 
I sat down.

Depth

when I write a poem about an ex
well, ok. 
men I went on a few dates with
hoping they will read it 
my attempt at controlling
what they think of me
when they’ve stopped thinking of me 
Why do some people think so little? 

I think, 
“What do I want?”
I wonder,
if they question things 
like I do 
If someone who I barely met  
tells me “I’m too deep”
It makes me question 
my?
my...
everything. 
my...
ability to connect 
to give and receive love 
to be worthy of love 
to be worthy of being
who I am 

Who am I? 
I am deep. 

does he look back
at old pictures of himself
doing his marvelous, 
beautiful, broken, and potentially 
not so deep life things
and see the 
stains
on memories 
like I do?
the heartbreak of the people who 
he went on one date with 
I let them make me so vulnerable. 
I’m so vulnerable.
Is that the depth that scares you?

acting invulnerable doesn’t make 
your self  
less 
vulnerable. 

I see pictures of me, memories 
from years ago
remember the guy who, 3 dates in,
at that time
proved right some insecurity 
about
my self
my depth 

My childhood self forming
internalized voices saying
“Why can’t you be more easy going?”
or “You are too sensitive!”
or “Why do you make everything so challenging?!” 
I’m learning to unbury my self

Do other people get their hearts broken 
by people they don’t even know 
or care about 
like me?
He said I am too deep. 

My fears 
of self 
have nothing to do with 
love 
or partnership
or connection
or him
my poem are about
me
my depth of 
my fears of
my self
I am deep. 

my depth
my superpower 
not yet accessible because 
I’ve never let myself be
deep enough 
to not scare you 
deep enough 
to stand in the pit that is
my self 
my hole of insecurity 
acknowledge 
I am not too deep.
I’m sorry you do not come down this far. 

Brooke

the sadness that

not all stories finish

not all stories end

that

you held for me

having so much time to

care for everyone

else. I’m so sad.

your beautiful arms.

I remember your beautiful arms

was the first warmth I felt

When I felt cold

thinking

your skin

the blonde hairs

how perfect I wondered

you knew you were

you crying you trying.

the trying the trying

so much trying

It just wasn’t done

I want to be angry.

I want to save you.

It just wasn’t done.

For Kids Like Us

people like us-
people that never
had
a family.
When we find something that
might be a family
we adhere to it
in fear.
We don’t understand
we can be loved
for who we are.
Our nervous systems don’t function that way.
That we can just be ourselves.
And people will love us.

Now.
They are asking us for ourselves
we want to be ourselves
we don’t know how to
believe you.

used to relationships that are-
extractive. and…
fragile.
So fragile.
to lose trust in what the relationship
actually is.

Now.
I see that you love me.
You want me to be myself.
I just can’t really understand-
I cannot stop-
fear.
Fear that it’s not true.
That love can be that easy.
That I don’t have to pretend
to be someone else to make you love me.

Be in love.
I don’t mean IN LOVE
like they fucking say but-
feeling love. feeling it.
New.
Scary.

For kids like us.
What are they trying to get out of me?
We look for excuses to try to get out of it.
in them, or in ourselves.
run and hide

We remember
the pain of trying to be ourselves.
Kids like us.
finding out that that’s not enough.
That’s not what they love-
They don’t love us.
They love the story of who we are supposed to be
for them.
And we have been that, for them, for a long time.

That’s the worst pain we’ve ever felt,
maybe.
So please.
When you ask me to love you-
to trust you.
Tread lightly.
Understand what you are asking of me.

I’ll give you my heart

I’ll give you my time 

I’ll give you my body 

my juices 

my lips, my kiss, my tongue

my vulnerability 

the smell of me

on you

all day. 

Don’t wash your beard. 

You can have that. 

You can have 

my curves and my aggressiveness 

my desire for the way you smell 

my passion for this moment

The bruises you leave on me

you can have that part of my skin. 

my moans, specific to the way you 

bite the back of my neck 

my inhibitions. 

I’ll give you the deepest part of me,

I’ll let you inside me

my deep breathing 

I’ll let you have my lungs 

my whimpering exhales 

my clenched fists

my mind—

My sad, beautiful, conflicted mind, 

I’ll let you replace it with 

you. 

my body consumed with you. 

I’m am with you,

I surround you. 

take me. 

use me

I’m yours 

I’ll give you everything 

Except 

your attempt to own my sexuality

your need to control me

your desire to feel special 

becoming my responsibility,

love. 

your shame

your fears

every time you were too afraid 

to feel

your worth. 

It’s. 

yours

Your 

tragedy. 

This, my love, 

This is for you. 

This is your work. 

And I will not take it. 

small victory

I watched a leaf dance violently, desperately

in the wind

for hours, trying to get away trying to be

somewhere else. And one moment, finally

success- the leaf burst

from the branch floating free

for just a moment until hitting the second branch

below. a soft but sudden victory, an escape,

indeed. The leaf lives there now.

Blue Scarf

I ponder fate.

This time -not mine,

Or hers. But the life of a blue

Scarf. The one

she made for me. Will it

eventually fall apart, will I lose it,

will I die with it?

Will I have it when she’s 32?

Tenderloin. 11:11pm

A woman and two kids ring the bell at the women’s shelter. The kids are about 9 and 6, with dirty Starter coats and backpacks. The older one waits with no expression. The younger walks backwards on the sidewalk, playfully, with curiosity, as children do. A man, next to a green tent, is stopped over and rocking. Standing in pee and his pants are around his knees, I smelled it as I walked to my car. The child gets some feet from the man, turns around in a small gasp and flees back to his mom. I wonder how it must feel to scare children. I sit in my car, eating an orange. I feel like a failure.

Hypocrite

I wish I could bottle up all of your 15

and just feel it for you

while I’m trying to help you

to stop obligating yourself to others’ pain

wisdom

There’s a girl in a tree

Her legs are bare

It’s cold outside

Well, 50°

She’s just old enough to know better

There’s a man on a mountain bike on the road

He’s headed downhill

He looks like he’s fallen enough times

to know better

There’s a lady in a mini van behind me

She’s in a hurry. Her kid, in the passenger

annoyed at his options- I let her pass.

I’ve been in a hurry before.

There’s a group of old people walking

They’re wearing winter coats

it’s 50°

They walk in a straight line

like sad kindergartens

One walks in the street with the cars

A tad more bouncy and curious-

I checked to see if it was a child

as I bike by

But no. Just a little old lady

old enough to know better

little eyes

Walking

little eyes over the fence

the age that cuss with their friends

but cry when they fall

knowing fear is worse than pain. I wave.

knowing these eyes are old enough

to find my friendliness odd

but they still wave back

Dillon

I wrote a poem about you: in my mirror. In infectious awe. You tremble around in subliminal beauty

Troy

I slept with him and then 

I wrote him a poem 

He said “I’m not looking for something serious” 

And I said “not all poems written about you 

are written for you”

But I’m not sure he understands 

I wrote a poem in yoga 

put it on paper after class

a sad poem-

I wanted to share it with the teacher

But I was afraid 

she won’t understand 

that the breaths I can’t yet take

have nothing to do with her

She told me that I’m healing. 

She’s a healer. 

She asked to take away all my pain 

If I’m ready

And i said “No don’t, I have poems to write”

And she said  “For whom?” 

I’m not sure I understand 

I told you “You inspired me 

I’m going to write you a poem”

You said “For whom?”

and I kinda thought-

everyone except you, really. 

All the busy people-

myself included. 

I’m not sure we understand

on existence

Day 7 of 10
I watched an ant on break for about 40 minutes.
I talked to him softly so no one would hear me
It was nice to hear my own voice
The ant didn’t seem to notice
I told him I wouldn’t hurt him intentionally
but I have said that before.
we tend to affect everyone we come into contact with,
don’t we?

Day 1 of 10
we walk around and look down
at our feet, or
up to the sky
we aren’t allowed eye contact-
acknowledging other’s existence.
we are supposed to feel alone.

What if?-
a poem that exists is never written
The poem part-
ink on paper, I mean-
it makes more permanent-
the feeling.
As if existence must be seen.

I wrote this on a napkin
with a pen
i stole from the registration desk, where
we had to surrender
our notebooks, reading materials, phones-
anything that made the happenings in our head
exist

On day 4 of 10
during meditation
I pretended to type my thoughts on a keyboard
like I am doing now
telling them to whomever wanted to believe in me.
Pretending I was talking to someone
grounded me in a reality-
I’m just not sure of which.
I thought of the multiverse theory
how, somewhere, in another world,
someone is reading the things I tap
gently into my shins.
”Dear Universe-” I started
laughing when I remember I am the universe
and I am back to where I started-
talking to myself-
I guess that’s all anyone is ever doing.

On day 9 or 10
I went “cling, cling, cling” on my tea cup,
with my spoon, and someone,
on the other side of the curtain went
”cling, cling, cling” with their tea cup and spoon.
and I went “cling, cling, cling” again
and they went “cling, cling, cling” again
and it was the most beautiful song we made.
You hear me.
You see me.
We exist.

I was starting to question.

What then,
is the “look, look, look!”
feeling, like a child
when the sun hits the yellow November leaves
or there is a blue bird?

Day 5 of 10
We stood in silence to celebrate the glowing yellow clouds
in front of the brilliant orange moon while
we felt alone.
The moon fiddles about in silence.
She doesn’t seem to care if
my poem, about her,
exists.

Day 10 of 10
we make friends with pebbles,
and sticks and fairytales
to avoid making friends with ourselves.
We’ve made little alters.
We placed sticks and rubble,
leaves, and feathers on flat surfaces-
tree stumps and rocks.
I walk by, I add something beautiful.

friend, Love

I guess we start our dissent
into you 
being a poem
friend 
another ex
friend
a person I love 
I’ll never talk to 
again 
a friend 
who can’t be my friend because 
you need some 
one
to prove how special and lovable 
you are 
to yourself.
I guess I can’t do that,
friend, because
that’s not how
fairytales work.
my heart thinking 
this will turn around and I can 
still love you,
friend
as if there is enough love 
friend
too much love, love?
in this world to deny 
love-
real
love.
friend, love.
as if the only love we are 
allowed to feel 
Is from a 
one 
and 
only. 
no. 
Fuck your fairytale. 
no 
one 
will make you
love you 
you 
have to do that.
Friend.
just keep throwing each other’s love
away, trying 
as if love is 
one. 
I hate losing my
friend 
I hate losing my
love 
because you hate the word—
friend,
Love. 

This seemed like a place

to be scared enough to feel alive 
but safe enough to write a poem 

This deck creaks and squeaks  
The sand, forced
to hold the old wood in
silent, obvious rebellion
of it’s task.
The water slaps and gargles on the rocks like
my queasy stomach 
Is he mad? 

I am cold. Bare
knees
let my black scuffed boots,
the ones I wear to look tough, 
defined as— withstanding 
rough or careless handling, 
hang a few inches above the 
dark,
gentle water. 

San Francisco twinkles tiredly 
over the laziest landscaped trees 
somewhere in Berkeley
in the horizon 
surrendering to
the line of red taillights behind me 
I’m too late 
to need to be a part of.

I missed the pink sunset—
higher forms of possibilities,
I was on 580. 
I read the email wrong. 
Learning,
the meeting already started. 
I drove here instead.
I’m wearing my favorite sweater. 
I didn’t know what else to do. 

I told him where I was 
I wondered 
somehow 
if he blamed himself.
He does that sometimes. 

I wish he knew 
He’s the reason I didn’t turn around
and drive right back to San Francisco 
I wait for him 
to know where to go
his place or mine 

He’s yet to reply. 

I wish he knew how this place feels to me 
on this deck 
over this water

I wish he knew how this place feels to me
scared enough to feel alive 
but safe enough to write a poem 

Tight Ass

I have held my glutes squeezed 
all the time 
for years now
for fear of being weak
or looking weak. 
Sometimes I allow myself to release
my tight ass
and it doesn't hurt to stand still 
as much anymore
and my hips dont hurt
as much anymore 
and my back feels less fragile
and it allows me to unclench my jaw,
notice my feet on the ground
surrender my shoulders
relax the tension behind my eyes 
have real exhales.
But sometimes 
I notice my tension,
And it feels normal. 
And relaxing feels like so much work.
Letting go 
feels exhausting
sometimes I just have to give myself 
a break
and just stay
in tension.