To My Friend Who Advises to Shatter Something to Pieces

It’s not that there is not merit to

what you are saying.

Sure; there is certainly satisfaction

in breaking something apart,

reveling in the tiny fragments

that scatter where it once 

claimed whole.

Creation, even, 

in destruction.

But if you take an egg,

throw it with all of your strength,

and watch the soggy insides

drip and ooze against the concrete

where it met its demise

so suddenly,

you cannot take back your action.

Similarly, with your suggestion:

take a bat and smash it!

You have defied the first Creator

of your now beaten, 

broken object

that was once a vase, 

a lamp, a teapot, a glass,

never to be as it once was.

There is no coming back,

no repair you could possibly offer,

amount of glue, or time, or energy,

to give back to the first artist

who sat painting, painstakingly,

threw on the wheel, handbuilt,

or blew with heat and fire at their brow,

the sweat and blood worked into 

their art piece,

nor do you honor the first owner

who saw it as something that might

bring color and light into their

home, or coffee, how it matched

some part of their own soul and 

called to them.

It is a statement, to be sure,

and granted, I do not take to

any theory of broken windows

or juvenile crime from your 

emotion that you deigned art

the very moment a wooden

bat connected with a fragile

figment, standing in your

way of violent rebellion (it is, afterall,

in our nature to do such things),

but I must protest.

What is it, exactly, 

that you wish to state?

That you can break something?

Did you believe that you could not?

That no object lasts forever?

Were we not already aware?

Or is it a metaphor for the fragility 

of life, a moment taken to

destroy what took hours to 

design, seal, and paint?

What is the point of that?

If you took these pieces, and made

a mosiac, or pictures for a show,

slowed down time to watch that moment

preserving it on film forever,

but I don’t feel that is what you are doing,

no.

You destroy it for the sheer joy

of destroying something,

and nothing more than that.

I can not abide this.

I won’t.

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Bluebird

He saw in the whispers of another,

a smile she’d never showed to him.

An unwarranted swelling of pain

to his pride, but he hid in

his awkward smile.

He felt the rage drip down

his face in hot tears as it

took him over, and soon

he’d become consumed

with the accusation she

loved another.

Such a fickle temptress,

this green eyed goddess

has become, as if she ruled

him the whole time,

stealing his joy for herself.

Clenched hands thrust into

his pockets, and a puffed mask of

tormented anguish and anger,

and she told him it was

nothing, but his mind

had made a truth.

Such lovebirds cast into

catastrophe, green-eyed goddess

turns with a wicked grin

to celebrate an early victory,

a terrible mirth at her stead.

But it was not another laugh

made special for another man,

and she would only become confused

in roiling emotions stirred,

at statements flung at her like knives,

and hurtful judgements

better left unsaid.

How cheerful little bluebirds seem,

but jealousy blackens even

the smallest and purest of hearts.

Down the Rabbit Hole

I can’t support what you love,
and you can’t support your
claims to love me.

It’s like falling
forever, falling asleep
while falling, and waking up
still set toward nadir,
place of darkness
I so often inhabit.

It’s such a long journey,
I thought you might
try to catch me, break my
descent–you didn’t.
You pushed me away.

I needed you to pull me
from the pit,
and, for a fleeting moment,
seemed you might, but then
your lover called you, you
forgot your vows, and
I  watched your face,
that I had seen
so many times above
my own,
shrink into nothingness,
and fade out of view.

How I longed for you to
love me,
and I loved you so much
more than
I could even love myself,
and you took my affections
and twisted it,
some monster.

I felt the dull knife break
between the columns
of my bleak spine,
painful separation,
yet somehow
somewhat expected.

And though my ego took a dive,
you should know, the betrayal never
hurt as bad as realizing that
the fantasies were better
than our reality ever was.

I wonder back to that
character who looked at
his family and wondered
at what point he would have
to forsake his family,
and look to himself for survival.

At what point
do I save myself?
At what point
do I grow?

Grotesque

Could we take a moment to consider O’Connor,

maybe Welty, or Faulkner too? Where regional

works are absorbed into families, and deformity

is linked to the spirit.

Because that is my own dilemma.

Can I have a club foot, or a disfigured

face, a hand that never lets go?

What would they have said about

my spirit? What would the lesson be?

There is a theme among parable-like stories,

short and long, novels and poems,

and words that sound like home,

every page I turn.

Perhaps I am already grotesque,

and that’s why I relate

so well.

Although, I’ve often felt closer to Chopin’s

characters. To take my clothes off near the beach,

run into the the welcoming waves,

and become so lost in my own awakening

that I drown.

Just a Rambling Reply

Always two extremes form in
you, and coalesce as black and white,
but love and hate are on opposite ends
of an exaggerated spectrum.

I won’t deny that jealousy had a factor,
but I wasn’t the green monster
seething over some other girl took
some place I never really wanted.

Spiteful, protected, maybe even annoyed, but hate? I feel no rainbows
when I see you anymore, just
a dandelion who lost his seeds.

A year is not really an indication
of how well anyone can know you,
a blink of time not much longer
than seconds or minutes.

Sand may pool around my ankles
in this hourglass that I gaze from.
I seek patterns, for habits are more
telling than all the time in the world.

You seek immediacy, using malhumor
to break the ice, and I don’t understand
the constant need to press issues,
specifically, the very things I fight for.

I emerge with newfound knowledge
as I clean up another of your messes.
You again left your friends, no word,
no reason, but that’s not your problem.

You can’t sweat it out. It’s just too much to promise something,
never having the intention of
finishing what you started.

What am I to you? That’s all I really
want to know. It doesn’t take passive
poetry, so I am genuinely befuddled.
Exercising patience is somewhat of a pass time, but I am at my limit.

Come out of the dream, stop illiciting
the monster, and tell me in words unspun. Truth is prettier when it isn’t
tossed in some sugar, cinnamon, and set aside, soon to roast.

A Mid-Morning Fight

I hate the way that words rip
the air, lashing at me,
gritted teeth, unheard points
because ‘I never take your side’.
I just want a day I actually like
who I am, without my personality contorted in retort.
Clenched fists, and bellowing,
doesn’t speak highly of the love
you keep claiming is still there.

I want to be the girl who made you feel
like it was worth it to wake up,
and not be the perfectionist,
some emotionally aloof savant,
who ‘wrote the book on communication”.
Yet, I play the villian in your novel.
I make you follow rules and order,
and you will liberate yourself,
by insulting my intellegence.

After Being Asked Not To Be So Sad

And I thought things were going so well…
I have scattered ashes of my past,
pouring them on my barely breathing soul.
Chalky grey inside my nuclear core,
covering my smile, dimming the
stars lighting the way into
my true self, which is not a person unlike me when I was happy,
and the thoughts that would have
led me to you.

In solitude I find my anger, buried deep, burning at two hundred thousand Kelvin. It’s the smallest recess in my most forgotten memory,
which sometimes fractures into dreams,
snatches of memories in smells, and feelings, but never a full picture.

I haunt the earth above the gravesite of my first daughter.  Wind stirring just enough to unsettle those fleeting questions, louder than breathing.

I am always reflecting my life, the times I didn’t walk away and the times I should have.
Those first inclinations to bat away that growing
apathy, swelling in my fingertips, now solidifying in this strange buzzing of racing thoughts and feelings I would rather not feel.

Staring distantly at the written letter held between my fingertips, I feel the deepest nothing, allowing quiet rage to billow up the back of my knees, twisting spaces between my fingers and my wrists, and that weight on shoulders, creeping into my back and arms.
It’s like I am on fire, but I have to stay still.

I am consumed, body and soul,
and I am trying simply to hold on to
my wounded hope.