Unquieted Love

There are times that you try to make
me smile, evoke a giggle, or laugh,
but instead I cry.
I cry because you don’t take me seriously, and you’ve never been
a shoulder to cry on:
it makes you
hostile to see me miserable.

I try not to
show how deeply it hurts to
feel laughed at, nothing I
say is ever serious to you,
and perhaps it is because
you’re not serious.

But I am.
I have been since I decided
at four-years-old, when
some person would sweetly call me silly, and I’d correct them so they’d know.

And now I am twenty-seven,
still wanting to be taken seriously. People tell me,
“Lighten up, it’s just a joke.”

How frustrating
to not have someone
love me for my serious mind, and
terrifying to fear such severity,
for when the world needs serious
thought,
I will not falter or fall.

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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.

Thoughts in the Dishes

I wash dishes endlessly, but I do not pay it mind. Torrent thoughts into
my daily tasks, and memories long
forgotten, surfacing above the graying water like coffee cups of every shade.

Twirling in whimzical waxy Crayola
pencils, which we asked
to borrow, and my precious “neon” Gel pens, make a card for her
twelfth birthday.

I handed the crumpled,
sweaty dollar bills to the
camp snack bar attendant for
some Reese’s, and a bottle of
Code Red Mountain Dew,

all a part of a present
that she giggled with glee over,
and she loved the hearts and butterflies hand-drawn.

All she wanted that Summer
was to hike with someone to
the waterfalls, but it was sweltering
in North Texas, so I went swimming
every afternoon instead.

When camp was over we said goodbye,
but being a member of the same church, it didn’t seem so final,
until the day my parents asked me if
I knew her.

Sometimes I still feel the ice cold
sensation, like death itself has gripped
my heart, laughing at my bewilderment
as he spares me and takes those I love.

I splash into the old sink water,
blindly feeling to pull the plug,
and watch dully as water
spirals down the drain.

Underwhelmed

Let me enter into this new
unforgotten realm of
hope,
where people can be
people
without letting someone
down.

This sadness will flicker,
eventually going out,
but happiness is somewhat
less
for me.

I’m sorry I am not cheery
enough,
that I don’t know the right
words.
I’m too busy making a future
for us
to stop.

I would speak to you
in pictures
if I could, fill your mind
with ideas,
maybe even let you see what
eats at me.

Maybe in this new world
we could
step forward with happiness in mind
first.

 

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.

When asked why I am so fixated on death

I know
that death is merely a part of life.
A fixed location, steadily awaiting
our eventual arrival across
the swirling fog and seafoam.

Maybe it is because I have never known
life without end, and I have seen so
many final chapters, slipping right out of my arms, fluttering, transcendant.

I would rather hold death,
the lives of those I hold dear,
than pretend there is order
without chaos.