The Taste of Dust

I want to go to the desert.

Dust and heat,
reddened shoulders.
Chapped and cracked
hands and lips.

dry dry dry

Blue sky.
The taste of earth
in my mouth.
Every memory
slightly burnt.

Cool water
is a blessing;
nightfall a
virtual cleansing.

Cool air:
the sky explodes
into a million
constellations.

dry dry dry

When the sun comes up,
the sky is alive:
colours painted above
the horizon line.

I want to go to the desert.

Anyway

I avoid mirrors
I dare not look my sad self
in the eyes,
for I am not what I've claimed to be:
I am made up of lies.

(Save one.

My love for you
is my only truth.)

What would the woman
I make myself out to be
think of the woman
that's actually me?

I am weak.
Powerless.
Without a sense of self preservation
I love you to the point of my own damnation.

I continue to love you
as you chisel away at my heart,
burying the shards beneath your skin.
I watch as you fill yourself
with my love, but like some
black hole, you do not reflect it back.
I disappear.

I betray my own self
with every day that I continue to
offer my heart to you,
my soul prostrate before you,
with every moment that I beg
for what should be given freely.

I love you beyond what is sane,
but even knowing that I cannot turn away.
My heart is yours to do with what you may,
and to this end, I've accepted my fate.

I am yours, I have given you everything.
And so I lay naked at your feet,
waiting for you to deign to accept me.
knowing you never will.
still loving you anyway.

Corpses

Every dream you have
is like a star in the sky,
and you are reaching for the heavens.

Every star in the sky
has long been dead, which means
you are reaching for corpses.

Priorities

"What's wrong?
Why are you crying?"
You don't ask.

"I love you
more than I love me,"
I don't answer.

Walking

So many memories fill
the corners of this city,
the alleys and the dark spaces.
You, and you, and you
were there,
taking pieces of me,
burying them in the city streets.
Sometimes I stumble over them,
heart-filled concrete
- or is it the other way around? -
to remind me of what is missing.

Regrets

I long for you
to yearn for me
the way Pandora yearned
to know.

You released every terrible
feeling within me,
and worst of all
is Hope.

The Earth They Shall Inherit

Blessed are the caffeinated
for the earth they shall inherit:
freed through "natural" stimulation
to work, create, and prove their merit.

When struck by inspiration
caffeine helps with the perspiration
to get things done,
to get awards won,
byproduct of its blessed percolation.

Yes, blessed are the caffeinated
for the earth they shall inherit.

Eclipse

I was blinded by him;
he was like the sun,
and I was sunburnt and parched.

You were like an eclipse;
I could see again,
every star in the sky once hidden from me.

I could not look upon him,
but I could gaze at you forever:
your gentle touch a caress in the night.

You can light my path
without hiding the heavens from me:
you love me without holding me back.

What You Think Love Is

She stands in her living room, with her duffel bag on the floor beside her feet. She hears him come in the front door and he says "Hey, I'm here, are you okay?" Her text message had said only "I need to talk to you. Please come over." That was half an hour ago. He only lives five minutes away.

He comes around the corner of the entryway, and hesitates when he peers into the living room. It has been three days since he last spent the night, and in that time she has managed to sell most of her furniture. All that remains is the coffee table and the love seat, which the subletter will be keeping.

Not with you, Sometimes.

I went to a show
and wrote poetry all night.
I feel so alone
all of the time.

If I could share your skin,
I'd climb right in.
'Cause I feel so alone,
but not with you, sometimes.

I walked all the way home,
and laid awake all night.
I feel so alone
all of the time.

If my heart could pump your blood,
I'd open it right up.
'Cause I feel so alone,
but not with you, sometimes.

Not with you, sometimes.

Repeats.

History repeats herself.
Am I doomed to the life
my mother chose to write?

History repeats herself.
Was her choice, too, a lie?
Did she live her mother's life?

Repetition makes an impression.
Are their mistakes
now mine to make?

Give your heart to the one
who will hurt it the most:
Love them, and then love their ghost.

Give your heart to the one
who will leave you first,
who will never quench your thirst.

History repeats herself.
Mama, Oma, Omama:
Is it your lives I walk?

Miracles

I didn't ask to be hard to love,
nor did I ask to fall in love
with a heart so untouchable
as yours.

There are two playing this game,
and neither of us are making this easy.
If we make it out of this together,
it will be a miracle.

But I still have faith in miracles.

I still have faith in us.

Choices

I dream about running away;
what would happen if I disappeared?
Would you come looking for me?
Or would you let it be?
Would you consider yourself free?

I dream about forging my way;
what would happen if I followed my heart?
Would you still want to be a part?
Or would you disappear in the dark?
Would you take it for a fresh start?

I dream about giving you a choice:
Belong to us, or belong to nobody.
Would you choose to follow our story?
Or would you choose to be one only?
I don't know what you'd choose, honestly.

I dream about running away;
What would happen if I disappeared?
Would you come find me?
Or would you consider yourself free?

Half-Life

What is this I am doing?
Can you call it living?
I work I sleep
I cry in frustration
at the bus stop,
between the two.
I lie alone in the dark
waiting for you to
allow my heart your presence.
This half-life of waiting
and working
mindlessly
is working
against me.
I am withering.
Is this living?
Only something alive can die,
so I must not be dead yet.

Vampire

I am going to die
alone in my bed,
trapped in my head,
heart in my hand,
drowning on dry land,
lungs full of regret,
as I second guess
every word
every touch
every look.
I'm too much
to take.
I put my heart
at stake,
and you put a stake
through my heart.

Sheets

I want to be
who your heart
reaches out for
in the dark.
I want to be
who your fingers
miss when my
shape lingers

in your sheets,
in your memory.
(Your sheets, your heart
are in my memory).

Saying Nothing

I
talk talk talk talk
and say so little
as though if I stopped
I would say what I'm really thinking,
how I really feel.

I
talk talk talk talk
and say so little,
becuase if I were to say
the things that sit in the base of my throat,
it would overwhelm you.

I
talk talk talk talk
becuase talking is easier
than communicating
and I don't think you would want to hear
the things I really have to say.

Good For

If my rights, to you,
or lack thereof,
are an annoyance,
when spoken of;

when you refuse to learn,
to grow better than you were,
when it's too much work
to not hurt people worse off than you;

when you throw fourteen years out the window
because I remind you that the world is a dark place
for other people, and that if you're not part of the solution
then you're a part of the problem,
and you know as well as I do that you're not trying to solve anything...

When you're too good for your best friend of nearly two decades,
because she faces troubles you don't have to and so
you feel like it's too much damn drama,
because she won't let it go already
with her activist propaganda...

Well, what are you good for then?
Besides trivializing my mental illness,
my social repression, that is.
Well, I'll tell you you're no good for me,
and good riddance to you.

Butterflies

You've never stopped giving me butterflies
I haven't stopped trying to meet your eyes
across the table, the room.
I've labeled you my doom,
for I've been surviving on your not-lies,
unsaid untruths that prolong how my heart dies.
I just pray it happens soon.