Sick

I see you
like the ocean's in and out
playing with me like the shadows behind the moon
I turn and you are gone
One word, two
enough to let me hear you
and nothing, nothing
bears down and grabs wet sand with the fists of it's feet
squeezing with rage
all the things nothing can change.
Then later,
the cold wind snapping with each breath in
there you are,
there you are again
you silly, melancholy thing
you take vacations
like a human being
then show up on the doorstep in the prize box
you got me again you sly fox
You ugly component
you don't fit where you should
and I'll deny that I own it

My words

Nothing is perfect. Not my relationships, not my body, not me, not my kids. Not my thoughts. Not my house. Nothing. When my last breath is winding upwards like the smoke from a blown-out birthday candle, I want to rest knowing I left everyone aware of their place in my life. I want them to know they were important and not just the scenery of my own selfish production.

From here

Study on studying

We are all trying to be uncommon. I realized this in a sea of people at a concert recently. From the white-hatted to the pleather sheathed, all trying to draw on their individuality for someone to recognize them. Find them in the crowd. We all want to be so different, but somehow be understood. What a dichotomy. We want to be held, have our hair brushed aside and have someone tell us it will be okay. We want to believe we are the only ones who feel so intensely; yet we want others to feel it so they know how we are feeling. Fucking identify.
My problem, specific to me but not explicitly versed I’m sure, is that I am painfully aware. I feel myself, others, other people’s people. I feel the news, I am susceptible. I’m depressible. Some might say I need therapy. Others might say medication. I have tried both. I have not tried it extensively because I do not care to. I am not in denial; I know I am sick-souled. The truth is that it is what makes me who I am. My sadness, my intensity, my empathy, those are choice components of my personal being. If you can’t take my depressed state along with my happiness, then you can’t have me. You don’t deserve me.
I’m not going to search for someone to try and fix me. I’m not going to spend one more fucking minute being angry about that. I have plenty else to be pissed about.
Me? I was the one getting squashed on 3 cans of piss warm beer that I had to get a second mortgage on my home to afford, standing next to my husband in an innocuous black tank top and pair of jeans. I had my hair in a ponytail and my purple glasses as always. I surveyed and swayed. I was as benign as the unused chair behind my legs. Nothing makes me different. I try to do yoga and get sore three days in. I quit even though I like it. I think dirty thoughts during the downward facing dog and my warrior is more like a ninja. I want to hit people on the head with hairbrushes from time to time, when they bother me about their hair. Fuck. It’s just fucking hair you fucking assholes. It grows back and it hangs there just as stupidly as you let it. When people care so much it makes me want to do some royal damage. Sometimes I try to picture people who intimidate me taking a shit and all of the ridiculous faces they might make. It eases my mind and puts things into perspective. I am so passive. I am a peace-keeper at heart, even despite some inner rage. I might be the person you think is so terribly nice because I don’t have the balls to tell you I think you might suck, just sometimes. I’d say something very casual like “I don’t think that is very nice of you” when really I want to say “I CAN’T BELIEVE I KNOW SOMEONE SO DOUCHEBAGGEROUS”. I drank an ant today. I felt sorry for it’s dumb ant ass for crawling into my can of Diet Pepsi. I can’t fucking stop drinking cans of Diet Pepsi. I hate hair. I hate touching and talking to people I don’t know. Money is a great motivator. If only the hair was sterile and on a mannequin I’d be all good. Sometimes I have to stop and walk away to take wet hair that has fallen onto me off of me. Sometimes I want to divorce clients. I am a germaphobe. I sanitize much more than normal people but not much in my own house. My germs are fine. I have forgotten most of my life between the ages of 17- 21. That is fine by me. My memory scares me sometimes because I feel specifics slipping away. I used to be so sharp and now I have worn like an old pencil. I love my Grandma so much it hurts. I pick my cuticles. I turn my head to the left when I kiss. My left. I think thongs are the devil’s underwear. I like Simon and Garfunkel and Nine Inch Nails. I like Nine Inch Nails better. I have a crush on Jeff Buckley. He is dead, if I haven’t said that before. I like Donovan and Portishead. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed I can’t breathe. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed I eat too much and throw it up, in a bag. Sometimes after I do it, I feel better. Like I can handle whatever comes my way. I got full, got rid of it, out of my system. Fucked but true. Sometimes I want to smoke a humongous joint.
Do you want to know my point? This is not my idea of a meet and greet. My point is, I don’t want these things to define me, but they do. Here I am accruing this shit like it matters, like maybe it will make someone recognize me. The truth is that there is no deep, raw energy that makes me different than you. Just the minutiae makes me different. Only my vagina and hormones makes me different than a male, only my eye color and hair color and the way my ring and middle fingers touch together in the middle make me any more different than any other woman on any other day with any other vagina. Only some slight tonality in my voice differentiates my mood from bored to indifferent, angry to fuming; or from the last woman you spoke to.
I am not so foolish to believe I am so different. I want to but I just can't. I want to believe that somehow my tenderheartedness, my sadness makes me different than you. My education, my perspective, my money, my breath, none of that matters. In a sea of people it doesn't. We all just want to be understood.

Found in my attic

Worker bee go home
with your nectar dripping from your cheeks
I need my winter breath
It's stale, dormant frost
to calm these thoughts
flitting from tree to tree
worker bee
go home
With your tired wings
these flowers have died
cracked from the summer sun
dried, sweet papers
blown from yard
to park and back again
airy funeral
your work is done
they dropped that succluent, fragrant
skin down across the brush
with your full mouth
and winter wants it's way again

Garden

Dear, your flowers are wilting
the tops of the tomato vine like curled insect legs
a bursting putrid flesh
splits and spills its weeping fruit
the soil is like a hot dust
From your lips to the Earth
You kept them still and they grew
‘round each other like brothers and sisters do
Their silent conversations back and forth
Under the blue heated sky
Now the petals hard and dry
the edges rolled like tobacco leaves
a clenched palm in the sun
and the milk all bled out on the leaves like sticky tears
roots lifted out of the dirt like a curly head
turned sideways embarrassed and ashamed
that even in this circumstance could not live for you
could not do what it had intended to
From tiny seedling of hope to a tangled death
an ugly thing
no receptacle of moist dew or health
no redeeming innate life despite
not one miracle
however small or slight
but lays dried like a relic
the vegetables like found pets
yesterday’s victims
covered with pests
Pansies closed off like delicate eyes
impatiens that turned stony
Where they enthusiastically died
The sky still as scorching as clear
In your garden dear,
Not one miracle

Expectations

The golden honey drip
languished and settled
into walking like the joint of a hip
a working piston
a blossom of life opens in the morning
closes at night
sleeps with some knowledge in it's blindness
for it relies on the routine
mere existence has provided
that it's soul should always work
like the timing of the sun
the rain should always come when it is dry
and it should fold and die when it's roots are done
no sorrow for it's lack of question,
only unending trust

I miss

I miss you. I miss the inconspicuous love, the kind of vibrating, humming thing we were together. A big heart and a smaller one coexist and then suddenly one day they fall from each other, an unassuming separation that neither is truly aware of until one day it becomes so evident that it is impossible to ignore.