Selected Poems

I remember the times I was alone running through the forest, the moon my only friend Using the shadows to hide myself away at the sound of soft crunch of approaching footsteps Looking up, I take a deep breath to steady myself—searching the sky for the North Star Lost myself along the trail—instead of counting steps I started to count the scars Months of running alone with nothing but the branches and the leaves Making friends with the critters scurrying along with the unexpected breeze I don’t remember what caused me to scream; I’ve since blocked out what brought me to my knees The moments come back to me, but only with enough time to really notice the sudden freeze A shock to my system—an unavoidable kind of dramatic defeat Waiting for the heavy red curtains to close before realizing they were only sheets Counting each drop of blood that escaped the fresh wounds—how much can one person bleed? Questions that still linger—an echo that wakes me up out of the deepest of sleeps Standing at the edge of the rocks looking down at the drop—at least a few hundred feet Was it days, months, years of time that have somehow managed to disappear Lines that constantly shifted underfoot, keeping each future step just a little too unclear Waiting for the sun to shine down, begging for a little bit of warmth—a lingering heat The ticking of the clock and the slow deterioration of fragile and aging skin The truth is buried—pieces of the story remain, but the entirety will never be told again Forgotten dialogue between actors throwing out false accusations meant to condemn The ever-present lingering of a karmic lesson masquerading as a false twin Listening, again, to the echoes—the only sound remaining is the howling of the wind Watching as the branches waver—the silent threat: will it break or will it bend? Trapped inside of this scene until the break of morning, the ticks of the clock still offend I take a deep breath to steady myself—staring at hundreds of pages I once penned I close my eyes and start to type the final words; the keys clacking—“The End”

There’s a girl still waiting at the bottom of the stairs — hand on the door, echoes of shouts chaotically descending. Another shadow of a girl standing on the roof — smoke billowing from her mouth, mascara-laced tears still waiting to dry. A girl laughing too hard at jokes that weren’t funny — carefully sidestepping the trigger to the trap door below — always wondering which step would cause her to finally fall to the entry-level floor. There’s a shadow sitting on a poorly cushioned, velvet-blue booth seat in the corner — strobe lights flashing, sweat-covered bodies, bass vibrating the vinyl on the floor. Phone in hand — thumbs typing a poem as I watch you move across the room, feet flowing to the rhythm — watching as each step threatens to take you away, pixie dust hidden in your pocket — and hope floating in the air just out of reach. There’s a shadow beside your car in the garage — smoke dancing through the air — a man holding her phone, speaking aloud the words selected in theatrical tones. Laughter bouncing off concrete — this only ever happened when we were alone; careless thoughts whispered — a calculated shadow lingering in your eyes. I took snapshots in my mind — the only pieces of the history that still remain; a passenger beside your seat — watching as you drum along with a hair band; remarks made in a secret tongue only the two of us could understand; friction that started like two matches who finally struck the right part of the box — white sheets once sleek, now tangled and tossed — reflecting fragments of blinding lights. Another five A.M. call that made its way through a deep sleep — I guess I forgot to leave you blocked. Getting in the car like a dog being called by its owner — where’s her leash? A walk through the Möbius staircase — carefully hiding her shame — smoke wafting through the air — someone already halfway through smoking a chain. New Year’s Eve at four a.m. — you pulled up unannounced, your phone in hand. This was the first time out of about a dozen — a cycle I didn’t ask to participate in. “Hey, aren’t you going to let me in?” — I can hear the smugness sitting on the other end. Falling down my hallway — wearing vodka like it suddenly became your favorite cologne — demanding forgiveness while at the same time demanding that I immediately atone — driving you home while you sang along to songs — then going back to announcing that I was wrong. Another knock on the door — another face — more filled space — three quickly became a crowd. Another round of people that I’ll never manage to see again — destruction left in their wake — stories that stained the corners of the words we kept hidden inside of a picture frame. Remember when I told you we’re all just varying shades of moral gray? Halloween in the air again — ghosts that come back one month ouut of the year — echoes of a girl lost inside a wood-floored landing and a staircase shaped like a maze — a shadow figure still lingering in the halls — careful not to make too much sound — the girl who wore the mask that everyone requested that she portray — reminding me that time isn’t linear — it bends until the past won’t stay.

Seven months of time spent collecting data and putting it into a spreadsheet. Columns of words spoken with rows of numbers, a note scribbled off to the side. Looking for the return on an investment that never came and never went— I’ve been staring at it for so long that my eyes have started to blur. The pace of my heart reflected by the blinking of the cursor sitting on the screen. I drag my mouse down the column—recounting the tallies—what was the final score? When I put in the data, I could have sworn that there was this plus a little more. Closing in on end-of-day, the clock in the corner still ticking quietly away. My hands rest on my desk—I didn’t realize that it was covered in crumbs. What makes this realization funny is that I can’t tell you when I last ate bread. The only other sound in the room is the water cooler in the corner—a continuous hum. Maybe if I sift through my emails one more time, I can find the missing thread. Someone once told me that it’s better to stop at something when you’re ahead, but I’ve always been more likely to stop something once it leaves me for dead. Patterns that I’ve learned from—some that I swore I would never repeat. Another hour spent, answers evasive, still scrolling in hopes it was a misread. When do we determine that we’ve finalized the last version of a report? How do you explain spreadsheets that continue to come up a little short? With a quiet sigh, my mouse hovers over the option that allows us to export— data, the one thing that I’ve learned in this life that can never be ignored.

When you’d hold me when I was little, I’d squeeze the mole on your back I’d do this over and over until you got tired of it and placed me on the ground Within a year, I chased you around the grocery store demanding to know how I was made I wouldn’t let it go even when you tried to distract me or create a sharp subject change By the age of five I played flower shop owner with a bouquet picked from our neighbor’s yard A story you’d tell to anyone that would listen for decades and all I could do was smile I published my first poem shortly after hitting the beginning stages of double digits Those were the years of never-ending sunshine and getting lost in short-lived sun showers Sharpie-covered jeans, black-stain song lyrics, riding through the streets in shopping carts A band of misfits that held hands through the darkest, starless, too-quiet nights The first signs of a rift that neither of us could put words together to describe From family functions with bright eyes; sudden angry words leading to shouts and then to cries Moments locked behind walls that to this day probably still have some sort of hidden eyes Ink-smeared pages carefully tied together then locked away inside of a box The key forever lost—forgotten somewhere deep in unexplored thoughts Parts of the story that I don’t know if I’ll ever choose to speak on or to share Bleeding that left scars across my skin and deep inside of the memory bank in my brain A constant shade of grey that seems to stain the overworked edges of every single page No amount of stuffing truth between words on pages seems to keep the trauma responses at bay Haunted by whispers of conversations we’ll never have and apologies that you’ll never speak Hallways full of the ghosts of moments where I hid the feeling of shame or of defeat Echoes of footsteps from times I left unsure of whether it was final or just momentary retreat Movies unexpectedly playing of the years where I was still small enough to hide at your feet The lingering ticking sound reminds me of the old grandfather clock in the hall It chimed at midnight waking me up into a movie scene right before the character stalls Two people equals three truths—hold enough space for the four walls to safely contain Don’t let the hair dye stain the caulk or the sealants used beside the bathtub drain The first person to believe that I could be stronger than the statistical finish line of my lineage The person that taught me that money can open doors but real power comes from knowledge Cautious words spoken where I’d choose to casually nod my head—don’t worry, I agree The only holder of my deepest secrets and unspoken fears; forever my silent trustee An earlier goodbye than I had expected, but we both know there’s no such thing as guaranteed

Manic pixie dream girl Is at it yet again Run off to the woods With notebook and pen Her hair frolicking in the wind Not concerned with foe vs friend Just searching for meaning A thesis to the continuous ends Manic pixie dream girl Wakes from a dream where time bends Cold sweats and hands that shake— Lost words floating inside her head The sun rises as she plants a smile on her face It’s the start to a brand new day Manic pixie dream girl She’s at it yet again Heart on her sleeve Thoughts in her hand Stating the obvious With laughter unplanned At least the night wasn’t bland Manic pixie dream girl Already had a plan Leaving before midnight Her hand holding her bag Creating a safe distance Before the moment could land Manic pixie dream girl Mastered the art of an escape plan Learning the fastest routes And the lay of closed-off lands Decisions made in simple ways Like blindly throwing darts at a map Manic pixie dream girl Somehow she’s leaving yet again Her bags in the trunk Throwing all of her caution to the wind She left a note on the table Her chicken scratch handwritten goodbye But kept the notebook and the pen