Coming to Terms

I will eventually come to terms
with being alone,
but for now,
it's still the most painful thing.

How do you tell your heart
to let go of the very one
who made it whole,
brought it to life again?

Holding on means
feeling the barbs of every
memory you planted inside
me.

I will eventually come to terms
with your arm's length embraces,
separating yourself even as we
come together.

How do you continue to reach
for that most painful thing -
that barbed wire heart -
when every wound still bleeds?

Holding on means more time
spent washing wounds
than listening to your heart beat
next to mine.

Worst

The worst alone
is the one you feel
when someone is
holding your hand.

Reaching

I have to wonder sometimes
what is so wrong with me
that my desire to
love and to be loved
is so unreasonable,
so unattainable.

Am I so broken that the
heart I have shown you is
so repulsive, unwantable,
that you dare not even touch it?

As if my scars were contagious.
Or you might be associated with my kind:

The desperate feelers who reach and grasp
like bodies in the Styx,
just wanting to be reached back for.

Money Back Guarantee

This isn't the life I ordered.
"Item not exactly as shown":
what an understatement.

If I send this back,
do I still have to pay the shipping?
I'm pretty sure the mistake was
on the warehouse's end; not mine.

This isn't the life I ordered:
I ordered the large.
I got the small.

I'm twenty-six years old.
My friends are getting married,
buying houses.
I have a "complicated entanglement'
and roommates.

This isn't the life I ordered.
I wanted the vibrant rainbow,
but you sent me the earth tones.

I make an hourly wage
that barely feeds my cats.
I haven't done laundry in a month,
but I guess this shirt smells clean enough.

This isn't the life I ordered.
I asked for the portable version,
and you gave me the stationary model.

I can't get out of the city
to clear my head
as my mode of transportation
is a second-hand bike whose brakes
don't work when they're wet.

This isn't the life I ordered.
I wanted the compatible extension,
but I received the individual model.

I fantasize about someday
loving someone
who loves me back.

This isn't the life I ordered.
I want my money back.

Alone in Your Bed

I fantasize about freeing myself
from this love you don't share
while you breathe gently,
deeply,
next to me, with your
arm draped over me,
so casually affectionate in your
slumber.

Stroking your hair, I whisper
my "I love you"s,
alone in my heart,
with you in your bed.

Shame

I told the world every day
just how fucking happy I was,
and I went home to my empty bed
- or sometimes my lover's;
does it make a difference when they don't
actually love you? -
and cried in miserable loneliness.

I was so ashamed of my loneliness,
and at the same time
ashamed of my shame;
is this not simply human?
To want to be wanted
- and needed -
to fill our caves with bodies
that keep out the cold night?

Happy Endings

Movies with happy endings shouldn't make me cry,
but they do.
I had a happy ending once, and the credits were supposed to roll,
but it turned out that my happy ending had its own ending,
and I was left with nothing
but an empty heart
and an empty house
as everything was taken away from me.

And this movie, my life,
is longer now than it should be,
and there's no indication
of an approaching intermission.
I keep watching everyone else's happy endings
while trying to find the silver lining
in the one that I have lost.

Built

I built this life from bits and pieces
on a foundation of packed dirt.
I can only hope it stands up
to the shit that rains down,
that its seams stay fast
so I can stay proud.

Because it may not be pretty,
exactly what I had planned,
what I had dreamed,
but I made it
with my own two hands.

This little shack of my life
is not what the little girl version of me dreamed of.
But I believe she would approve of what I've done
with the materials I've scavenged.

This little shack of my life
isn't much more than that,
but it's mine,
and I'll fight for it.
So have some respect,
and take off your shoes and your hat
if you're going to come in
and stay awhile.

Some Hearts

Some hearts are water:
they cannot be held.
They run over, spill out,
and you are left with wet hands.

Some hearts are deer:
they are skittish.
They must be loved gently,
and from a distance.

Some hearts are fire:
they warm you in the night.
But they will burn your fingertips
if you reach too far.

Some hearts are sand:
a million moments in one castle,
entirely vulnerable
to your changing tides.

Some hearts are stone:
You can hold them,
and they may warm,
but they are difficult to change.

Some hearts are wind:
you will feel them surround you,
but you will never hold them,
nor will they warm you.

My heart is softwood:
warm, and impressionable.
Your name is carved
alongside mine.

My Way

I want to scream out loud that I love you,
but loving you pushes you away.
So I hold my tongue,
and carry on,
and hope you'll look my way.

Heart Stops

Sometimes my heart breaks
for no reason other than
it doesn't know what else
to do with itself, it
spends so much time alone
with itself, it
drives itself crazy with
longing for something
that nobody wants to give it.

And sometimes my heart falls
to pieces and I just keep
handing out those pieces
to whoever makes eye contact,
like the religious zealot on
the corner handing out his magazine,
trying to save you,
and everyone drops their gaze
and nobody opens their hands
to save me.

Sometimes my heart stops.

Broken Glass

It's the quiet in the middle of the night
that ruins me every time.
It's the way you appear with no warning
that stabs me like so many knives.

It's the way I can't (won't) let go of you
that drags me deeper down.
It's the way you can't (don't) let yourself love me
that leaves me face down on the ground.

It's you,
in every way,
that has left me
here like this.

And you
don't get to turn away;
I want you to see,
this is your mess.

Halifax

Every square inch
of this fucking town
has a memory attached to it.
And they all lead back to you and you
don't even realize how deeply embedded
in my head you are.
In my heart, you are
picking away at the plaster
I used to piece it back together
last time it broke.
You shatter me.

Yours

I am yours,
and that's the problem,
isn't it? That there
is no chase, no thrill,
nothing to question or
challenge your aliveness,
your worth.
You are good enough for me,
and that's not good enough for you.

Xanthippe

This is who I am.
A quarrelsome woman.
A nagging woman.

This is me,
never being able to say sorry
enough to fix
what I have done
to you.

I am Xanthippe,
and I am sorry,
and I am heartbroken,
and I am lost.

I am without you,
by no one's fault
but my own.

Laundering

I'm making copies,
making prints,
of social currency -
laughter, smiles,
concerned looks -
hoping no one notices
my subtle treachery.

Counterfeit words,
and counterfeit expressions,
all these and more,
from made up life lessons.

I know it's all fake,
but I hope you won't notice,
until it's too late
and I won't have to show this.

Elephants

Don't think
about the pink ones --
you are, aren't you?

They stand in the midst
of this kitchen,
of our conversation,
pretending to be comfortable,
as if they are nothing out
of the ordinary.

They pretend they belong,
much the way we do.
They pretend they are not wrong,
much the way we do.

Ignore the big one
over there, by the furnace,
like you ignore the meanings
in everything I say.

These elephants won't
just go away.

Broken

Everyone is broken here;
not one person is whole.
Everyone is distrustful here;
they all wonder what you stole.
Everyone is lonely here;
a million people, all alone.
Everyone is cold here;
A million people, all with hearts of stone.
Everyone is helpless here;
no one knows what to do.
If you stay too long here,
You will end up broken, too.

Our Metaphorical Hearts

Our metaphorical hearts are spectacular.
They can take so many beatings
and still keep beating,
against the walls,
demanding life and love
and blood
and blood
and blood.
(sacrifice)
Such spectacular,
beating,
bleeding
creatures.

They reform
reshape
remake.
And we continue to offer our sacrifices.
Blood sacrifices.

We build something new
out of the ashes of every
burning heartache.

Our metaphorical hearts
are simultaneously stronger
and more vulnerable
than anything else in this terrible world.

Demanding blood,
pumping love,
beating back against the breaks.
Against the heartaches.

A Smart Woman

I am not a strong woman.
Like crystal, so easily shattered.
I'm not much more than human.
I'm beginning to see a pattern.

I give,
they take.
I love,
they break.
My heart,
their hands.
My seed,
their land.

I am not a smart woman.
Like a child, I keep on returning
to that terrible feeling, always looming,
of my heart, always breaking,
always burning.

Bed

It's always more difficult
to fall asleep alone
when I've had you near
for a few nights' time.

Your steady breathing
drowns out my mind,
and your heat on my back
is greater comfort than
any nightlight.

The dark is loud
in my head after you leave.
And my bed just doesn't
feel right.