Basorexic

I want you to kiss me.

I want you to cradle me in your arms, your lips pressed to mine, just holding me close.
I want our breath to mingle, our soul's trading spaces in our lungs to give us a taste of where we really come from.
I want to taste your whiskey soaked tongue, I want to savour your words, rolling them about in my mouth to get the flavour.
I want to be breathless, all the air rushing out of my lungs in sweet anticipation.

Wrap your arms about my waist, pull me close to you. Your eyes seeing into my windows, flung wide open to embrace your visit. Your heart, is it beating as fast as mine? Is all this sweet disillusion? Shall I regret this in time, or will you return all the feelings that are threatening to bubble over? I am so stuck on your mouth, your hair in my fingers, your body pressed to mine.

This is burning at the back of my throat. I am so out of breath, drowning in my own thirst, out of my mind for just one touch. Please, tell me, do you love me? Would you dare to take me in your arms, or will you leave me standing here, empty-handed? I am gasping in anticipation, begging for some sign or answer to this ill-written prayer. How is it possible to be this dizzy, this dazzled, over you? How is it that I am so lovesick over what you might do?

Kiss me as though there were no other girl, but me. I am so thoroughly disgusted with myself for being so desperate over your mouth, but I cannot escape the thought. I have no desire to stop. Just kiss me, once. Once and I shall float, I shall fly, I shall dissipate into a million sparkling pieces. Must I plead? Must I beg? If so, I will fall on these two knees and give you everything just to hear you say you will.

I want you to kiss me, but I know you never will.

The Tenacity of a Lion

I have a problem with hanging on to the things that hurt me.
No matter how small, no matter how inconsequential, I cling to those things.
No matter how hard I try to let go, no matter how I shake my hands, it sticks like glue.

I hold those things, with the tenacity of a lion, the ferocity of a tiger.
I cradle them and sing them to sleep, as though they have done anything to deserve it.
No matter what I tell myself, there is a difference between knowing and doing.

The scars, I hold them close. I reopen them to see my insides, see how they look.
I muck about with my emotions, playing with my heart strings, bruising my ribs.
I carve out the mistakes, make them deeper so that I don't forget.

If only I could forgive myself. If only I could let those things go.
If only I could love myself with the tenacity of a lion, the ferocity of a tigress.
If only knowing and doing were no difference at all.

Instead, I replay the scenes, crush my own hopes and dreams.
You're undeserving, you've done nothing right, you are nothing.
You're ugly, you've failed, you are worthless.

With the tenacity of a lion, I destroy myself, attacking as though I am the enemy.
With the ferocity of a tiger, I shred myself to bits, dragging myself down and down.
With the whimper of a child, I wish I could let myself go and forget where I've gone.

Waiting for Superman

The saddest thing is that Superman never comes.
No matter how long you stand at the phone booth.

Every taxi that passes makes you lonelier.
The myth of Mr. Perfect lingers, despite reality.

Clark Kent got stuck in traffic.
Superman got drunk on the ether.

Waiting for Superman to rescue you, still waiting.
Standing all alone on the boardwalk, sun setting.

He won't come. There is no saviour this time.
The water looks so lovely from here, glittering.

How much longer do you plan on waiting?
Another day? Another year? Another decade?

Its obvious he isn't coming. Not after all this.
Superman never shows up on time.

No matter how long you stand at the phone booth.
The saddest thing is that Superman never comes.

The Boundaries (Trigger Warning)

I have no sexual boundaries. No idea what a healthy sexual relationship entails.
So when you touched me, sliding your hand up my leg, I told myself that I was...
Overreacting
Being stupid
You're my friend
If I didn't want it, why didn't I get out of the car?

My stomach clenched. I felt sick for the rest of the day.
You told me you were just teasing me. You meant nothing by it.
You said we were just friends.
I tried to establish a boundary; this far and no further.

I told you,
"I'm married."
"You're sweet, but you are a little out of my age range."
"Even if I were free, I wouldn't be interested."
But I didn't tell you "No," and I didn't get out of the car.

The worst thing in the world was realizing that my body was reacting,
in ways I never wanted it to,
in ways that make me feel sick to my stomach,
in ways that it shouldn't have.

You said it was an accident when you poked me in the breast.
You called me out on putting my hand in the way of yours.
You asked if I was nervous about being in the car with you.
You said it was all fun and games.
You were the one who said that "No" meant "No."

But I didn't say "No," did I? I tried to say it in ways that wouldn't hurt.
I tried to say it in ways that made it clear.
I tried to avoid hurting YOUR feelings, while you invaded my personal space.

And it was my fault, because I didn't say "No."
You took my silence as consent, when it was really no consent at all.

I have no sexual boundaries, I belittle myself into thinking its all in my head.
Because that's what I've been told my whole life.
My silence is taken for a "Yes" while my heart keeps screaming "No."

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

I sit, behind the counter at work,  morosely involved in a tepid novel that I really don't feel like reading. The tea is probably cold, I certainly am. I feel absolutely no motivation to do anything, which is bad when you are at work. The phone rings and I fight the urge to ignore it.

"The Wilde: Rare and Used Books, this is Abra, how may I help you today?" I say, as cheerily as I can, into the old-fashioned rotary phone.

"Yes, I'm looking for a book on mythology. Particularly mythology surrounding humanity's creation." The voice sounds vaguely familiar to me. It tickles at the back of my mind for a moment, like a feather against the base of my skull.

"We have several of those." I remark, flipping back a page in my novel and book-marking it. "Were you looking for one in particular?"

"Do you have anything related to Aristophanes's mythology of three genders?"

"Are you referring to a work by Plato?" I ask, the feather tickle sensation increases.

There is a silence on the other end of the phone and I hear a soft click. I pull the phone away from my ear and look at it quizzically. I put it back to my ear a moment, hear the dial tone and then hang it up. The tickling sensation turns into more than aggravation. Laying my book down, I go in search of Plato. I find him, nestled between Socrates and Hypatia of Alexandria, and before I can pick him up I hear the bell for the door.

"Hello," I say, rounding a corner and almost smacking into someone. "Oh, I'm so sorry!"

I look up and into the lime colored eyes of Jae. He smiles, his cupid's bow lips seeming to shoot arrows into my heart and I immediately step back.

"Hello." He says, still smiling.

"It was you on the phone?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," he has the gall to look a little sheepish. "I wanted to make sure I had the right book store."

I feel awkward. I don't know what to do. I lace my fingers behind my back and look everywhere but at Jae. He lets me feel awkward, just smiling down at me. After a moment I pluck up my courage, finding it beneath my pancreas hiding, and just start talking.

"Would you like some Nana tea? I have some brewing." I gesture toward the counter and begin moving before he responds.

"I'd love some." he replies, falling in step beside me. I feel wracked with nerves. I step behind the counter and begin pouring the tea. Some of it splashes on my hand, burning it and I drop my cup. Quick as can be, he is behind the counter and pouring some ice water onto a paper towel, pressing it to my hand. He then cleans up the mess I made, leaving me in shock.

"Why are you always here when I need you?" I ask, watching him pick up bits of my broken cup. He doesn't answer at first, merely dumping the shards into the dust bin and wiping up more of the spilled tea. When he stands up, he looks me in the eye and just smiles.

"Why do you always run away from me?" he asks, re-wetting the paper towel for my hand.

"I don't know you that well. You could be a serial killer for all I know."

"Don't you think that I would've killed you by now if I were a serial killer?" he asks, laughing.

"I never said you were a good serial killer." I retort, following him as he goes back to the 'customer' side of the counter.

"You act as though I've never tried to let you get to know me. The complete opposite, m'lady. Every time I try to know you better you run. Why?" He turns toward me and I feel those beautiful eyes as though they were inside of my head.

"I'm afraid." I mumble, looking at my hand. It is only a little red now and barely stings.

"Why are you afraid?" he asks, taking my chin in his hand and lifting my face toward him. I don't resist and look at his ribbon of a mouth.

"Because... I don't know why. I'm just afraid. I'm afraid of your attraction to me. I'm afraid of myself. Afraid in general, I guess. What does it matter to you anyway?"

"You said it yourself, I'm attracted to you. I have some very strong feelings for you. Feelings that I don't fully understand, but are there nonetheless."

"I don't understand." I murmur, my chin still in his hand. My gaze drifts down so that I just stare at his throat. He lifts my chin a little more and my eyes sweep up toward his eyes.

"You don't have to understand it. I see something you don't see." He lets go of my chin and I hear the bell over the door again. I scurry off to greet the newest customer, pretending that I can just forget he's there, waiting. After I direct the customer toward the section they were looking for I return to the counter. I throw the soggy paper towel away and avoid his eyes.

I pick up the book I was reading and carry it back over to a randomly stocked shelf. I continue to avoid any direct eye contact and shuffle back toward the tea pot. He comes around the counter, again, and pours the tea for me. He then goes back to the proper side and looks at me, expectantly.

"What exactly is it that you want?" I ask, irritated that he can make me so flustered.

"Would you be willing to go out for dinner after you get off work?" He sips his tea so nonchalantly. How does he manage to seem so unruffled while I feel like a cat who has been rubbed the wrong direction?

"I don't know. I have plans." I lie. I look up and see something in his eyes before it is gone. He looks at his tea, drinks it down in one go and carefully sets the cup back on the counter. He begins to head toward the door and I come around the counter as if I am going to chase him down. He turns and looks at me, his head tilted slightly to one side.

"I'll come again, some other time." He says.

"When?"

"I always know when you need me, so I suppose the next time you are in need of a friend."

"Wouldn't giving me your number be much easier?" I ask, trying not to sound too eager. He turns and looks at me, his smile suddenly turned devilish.

"I don't have a phone." With that, he winks at me and walks out the door, leaving me with my mouth dropped open.

I go back to the counter and flop down onto my stool. I see what he did, lying in response to my lie. I silently kick myself and then get back to work. It won't do me any good to mope about. He'll either come back or he won't. And I suppose that is an answer in, and of, itself.

Fortunately for my sanity I don't have to wait too long for Jae to come back. He comes in on a Friday morning, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. I look up from my book and give him a questioning look.

"I thought you might like some coffee." he says, scooting a cup toward me. I must look surprised, because his smile widens. "Believe it or not, despite your efforts, I'm trying to court you and that includes bringing coffee to you."

"Why are you trying to court me?" I ask, picking up the cup of coffee and bringing it toward my nose. The smell of vanilla hazelnut makes me drool a little and I take a sip.

"Why do you question it?"

"I question everything." I reply, somewhat haughtily, placing my book on the counter.

"Have you ever seen yourself?" he asks, taking a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving my face.

"Of course I have!"

"I mean in person. Not in a mirror, not in a photograph."

"No, of course not. How would I be able to do that?"

"Exactly." he says, taking another sip of his coffee.

"Exactly what?" I ask, puzzled beyond all belief.

"You will never understand what it is I see in you because you have never seen yourself from the outside. If you did, you might recognize what it is in you that draws me to you."

I don't know what to say to that, so I just step over to a random book shelf and begin straightening it. I hear him set his coffee down and move toward me. He steps up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. My nerves begin to jump, my heart twirling inside my chest so fast that I fear it will burst. He is like a jolt of electricity, cycling through my blood stream, snapping my synapses.

He gently turns me toward him, his face mere inches from mine. I look up into his vibrantly green eyes and my throat tightens. I want to kiss him. I want to let him love me. I'm so tired of fighting a losing battle. I am wildly attracted to him. I have been since we met that first time at the bar. I want to see what it is he sees in me. I want to know him better than I do. I am shocked to discover that I don't just want to sleep with him, even though there is a very strong desire there as well.

"Tell me you want me to kiss you." he whispers, against my lips.

"What if I don't want you to?" I murmur, my eyes never leaving his.

He pulls back a bit, not in anger or hurt or even disappointment. In fact, he smiles at me again.

"Then I won't and I'll wait until you say 'yes.'"

"What does that mean?" I ask, confused and slightly surprised by this reaction. I had expected him to just kiss me anyway, with or without my permission.

"It means I'm willing to wait for you. It means I want you to say 'yes.' I want to know for certain, not just guess. I want you to be comfortable and actually interested in me."

"What if I was to just kiss you? Would you pull away?" I ask, closing a small amount of the distance between us.

"Would you like to find out?" he brings his lips closer to mine, but he continues to hold back. He is so infuriatingly close and, yet, so far.

I don't hesitate in that moment and I kiss his mouth. Something I've wanted to do since we met. He kisses me back, his arms wrapping around me so that I am securely pressed against him. As far as kisses go, this is by far the most amazing I've ever had. When he pulls away, I almost whimper.

"Kiss me," I say, my eyes locked on his. He smiles and obliges me.

After a moment, I pull away, remembering that I am, in fact, at work and my boss might frown on me making out with customers. He smiles at me, he is always smiling, it seems. I take another step back and begin organizing the shelf again. He goes back to the counter and sips at his coffee.

"Would you like to grab a bite to eat after you get off work?" he asks, taking another sip of his coffee.

I don't look at him, but my face is flushed at the thought of spending more time with him and my heart is beating like a high-powered drum. Still not able to look at him, I nod my head. The soles of his shoes scuff the floor as he comes back up behind me. He doesn't try to turn me around, simply holding me from behind. He wraps his arms around me and I feel so completely safe for a moment. He rests his chin on my shoulder for a moment and I turn my head slightly to look at him. He isn't smiling, though he doesn't look unhappy. He seems thoughtful.

Distantly, I hear the music we have playing over the store speakers. I smile at the very last line, the girl asking if his name rhymes with her own, and, for some reason, it makes me giddy. I look at him and wish. Wish for what, I don't know. I just wish. Looking at him, I think of having two faces. I search his to see if I recognize anything of our former incarnation. I don't know if it is my imagination that makes me believe that there is something that I recognize. Not in his face, but in him. Something I recognize and am drawn to.

"Why am I so drawn to you?" I murmur, glancing at his lips and then looking into his eyes. He looks at me, just looks, not speaking. He then looks at the book shelf and I follow his gaze. There are at least five different books he could be looking at and I don't know if he is even looking at the books or if he is just staring off into space.

"I can't speak for your attraction to me," he says, softly, still staring at the books on the shelf. "I can only speak for myself. And I am drawn to you because there is something in you that I recognize. You are someone that I want to be a part of, even if all you want from me is friendship. I want to be close to you, because there is something within you that pulls me in."

He looks back at me, his face mostly somber, though there is a tiny lift to the corner of his mouth. He seems so serious right then, as though he just gave me a promise. I search his face, again, my eyebrows furrowed and I must look just as serious as he does.

"Do you truly believe that I could be your other face? Or is that something you have said to many girls before?" I ask, even though I know that my phrasing is cruel. I bite my lip after I say it, as if I could take it back now. I see the sharp words embed themselves, like so many invisible knives, into his face. I see the moment that it registers in his heart because there is a subtle shift in his eyes and I regret opening my mouth. I start to apologize, but am interrupted by him speaking.

"I have never said that to anyone else. And, if we were to say goodbye today and never say hello again, I would not say it to anyone else, true or not."

He lifts his chin off of my shoulder and there is almost a tangible ache at the sudden weightlessness. As if some piece of myself just separated from me. He goes to grab his coffee and I watch him walk out the door, the chime sounding hollow in my ears. I feel like a bitch and an idiot.

I go over to the counter and find my cell in my purse. I punch in Noah's number, head to the door and flip the "Back in Ten" sign. I pat my pockets, as if I expect to find cigarettes, but quickly stop doing that because I gave up smoking. On the fourth ring I'm about to go and find a gas station, I'm that desperate for a smoke. So much for quitting my self-destructive habits. On the sixth ring I'm about to pitch the phone. On the eigth ring, he answers, sounding very tired.

"Hello?"

"Noah, I'm an idiot." I say, pacing a bit, probably looking like a complete crazy person. Which, I am, but that's beside the point.

"Tell me something I didn't already know." he says. I hear him yawn and I can picture him stretching. I look at my watch, 10:15. I'm supposed to be here until three, this is going to be a long day.

"Were you still asleep?"

"Yes."

"I would say I'm sorry, but you called me an idiot." I can't help but smile, considering how many times he has done the same thing to me.

"To be fair, you set me up for it. What did you do now?"

"I insulted Jae." I can practically hear him perk up through the phone at the name.

"Jae? Who is Jae? Please tell me you aren't starting up another self-destructive sexual binge again."

"I'm not! Well, I'm not trying to anyway. Jae is the really cute Korean that kissed me in the cafe. You remember, I asked him about a pizza and a fuck."

"And you insulted him? How and why and was it deserved?" Noah sounds more and more awake by the moment, I can hear the sounds of coffee percolating and fuzzy slippers shuffling.

"It wasn't deserved. It was by accident and I opened my mouth. Honestly, I have no idea where it came from."

"You've become jaded." He says that so matter-of-factly that I am speechless for a moment.

I glance at my watch again and wish I'd just closed for lunch. That would've been better. But who eats lunch at 10:something in the morning?

"Well, I think I'm going to be alone after work, do you want to go grab a bite to eat? I need to talk about this more, but I need to get back."

"Yeah, what time?"

"Meet me around 2:45? I am trading off with another girl at three, but she's always early."

We confirm our plans and I hang up, heading back into the store. Nothing to do now, but wait until three. There's nothing I can do about Jae right now.

Ocean Speaks Peace

The ocean always spoke to her in ways no human voice could. It spoke to the parts of her that descended from mermaids and myth. It spoke to the depths of her azure colored soul and the breadth of her white-capped spirits. With her toes dug into the sand, she drifted out to the place where only the ocean knew her name. It rocked her to sleep, it dressed her in green and silver, it loved her. It constantly ran to kiss her feet, her hands, her face; it wrapped her in its salty embrace and carried her down into water softer than satin.

Unsung

Your songs are left unfinished, your coffee left un-drunk.
You left in such a hurry, your cigarettes are still un-smoked.
I am left grasping the straws, wondering where you drifted.
I don't know how to cope, so I sit on the floor and smoke.

Your cigarettes will not be wasted, your coffee will not grow cold.
I will leave all of these things just as they are, hope beyond hope.
Hope that you will return, though they say there is no way.
Your hospital bed is lonely when your mind is so far away.

I drag my fingers across piano keys, playing notes to call you home.
At night I sit by your bed, hearing your heart beat through wires,
listening to your breath rattle in your broken lungs.
I kiss your fingertips with my tears and I beg you back to life.

You've left so much undone, my love. You are too young,
too beautiful, too impossible to hold, too impossible to let go.
How am I to battle angels I can not see? I grip your hand fiercely.
The nurse tells me that I have to get some sleep, to go home.

I have no home without you. Where would I curl up if I lose your heart?
If I scream will it make you wake up? What can I do to keep you here?
If only for a moment longer, I would do anything to hold you again.
The nurse doesn't scold me when I curl up beside you on the bed.

You have too much left undone, my love, to leave me so soon.
Your songs are unsung, your words unsaid. I twine our fingers,
rest my head on your shoulder and watch your chest heave a sigh.
If I let you go, who will I sing for? Who will I love?

Your songs are left unfinished, your coffee left un-drunk.
All that remains are the memories stored in boxes with your name.
You left in such a hurry, I barely caught your name. It was a kiss,
a whisper against my lips. You tasted so bitter-sweet, my darling.

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

"That's the last of it." says Clark, carrying a box marked "kitchen" into the living room of my new apartment. I glance up from a box marked "bathroom" and smile.

"You're a peach, Clark." I say, standing up and stretching. "Its a little smaller than I anticipated, but its a nice place, don't you think?"

"Are you sure this was a good idea? I feel like you're so far away. What if something happens?"

"I appreciate the concern, but I'll be fine. I'm fifteen minutes from you and twenty minutes from Noah. The police station is down the street and I can walk to the hospital. I'll be fine!" I give him a hug and, when I got to kiss his cheeck, he gives me a kiss on the mouth. He holds me there for a moment and I wish, not for the first time, that I could fall in love with him. Our mouths disengage and I rest my head on his chest.

"I still love you, you know. I wish you felt the same." A sigh rumbles up from his chest and I can't help but sigh too.

"I wish that wishing made it so," I say, gently pulling myself from his embrace so that I can look into his eyes. "I care for you, Clark, and I value our friendship, but I am just not in love with you. I keep telling myself to, but I can't force feelings that aren't there. And its unfair to you if I pretend."

He is quiet for a moment. Perhaps internalizing what I said. Once the moment passes, he gives me a, slightly wilted, smile and then begins to open random boxes. I follow suit and pick up a box that says "bedroom" before going down the hallway of my new apartment.

Once in the bedroom, I set the box down and flop onto my queen sized mattress. Snuggles is still at Clark's until everything is set up and I miss him dreadfully at the moment. Am I an idiot for not falling in love with Clark? He has a good job, he is a sweetheart, he knows me better than any other guy I've dated, including David. Since we broke up I've introduced him to everyone as my friend and my family approves of him. Hell, Noah loves him. If he were able to be persuaded to that team, I wouldn't have the option to be in love with him or not, Noah would eat him up.

"Hey, Abe, where do you want this box of 'miscellaneous'?" Clark calls down the hall.

"Give me a moment, I'll be right there." I call back. I sit up and push up off the bed. Looking around, I feel like I am beyond all the self-destruction. Or so I tell myself.

I return to the living room and plop down on the floor in front of an unmarked box. I begin sorting out the miscellaneous bits my existence, trying to sort out myself in the process. Clark is quiet and just puts dishes in the dishwasher.

"The king of unpacking has arrived!" says Noah, as he glides into the apartment. Clark and I look up and smile. Clark less so than me.

"Don't you two look like a pair of gloomy gussies." says Noah, plopping down next to a big box marked "books."

"Well, we'll be rays of sunshine now that you're here." I say, feigning happiness.

"Obviously not all is well in Brokenheartsville. What's the matter?"

"This isn't 'Brokenheartsville.'" I say. "Its 'Get-your-heart-backsville.''

Before Noah can say anything else I jump up and decide to make some lunch. I smile warmly at my friends and then decide to make something extra special.

"How about I make lunch while you guys open some of the boxes?" I ask, dusting myself off.

"Sounds great!" says Noah. "What are you making?"

"Don't know yet, but it'll be delicious." I reply, smiling.

"Picasso of the kitchen." says Clark, beaming. I feel myself blush a bit at the obvious pride in his voice. I knew he always admired my cooking, I just didn't realize he was that proud of my abilities.

"Let's just hope its as good as a Picasso." I say, winking at him.

For lunch I make, what I call, a pomme and pomegranate fruit salad, spicy beef lo mein and mini passionfruit tarts. Before handing them out, I generously top the tarts with whipped cream and even spray a little on Clark. He roars with laughter and tries to reach the bit stuck on his nose with his tongue. It doesn't work and we all collapse in a fit of giggles before finally straightening up enough to eat. We all gather around my coffee table, seated on pillows and eat.

Once all the furniture is arranged and the TV mostly set up, Noah and Clark decide to head to their respective homes. Clark promises to bring Snuggles over later on this evening and gives me a peck on the cheek before leaving. I stare at the door for five minutes, as if I expect it to do something. As if I expect Annabelle to walk through the door, smoking her fancy cigarettes, the words of her story written in the scars on her body. I suddenly crave a cigarette. My skin crawls with the thought, my stomach threatening to purge all the delicious food and I run to the bathroom.

Annabelle comes up my throat and the little notes she left me beat against my skull. I close my eyes and I can see her pale face rising up behind my eyelids. I'm not okay.

I feel incredibly alone. More alone than I have felt in a long time. I block it out by emptying all of my boxes into the middle of the floor. My life, scattered, all over the floor seems almost symbolic. If I wrote poetry I might pause to take this moment in and pack it up in a notebook on a dusty shelf. Instead I sit in the midst of my created chaos and wonder why I do these things to myself.

When Clark stops by with Snuggles, he discovers me still sitting in the midst of my mess. He sets the cat carrier down, mindful to free Snuggles first, and comes over to me, concern written into every pore of his face. I've become maudlin in my insanity.

"Are you alright?" he asks, dropping to one knee, just outside the circle of wreckage.

"I'm fine." I sigh, letting my voice tremble a bit more than I intend to.

"You are not." he says, pushing stuff out of the way. He makes a path to me, as though he were Moses parting the red sea. I let him scoop me into his embrace. I let him worry over me like a mother hen. I don't protest when he picks me up and carries me to the bedroom. He doesn't try anything sexual, though I know he would like to. I know he misses me. I miss him too, in my own pitiable way. Instead he curls up with me and I say a lot of the things I've been trying so hard to keep inside.

"What am I going to do, Clark?" I ask, avoiding his eyes and staring at his lips.

"Maybe you should get into therapy. It would do you good to talk about these things in a professional setting."

I prop myself up on one elbow and finally look into his lavender colored eyes. I know he is right. I still haven't spoken to anyone about what happened with Liam or Annabelle. Adam didn't even know all that happened with Liam, only what he stumbled upon at the club. I don't say anything. I just stare off into the space between his eyes. He doesn't try to reclaim my attention, though I can feel him studying my face. He runs his fingers through my hair, before he hugs me tightly.

After a couple of days, once I have my apartment completely situated, I decide to go out. I find myself standing in front of "Alice's Wonderland," like I have so many times before. My breath hitches somewhere in my ribcage, a feeling I've become far too used to. However, very unlike my previous self, I do not trip on the way into the bar. Instead I almost strut, letting a false sense of pride fill my chest. I order a cocktail and sip at it for a moment before I decide to dance. I don't see anyone I recognize here. I almost wish I did. I search for Jae, but don't see him anywhere. Perhaps that was too much to hope for.

After my third or fourth drink I am approached by a cute guy. He gives me some name that begins with "J" and asks me to dance. I take his profered hand and we dance for a little while before I invite him back to my place. I'm not sure how we make it there, but we do and we collapse into my bed for a less than stellar romp.

I wake up feeling disgusting and overwhelmed by my actions.

Crisp sheets, clean and white, that's what I want. The sterile feel of hospital or hotel sheets. Sheets that don't smell like cologne. Sheets that aren't rumpled from sex. Sheets that are devoid of memories. Sitting on my own bed, I hug my pillow and wish I could be wrapped in those imagined sheets.

Looking around, I realize my room is a disaster, I am a disaster, even Snuggles seems to be a bit disheveled. Well, as disheveled as a cat can get. My floor is littered with condom wrappers and a couple bottles of vodka. The guy next to me snores, loudly. I run my fingers through my "sex hair" (or is it more "bed-head?") and take a second look around.

My bra and panties have been thrown onto the vanity and they are hanging, like haphazard Christmas tree ornaments, on the mirror. Last night's dress is in a crumpled heap of pink and white, topped with a muddy shoe like some neopolitan dessert. His clothes are just as scattered; his belt is hanging on a chair, jeans in a pile by the bed, shoes God only knows where.

I drop my head into my hand, not for the first time, questioning my judgement. Hell, questioning my sanity at this point. I don't remember if we had sex or if we are just naked for no reason. Do I even remember this poor fool's name? Straining, I try to think of it. Was it Jake? Josh? Jay?

At that last, I think of Jae. I think of him kissing me in the cafe. How long ago was that? I think of the time he rescued me at the bar and I think of him at the graveyard after Annabelle's funeral. When was the last time I saw him?

I remember then, with painful clarity, the cafe he took me too. I remember him saying I could be his other face. I remember walking out and getting wasted. That's how I've spent the past year or so of my life. Getting wasted. Getting fucked. Getting more and more obsessed with the belief that I am somehow worthless because the man I loved for ten years never really loved me.

I flop back onto my pillow, startling the man next to me into a bleary-eyed state of awareness.

"Hi." I say, looking at him casually.

"Hey." he murmurs, rubbing his eyes.

"I'm Abra, in case you had forgotten. I hate to admit this, since you are in my bed, but what is your name again?"

"Jared." he replies, nonchalantly. He rubs his eyes again and stretches.

"Nice to meet you. I knew it began with a 'J.'" I stand up and begin pulling on clothing. I try to do so in a nonchalant manner, but I am really wishing that we weren't in my house and that we had gone to his place instead. I could make a fast get-away and not worry about him knowing where I live. I wonder why I've never worried about this before, shaking my head.

He sits up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. He smiles and runs his fingers through his hair. He has a nice smile, but that doesn't make me any happier with myself.

"I don't mean to be rude," I start. He holds up a hand and smiles again.

"Its cool. I don't mind leaving." He gets dressed and I walk him to the door. He kisses my cheek, winks at me and then heads down the stairs toward the main entrance. I close the door slowly and try to imagine breakfast into being. I give up after a moment and settle for a cup of strong tea.

Identity (03/17/2005)

Who am I?
  I don't think I
know anymore.
  Am I white? Native
American? Am I Irish?
What part of the body holds
who I am?
  Is it my hear that
holds my identity?
  Do you know who
I am?
  Who am I?

Constellation Hands

I have the constellations on
my fingertips, a galaxy
drawn on the dark side of
my moon colored eyes.

My mother used to say,
in her sunset way, "The sky
is a map to lead you to the
treasure of one heart."

I could never grasp her
meaning in my constellation
hands, they drifted into the
black holes of my imagination.

The Balloon Letters: Anna

"I feel almost guilty for doing this, considering this balloon is probably not biodegradable, but I feel... I'm not sure what I feel. I hope someone reads this and it isn't lost or eaten. I pray it isn't eaten.

"My name is Anna May. I live in California, in the United States. I love strawberries and my father died today. His heart gave up while we were cloud-watching in our favorite strawberry patch. He sighed as the sun turned a burnished shade of gold. I asked him a question and, when he didn't respond, I thought he'd fallen asleep.

"I will never eat strawberries again."

She slipped the note into the balloon and slowly filled it with helium. She glanced around, guiltily. She wasn't supposed to be here, but she had used her key to sneak in with a tiny white balloon.

Her mother had always said white was the color of mourning. The color of sorrow. The color of death. It was why she had worn white for a year after her mom had left. It was why she had picked this particular balloon.

The moon was a large, cream colored, disc in the ocean of the sky, reflecting into the endless mirror of the ocean of the earth. It seemed fitting that the moon would be full on this night, the same color as her balloon, as if all the world was in mourning as well.

She had lain beside her father's cooling body for an hour, in shock. He had gone so quickly, as if he had simply fallen asleep and slipped away. She was so bewildered and shocked that she couldn't even cry as she had called the paramedics. She'd ridden with them, in the ambulance, to the hospital, holding his stiffening hand. Her eyes kept trying to force breath into his lungs, imagining his chest rising and falling. She could almost imagine he would sit up and laugh at her for falling for such a silly prank.

It was amazing all the little details one notices when faced with a crisis. She noticed the light red of strawberry juice staining the corners of his bluing lips. He had forgotten to clip his fingernails and they looked slightly ragged. His hair was thinning, when had that happened? His glasses had a crack in one of the lenses. His eyes were closed and he looked so young to her. Too young to have died in the middle of a field of strawberries.

The kind paramedic, the one with the purple gloves and the orange tipped braids, gave her a bucket when she became sick. Once she started throwing up, she found she couldn't stop. And, even worse, she couldn't stop sobbing in-between heaves. The paramedic rubbed her back while she tried to purge all the hideous reality out of her body. Her father was dead. Her mother had left them, in the middle of the night, when she was twelve. She was alone.

She stepped up to the edge of the water, the waves tasting her toes, her balloon appearing like a second moon in the mirror of the sea. She whispered a prayer to the sky before she let the balloon go. It drifted, slowly, over the water, out to places she had never been. She sat down in the sand, pulling her knees up to her chest, and watched it disappear over the blackness of the horizon. Long after it had disappeared, snuffed from her view like a pinched candle flame, she watched the horizon.

The first edges of dawn reminded her of strawberries.

In Defense of Short Hair

To the frat boy who seems to think that short hair automatically makes a woman ugly,

In case you haven't looked in the mirror recently, you aren't such a peach yourself.

I promised myself that I wouldn't stoop to your level, because that would be insulting to ME. And my mother used to say "If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all." However, my mother also taught me to stand up for what I believe is right. So, instead of letting you continue, I'm going to stop you right there and I won't let you finish.

Boys (I wouldn't call you a man, because real MEN don't act the sexist pig) like to claim that sexism doesn't exist. And, if it does, it is most definitely MISANDRY, because Feminists are all man-hating bull dykes who make it impossible for a perfectly nice man to live with his simple pleasures. Feminists come in and ruin a perfectly good party or a perfectly good lay or a perfectly good "dumb blonde" joke because they're ugly and can't get a man.

The funny thing is that the term "feminist" is not limited to women of a homosexual nature. In fact, there are a lot of MEN (there's that word again and, no, it doesn't mean what YOU think it means) and women of varying sexual orientation, skin color and beauty make up the word. You think you can set limits, but in reality, it has to do with a collective conscience. All of us, who are living in the 21st century, realize that NONE of us are EQUAL until ALL of us are EQUAL. Meaning, that women should be able to *gasp* cut their hair, shave or not shave, dress how they want, etc. All things that men have been able to do.

And yes, Misandry does exist! It exists because BOYS believe that MEN can't express any feminine traits without being "gay," "pussy-whipped" or "weak." Misandry exists because BOYS don't know how to be MEN and they live like petulant assholes for the rest of their lives.

So, welcome to the 21st Century. Believe it or not Women can do any of the following:

* Vote
* Have Sex with WHOMEVER THEY PLEASE
* Dress how they want
* CUT THEIR HAIR
* Drive
* Have as many children as they want
* Go where they want
* Read
* Write
* Not shave their legs, privates or under-arms
* Own their own property
* Get a divorce from an asshole who thinks cutting their hair makes them ugly

Sincerely,
The Girl whose Husband helped her cut her hair short, because she wanted it that way, and who is still beautiful despite your stupidity.

Quiet Revolutions

The creeks ran red that year and the trees were leveled.
The endlessly stretching plains seemed even more desolate,
burning under a blackened sky.

Brothers killed brothers, mothers were left to bury their sons.
The winter storms never cease, they just pause for a breath.
The ice crunched beneath boots, decaying spirits wandering.

The creeks ran red with the blood of revolutionaries,
the snow stained with bloody footprints, desolation in the wake,
the earth scarred beyond recognition.

Brother was buried by the creek, a lonesome tree as a marker.
Left that place, but never truly left it, soaked into the ground.
Revolutions are hardly ever quiet.

Walking through Eden

I pick at everything. Every imperfection on my skin is made worse by the constant need to pick at it. I can't stop myself from doing it. Its a remnant from when I would slice my skin to let something inside me out. I pick, pry and pull until the imperfection has become a permanent fixture to my landscape. Then I look at myself and curse at the scars.

I used to be proud of my scars, because they were me. They were a permanent reminder of where I had come from, what I had survived.

Now, I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed of my face, my skin, my body. I feel like Eve in Eden, suddenly naked and fully aware, exposed to the face of God and wondering how I ended up like this. It feels like I am doing the walk of shame to the gates of Eden, all the beautiful people pointing and laughing as I'm escorted out by the angel Michael. I look at my feet.

I've never stood as tall as I could, for fear I'd be beaten back down. I took those beatings, those scars and I made them my own. Some days, it feels like they own me.

I fall into the thinking pattern that no one could ever love me just as I am. Though I'm married and have been with the same man for five years. I fall into step with the thoughts from my childhood, the thoughts that led to making scars. The belief that who I am is nothing because I am not beautiful and I never will be.

I mourn the face in the mirror. The one that was beautiful once, when I couldn't recognize the beauty, and is now pock-marked with acne and scars.

I can find no worth within, because I'm so out of place in this "Eden." I used to refuse make-up because if someone couldn't accept me as I was they didn't deserve me with make-up. Now all I want to do is hide the scars with a pound of foundation, smooth all the ugliness from my inner turmoils.

Its different when its you. Its so easy to be a feminist, to fight against the myth of beauty, to tell someone they are beautiful. Its not easy when its you.

Wandering Soul

I met a man on the train, headed south of here.
He wore a black suit, the lapels crisp as autumn winds.
His hair was brown, slicked back with bacon grease.
He wore a red boutonnière, its petals twisted and wilted.
His smile was diminutive, as if he were afraid.

His words dripped from his tongue, like Dali's clocks.
He spoke in verse, his cadence like birds flitting.
His tongue pondered poison, his heart bleeding on his sleeve.
He drifted through conversation, a wandering soul.
I admired his stature, his height relative to his speech.

I watched him as we traveled, headed further south.
He cried in his sleep, his jacket soon soaked with them.
His whispered dreams spread, seeping into his skin.
He did not cry out, simply weeping against the window.
His lapels were no longer crisp, his flowers wilted.

His last words were lost, the wind snatched them away.
He smiled sadly, climbing down the steps to the platform.
His smile slipped away, all the light blown out like a candle.
He fell to the platform, the blood rejuvenating his boutonnière.
I did not cry, only slid the Derringer back into my bag.

Kool-Aid

You tasted of kool-aid in the summer of my youth. A sparkling flower plucked in the prime of its bloom. You tasted so sweet in those days. Your words were even sweeter, dripping off your tongue like honey from the comb. You spoke like the angels sing. You kissed me like I was the only heart you had ever held.

And I fell for you. I fell in love with your kool-aid kisses and it would be forever summer.

You tasted like past lovers in the autumn of my youth. The leaves beginning to yellow and bloody in the waning light. You tasted of familiarity and old memories. Your tone had changed, no longer as sweet, but familiar to me. You spoke like fairy tales, comforting. You kissed me like I was someone you once knew.

And I loved you still. I fought for the peace we had held, like lightning bugs, at the end of summer.

You tasted like bitter fruit in the winter of our youth. Our hearts lay like roses beneath the snow. You no longer kissed me in the twilight of our relationship. Your words were few and the silences more telling than any word. You spoke like the shovelful of dirt on the casket of our love. The last kiss you gave me was like a needle through my heart.

And I loved you still. Though we fell apart, crumbling like the words we said when you tasted like kool-aid.

Useless Lump of Flesh

She opens the door to find you, naked, in bed with another man. As soon as you see her, you begin to shrivel. The red hot lust, that roller-coaster pumping through your veins, you felt a mere moment ago also wilts and is replaced with disgust and shame. You cover yourself in a half-hearted, and vain, attempt to change what she sees.

Her eyes, tear bright with betrayal, seem to take in every detail. She lingers on your, unconvincing, modesty before drifting to the blatant arousal of your chosen partner. Those eyes, so full of pain and a flicker of hope, move back to you. They are filled with the hope that you'll find some way to undo the damage being done.

Pissed off, at her, at yourself, at the world; you stand up and grab her arm. Steering her away from the door frame, you drag her into the kitchen. You throw her arm towards her, as if it were diseased, and you wipe your hands against your skin. Absently, you note you are still nude and you hear the distinct click of the bedroom door closing.

"You weren't supposed to be home until next week." you hiss. You sound angry, accusing, as if this is somehow her fault. You act as if the situation were reversed and you just walked in on her. Its her fault you feel ashamed and sick with self-loathing. Its her fault for being too pretty, too perfect. Its her fault that you can't maintain in bed, your manhood like a lifeless lump of flesh in her hands. Its her fault you were in bed with another man. It is her fault.

"I... I missed you..." she stutters, tears falling down her, stupidly, pretty face. You want to slap the tears off her face and give her a true reason to cry. You want to be the man who kisses away her tears at the same moment. You just stand there, angry and out of sorts. She wipes a tear away with her sleeve, unable to look at you. You can almost feel those tears stabbing into you like accusing darts.

You don't say anything, though a self-destructive, and false, righteousness rises out of the ashes of your withered libido. You push her up against the counter and you kiss her, crushing her lips with yours. She gasps between those hard kisses, struggling against you only a moment before she begins to return the kiss. You feel her hand begin to stray between your legs and you flip her around, bending her over the counter.

You stop then, anger rising anew, and you grasp a fistful of her hair and drag her toward the door. You fling it open and throw her out onto the grass, where she lands, unceremoniously. Retreating to the bedroom you retrieve her forgotten luggage and proceed to chuck it out on the lawn with her. You slam the door, lock it and collapse in a heap on the, spotless, linoleum floor.

When you stand up, you glance out of the window and see that she is gone. A soft clearing of the throat brings your attention back to the man you were in bed with. He is dressed and holding himself in an aloof way. He almost seems to be looking down on you, even though you are about the same height. You know he won't stay, not now, not after that. You hold up a hand, as if to stop his excuses from becoming words that can't be taken back. Holding yourself as straight as possible, you unlock and open the door for him. He doesn't even look at you as he exits and you don't bother to say anything.

You go to your room, sit on the bed, and bury your face in your hands.

The Release of Echo (Part 1)

Echo had been banished, cursed, for a very long time. So many centuries had passed that she had lost count. It was like being mute, but somehow worse. The only words she was able to speak were repeats. She could voice no independent thoughts or opinions. She was unable to speak at all, unless it was to parrot others. No one seemed to want to say anything interesting either. IT was always "hello," sometimes her own name and, more often than not, profanity.

Spiteful Hera. It really wasn't Echo's fault Zeus couldn't remain faithful. Why should she be punished when it was his idea she tell a story? How was she supposed to know what Zeus was really doing? It was supposed to be a lovely story and it was all spoiled by Zeus and Hera.

They had gotten their comeuppance though. All the gods had been forced into sleep by a lack of devotion. They had been beaten out by the latest religions; Christianity, Islam, Judaism. Monotheistic religion was the latest craze, like a poison. It had spread until all the gods were touched.

Echo, however, still had a place in the world, thanks to Hera's spite. Perhaps she should cut her some slack? What kind of existence was this, though? It was miserable like this. No one ever said what she wanted to say. It was lonely. It wasn't as if she could live among the regular people. Eventually they would catch on that she wasn't normal. They'd discover she was old, almost as old as the world.

"Stupid Zeus." she thought. He was handsome, well, had been handsome once. She had flirted with the idea of sleeping with him, once. However, she had played attendant to Hera enough times to have seen her temper unleashed. Look at Hercules, look at her! Maybe she should've seen this coming.

Tucking a narcissus into her hair, she sighed. She had found a small reflecting pool, some piece of Gaia she could call  home. However, the need for companionship, even if it was only to parrot, would drive her away. Her search for dank tunnels and small canyons seemed never-ending.

She didn't quite run to her latest haunting ground, but she didn't walk either. The thought of being discovered terrified her. How many times had she run from the puppets of Pan? How many times had she been almost killed by those who couldn't understand what she was? It was dangerous being a nymph in the modern age. It was dangerous being only an echo.

Lingering in the shadows of a tunnel, Echo marked the passing of Apollo's chariots. The chariots of Artemis were fast approaching and full dark would be soon. She envied the twins. At least they had a purpose, some reason to continue, and without fear. Hera hadn't tried to punish them and they were born of Zeus' infidelity. It made her angry to think of what she had been reduced to. She had been a story teller, a nymph with good standing. Stupid Hera.

Shaking her head, she pushed thought aside. It would only make her cry. There was no point in crying either.

As it grew darker, she heard voices approaching. Surely one of those voices wouldn't be able to pass without shouting. It was perfect, getting dark and abandoned. It would give them an eerie feeling and a rush. Then they would scurry off into the night, leaving her to the night animals.

"Hello!" called a timid voice. The sound reverberated in her chest before responding.

"Hello!" she repeated, timidly.

"Hello!" the voice called again, bolder now.

"Hello!" she echoed.

"Come on, let's go. Who wants to hear an echo?" said another voice.

"Hear an echo?" she repeated, already bored with these voices.

"Its fun." replied the first voice, sounding slightly annoyed.

"Its fun." she echoed, faintly.

"Whatever." said the second voice, flippantly.

"Whatever." she replied.

There was a silence settling into the tunnel so that she thought the voices had gone. She would wait a few moments longer before rushing back to her reflecting pool, back to her piece of Gaia. She had almost decided to leave when she heard the second voice.

"I want..." said the voice, speaking so softly Echo could barely hear.

"I want..." she whispered back.

"Want to be..." said the voice, growing stronger.

"Want to be..." Echo could feel something bubbling inside her as she repeated the words. She felt like she was having a heart attack. Everything was painfully alive suddenly. It was like hanging off a cliff, waiting for the landing.

"FREE!" screamed the voice, full of anguish and longing.

"Free!" the word ripped from her throat in a scream of triumph. "Free! Free! Free!" she kept repeating until her voice was a whisper.

The second voice, seemingly satisfied, had faded and disappeared in the darkness.

Running as fast as she could, she raced back to her place. Kneeling beside the water, her whole body vibrated like a tuning fork. She was shaking so hard she could barely make out her reflection.

A pressure was building up in her chest; like a fist pushing upward from her stomach. It had slowly gotten worse, becoming more and more crippling.

Without warning, the feelings hit the base of her throat, the intensity making her gag. Something sweet and metallic filled her mouth, crashing like waves into her gritted teeth. She opened her mouth, gagging and clutching her stomach. The pressure continued up her throat, burning one moment and then painfully cold the next.

It was unbearable and tears began filling her eyes. What was happening? She had never experienced anything like this in her long centuries. The only thing that had come close was when Hera had locked her voice away. Even that hadn't been this exquisitely, painfully, terrible. Yet, for all the pain, there was a joy, an ecstasy, building underneath it.

Her jaw ached from the pressure and it cracked painfully as something substantial filled her mouth. It cut off her air way, her fingers clawing at her throat, trying to force whatever it was out of her. Her vision blurred and black spots dotted everything. The pressure was slowly coming to an end; her energy rallying long enough to pull the item all the way out.

Exhausted, she fell over, her fingers gracing the water. With the item fully vacated she gasped for breath. The air had never tasted so sweet. She felt dizzy as she looked at the object she had purged.

It was small, smaller than it had felt in her throat. It was a small, gilded, birdcage with a tiny padlock. It was exquisite looking and she recognized the Greek letters for "Hera" on the lock. Her brain stumbled on Hera's name, trying to find an explanation and trying to tap down the hope building.

That's when she heard it, a voice emanating from the cage. It was melodious, singing and talking. It was a cacophony; all of her different thoughts, songs, stories and dreams going at once. Everything she had longed to say was spilling out of the cage.

The lock came undone and the door opened up, her voice flowing out. It was beautiful, standing three inches tall, golden and sparkling.

"Its time to speak, Echo." it said, before plunging into her throat and spreading out like honey. Her throat ached for only a moment before she fainted.

The sunlight dappled the ground around Echo. A leaf drifted down and landed on her face. When she opened her eyes, Apollo's chariot rested at its Zenith. She moved stiffly, wondering if everything had been a dream. She was afraid it was and couldn't bring herself to try her voice.

Maybe she would try tonight. If it had been a dream, she wouldn't be able to resist repeating. She would be compelled to echo, it was the most vicious part of the curse.

Tell Me Tales

"Tell me tales," she said, her cheeks flushed with the excitement and the wind's kiss. "Tell me about the land when it was young and fruitful."

But how does one describe the azure of the endless sky, dotted with puffs of white? How does one paint pictures of leafy green arms stretched up in ecstasy, ready to embrace the oceanic heavens? Where do I find the words to elucidate the myriad of blood nourished flowers, their petals like so many dancing princesses across the viridian ballroom of the earth?

She tugged at my sleeve, looking up at me with her, too wide, hazel eyes and I knew. Taking her hand, I led her up to the crest of the hill. Below us lay the chessboard of our reality, stretched as far as the eye could see. The wind swept past us, an invisible ocean, its voice a whisper.

"When the earth was new," I told her, my hand sweeping across the landscape as if I were a painter. "the Gods set about forging existence. They began with the fields and the prairies, dressing the earth in green. They adorned her with crowns of mountains, they christened her with an empyrean of stars, they gave her a voice as soft as silence."

"The earth was a goddess, created from the mist of nothingness and the musing of those more ancient than she. They pressed themselves into the flesh of her and grew as trees, reaching up, always reaching, as if to embrace her. The rivers sprang from her tears, the flowers from the spilled blood of the first peoples, clouds from her dreams."

"The moon stood to guard her and the sun stood to warm her. The jewels in her azure hair fell to the earth, gems to bless her birth, a dowry to those who would come after her."

"Who will come after the Earth, Momma?" she said, her small hand clasped in mine and her eyes roaming the rolling hills before us.

"Earth gives birth to earth, my love. Before this world there were others and many will be born after she ends."

Standing in silence, we gazed out across the emptiness, witnesses to the expanse of our existence. We watched the trees as they fell to the rhythm of axes. They cascaded to the forest floor like evergreen whales diving below the water. We watched as the torches set the grass to leaping red demons. Their destructive dance twisted and rippled across the fabric of the earth. Before we knew it, all that had been green and fragrant had been replaced by cold pavement and polluted air.

"Who will come after the Earth, Momma?"

A Beat

You're words are like a heartbeat in my chest,
pounding out the pulse of my feelings,
tapping out the rhythm of my deepest desires,
tattooing your being into my empty lungs.

The Labels (Alternate Title: Who will you be?)

We don't grow up knowing who we are on a personal level. Instead we grow up assigning labels and adjusting to fit into or
out of those labels. We grow up underneath a plethora of "tags," causing a definite division between our self and the self
the world sees.

We are defined by the colours of our skin, who we choose to love, who we vote for, whether we are smart or pretty. Not by
who we are at our core. The core of who we are is lost in the proverbial shuffle caused by the constant need to navigate the
changing tides of pop culture.

This is why we have a generation of children who don't know who they are, a generation in crisis. A generation of cutters,
self-mutilators; children who don't know their own worth because its never been shown to them. They are constantly under
attack, labeled against their will. Not who they want to be, but who they are manifestly "destined" to be, culturally defined.

It is time for a revolution of sorts. The revolution of the self. Its time to decipher ourselves, ditch the labels, forget the words
that have always been used on us. Its time to choose our own words, discover our own worth. This is the time of flowering,
of bursting open and revealing the beauty inside. A face may be pretty, but it does not define the core of your humanity.

Each of us has an essential spark and it is time for it to ignite. We are not the stereotypes, the labels, the ridiculing voices,
the words that hit harder than any fist. We are unique. We are intelligent. We are gifted. We are stronger than we have ever
given ourselves credit for. Forget everything you've been told and delve into your self. You decide who you will be.

You decide. Not the labels. So, all the labels aside, who are you?

Temerity

If there was courage it seems to have fled.
Bravery is a drink best drunk by those who can hold their liquor,
not by girls with big hearts and bigger mouths.

The precipice is steep, a long fall, further than Alice's rabbit hole,
darker than a starless night.
Conjuring temerity is a lost art when facing the crypt.

She looks around, gulping the air as though it were water,
clutching the edge as though it were a hand to help her.
It doesn't pull her up and her fingers slip, dropping her down.

We're All Mad Here

Madness did not arrive in the form of shackles and screaming tirades.
Instead it crept up, much like a lost kitten, mewling for comfort in the dark.
It purred softly, rubbing and playfully batting.
Before long it was as if it had always been there, swishing its tail.

It wasn't always this way; we were not always this way.
The shifting of the sunlight through the windows shaped the shadows between us.
The soft lilt of a nightingale silenced the questions we never meant to ask.
The madness slipped through the door, its eyes blinking sweetness and confusion.

We danced our evenings to the muted sonatas inside our hearts.
We spun the stories of our whiskey-soaked nightmares onto our skin.
We traced the scars of the sickness into our faces and our minds.
We shaved our heads, cracked open our skulls to dig out the memories.

Madness arrived; without fanfare or a bottle of wine.
It came while we were away, on holiday somewhere far from home.
It was sly and we were lost and wandering in a loblolly before we knew it.
A bottle marked "poison" tasted like custard and we did not resist.

Your Absence

Your absence has not gone unnoticed. I still miss you every day since you passed. I'm still waiting by the phone, re-listening to your voice-mails, wishing I had asked you to show me how to make goulash, wishing I could tell you about being able to finally eat rice again, wishing the Mondays weren't stretching out before me in weeks, months and years.

I am still feeling the pain of your loss. I am still waiting for you to call me, feeling guilty for not having called that last week you were here, wishing I could do it all over, wanting to see you again.

I know it sounds selfish to other people. They must not understand what its like to not be able to breath, because you feel like someone just kicked you in the ribs. They must not understand what its like to crumple to the ground, because you suddenly don't know how to stand. They must not understand what its like to lose someone that you believed, foolishly, would live forever.

I want you back. I want you here. I want you to annoy me by constantly calling. I want you to tell the TV people that they don't know what they're talking about. I want you to do that funny little dance you would do whenever you were getting up to go do something. I want to be in your too hot house while you grumble about all the cooking you have to get done.

I want you back, because I'm looking at a calendar full of empty Mondays and I just don't know what to do without you. And they say these things fade with time, but I don't think it will. I don't think I'll ever get over this.

On Monday...

Dear Aunt Peggy,
I keep expecting you to call, even though I know you're not going to. I keep expecting you to leave me a voicemail message, saying, you know, "what do you want for lunch on Monday?" And I keep thinking "what am I even going to do on Monday?"

I've had a lot of suggestions.

"Well, you could always catch up on all your reading." or...
"I'm sure you'll come up with something, you have plenty of time." and...
"What will you do on Monday?"

My answer is, I don't know.

What will I do on Monday, Aunt Peggy?

You're not going to be there and I keep thinking, "man, I kept putting off cleaning those pictures for you. And, man, I kept putting off going and seeing you there at the end. And, man, I did a lot of putting off didn't I?"

And then I keep thinking you never broke any promises to me before now. In one fell swoop, you broke several.

I don't have a picture of you. Besides the one I took on my phone when you weren't paying attention. Can't see your face.

And you broke your promise that you would live to 100, 'cause we still had seventeen more years to go.

And, you know, broken promises. I'm not angry at you. I just wish you'd been able to keep them.

But I keep thinking that you had the spaghetti and meatballs all ready. And that you were so excited we were going to have spaghetti and meatballs because we hadn't had it in a long time.

And I keep coming back to "what am I going to do on Monday?"

Because we're not going to get to share our McDonald's cup of coffee anymore.
And we're not going to get to eat goulash together anymore.
And we're not going to get to rant at Pat Robertson anymore.
And we're not going to get to do any of those things anymore.

So, what am I going to do on Monday, Aunt Peggy?

What am I going to do on Monday?

I thought maybe I'd still come and share a cup of coffee with you.
And maybe I'll bring my books and I'll bring a blanket to sit on so I don't get grass stains all over my rear.
And maybe I'll go and buy a chocolate soda.
And maybe I'll figure out how to make goulash on my own.
And maybe I'll use those potholders that you gave me.
I'll put up all the knick-knacks you gave me.
There's a lot of maybe's.

But Aunt Peggy, I'd much rather be with you. I'd much rather actually be getting to see you than wondering what it is I'm going to do.

Who am I going to watch "The Price is Right" with?
Who am I going to banter with about who pays for what?
Whose going to make me ham salad even though I don't eat pork? But I eat it anyway because you made it. The only time I ate pork for a really long time.
Whose going to worry about me while I'm off gallivanting in DC and whose going to ask me what "erectile dysfunction" means and whose going to ask me all these questions I don't know how to answer?

Its not fair, Aunt Peggy.
I love you.
I miss you.
I'm sorry I didn't come and see you at the end.
I'm sorry.

Lost Petals

You bloom along my skyline horizon, an ever changing landscape.
Your purples and your blues make no apologies for what they are.
Your body is a visceral flower, blood stark against white sheets.
All of your dreaming is a breath on the lips of god,
all of your screaming a single note in a crashing melody,
all of your dying is reels of tape on the cutting floor.

He takes everything apart, as though you were a puzzle to solve.
He breaks you down to the basest of base components.
He tears you up and throws your bits in the air like confetti.
All of your fluidity is flowing, eternally out and never in.
All of his love is written across your skin, tattoos that fade.
All of you is nothing to him.

I see your pieces float away, flotsam on the ocean of your life.
I watch the patterns shift, the wary smiles crushed with fists.
I observe the fading of hard kisses against paper thin skin.
All of you is falling apart, breaking under the pounding hands.
All of his "love" is your poetry, you drink it in and don't cry out.
All of my begging, all of my crying, its all the same voice.

You and I are the same being, deflowered goddesses torn from pedestals.
I scream with his hand around my throat, he lifts you off the floor.
He enjoys the struggle, the faint cyan of our skin as the air rushes out.
All of our love for him isn't enough to stop the pain.
All of our fear feeds his flame.
All of our resistance is fruitless.

Seventeen

You stifle a giggle. Not because you are happy, but because you are nervous. You hate this about yourself, almost as much as your jiggly thighs and extra belly flab. There a lot of things you hate about yourself, besides your nervous giggles and fat. There are things you are too ashamed to admit because you've always been told they are wrong or because you so desperately want to fit in. Some of this has led to cutting yourself, some of it to the drinking, some of it to the thoughts you are afraid to even admit to yourself.

You are nervous because this guy is flirting with you. He has glasses, black hair and he smokes. He kind of reminds you of Johnny Depp in "Cry Baby," only slightly though. You are nervous because he has already mentioned sex, you are still a virgin even though you are sixteen (almost seventeen), and you are just outside church. He is talking about how he was a masseuse in Vegas, he knows how to make a woman orgasm just by rubbing her feet, or so he says.

Sex talk has always made you nervous. It makes you feel sick in your stomach. Not just because you've never had it, but because you believe God will hate you and because you genuinely believe no one will want to have sex with you. You are so wrapped up in your fears; the fear you'll die alone, the fear that no one will ever love you because you are too fat, the fear that you will just be abused again. Its your biggest fear, that you are holding yourself back, that makes you open yourself up to this guy even though he makes you nervous.

You've only just met him, but you tell him a secret. You don't want to go to your family reunion because your grandmother will make a snide comment about your weight. She always does. Its inevitable. That's why you are outside, waiting for your mother to pick you up, because you still don't know how to drive.

He is interesting, you think. He seems to be genuinely into you too. But there is something off about all this. You don't quite know what it could be, but you begin to feel more confident and you return the flirtation. You can't wait to see him next week when you go to church, having already fallen kind of hard for this man you just met.

You are desperate for some positive male attention. Or even bad attention, at this point. Your father and mother are divorced, your step-father ignores you and you have a younger brother who just annoys you most of the time. You love him fiercely, but he is a different guilt that you carry tucked in the pocket of your, already over-burdened, heart. You are a mess right now. The one positive male role-model you have has just left for Paris. You don't know who you are, but you are so desperate to just feel normal for a bit, feel loved for a little while.

You go to the reunion, in spite of the fear. These are the things that have led to bulimia, to overeating, to overcompensating. You believe if you could just be perfect, somehow, your grandmother will suddenly realize she loves you. She'll stop making those hurtful jabs about your weight. The jabs that your grandfather tries to deflect, but never successfully quells. You think about your grandfather and how much he loves you. You believe, for a moment, that maybe all you need is grandpa and you'll be okay.

But grandpa is an alcoholic, his love transitory depending on the number of beers. Its not as bad as some of the times when you were younger, but you suspect that his love lessens depending on the level of alcohol in his system. Or maybe its just your belief that you'll never be good enough.

Its inevitable. She makes a comment about your weight. You're not skinny. Never have been, really. You've always been a little plump. Recently though you've gained and you weigh more than you ever have. You blame it on moving to the house you live in currently. Its a nice house, but it doesn't have the open landscape the last one did. You can't run or ride bikes like you used to. Plus things have gotten progressively worse at home, you're sick all the time and you hide in your room writing your crappy poetry. She always gives you that same disappointed and cruel look. Your mom tries to step in, grandpa scolds. You hold your breath, trying to make yourself smaller. Trying to stop the tears you feel building in your chest, like a scream.

You don't say anything, you take the verbal beating, like you always have, and then go to the car and cry. You think about the guy from church with his black hair and easy smile. You decide he has pretty eyes.

The next week he gives you his phone number and you find out he is a convicted child molester. This doesn't deter you, even though you liken it to your mother's relationship with your father. This guy is eight years older than you, he smokes, he is a convicted felon, he's divorced. He's smart though. He's charming. He's your father without being your father.

He has the decency to wait until you turn seventeen before asking you out. You readily agree because you tell yourself you love him. Even though you know you don't. You aren't even sure what love is, but you are still missing your guy friend who is in Paris and you are still wishing for a Mr. Right at Last.

The first time he kisses you, you feel yourself melting. He has soft lips, but he tastes of cigarette smoke. He is trying to quit, for you, he says. He is a good kisser, easy and gentle. He slips just the tip of his tongue into your mouth and you eagerly meet him. This is your first "French Kiss" and you find it isn't unpleasant. In fact it is arousing, but you don't know what being aroused means. You don't even know what masturbation is or how it works, you just know you feel warm and fuzzy all over. He is a gentleman, at first, just content to kiss you.

Slowly, however, his hand moves over your breasts, which are large and another source of frustration for you. They're always in the way and you don't even know why you need them. Something happens when he touches them though. You suddenly feel this pressure building up in your pelvis, almost like you have to pee. And the need gets stronger when his hand slides down in-between your legs. He doesn't go under your clothes, which you silently thank God for, he just rubs. It doesn't get you anywhere in particular, but you really feel like you'll burst. You wonder, distantly, if this is what sex is like. Feeling like you really have to pee, but with none of the relief you get from using the bathroom.

You date for two weeks before he proposes the idea of marriage. You agree, without hesitation. You want to be married. You want to be free of the guilt you feel for being a sexual being. You want to have children, be away from your step-father, who makes you increasingly uncomfortable. You want to escape.

You buy your engagement ring, a cubic zirconium affair that cost you less than five dollars. He slips it on your finger outside of church before sneaking a kiss from you. You know that he could get in trouble for being with you, you're under eighteen and he is a convicted molester. Everyone is warning you away from him too. Your best friend despises him. Even the pastor's wife has taken you aside to discuss the "situation" as she put it.

She warns you about how you can't trust him, especially around children. Instead of making you wary, it makes you angry. You rant to your journal about how it is gossip to discuss his conviction amongst everyone in the whole church. You rant about how he is innocent, his ex-wife set him up, the children were lying. You fight back, even though you know it isn't healthy.

In the back of a friend's car, on the way to your house, you give him an orgasm. Something you've never done before. It starts innocently, you let your hand stray to his groin and rub. You feel him "rise to the occasion," but you don't stop. It doesn't take long. Less than a few minutes, but the wet spot on his blue jeans gives you such a feeling of power. A feeling of ecstasy. You have power you didn't realize you did.

This is the day he whistles for you, like you were a dog, in front of your mother and you obey. You come to him, as though you really were nothing more than a pet. You catch a glimpse of the worry in your mother's eyes, but she never tells you to stop. She never warns you away from him. She doesn't discourage you, though sometimes you wish she would. Some days you wish she would tell you no. Partly to have an excuse to run away, partly because you want to stop, because you are starting to doubt.

One day he has a bike wreck. He cuts his upper lip, but somehow he looks even more attractive then. He talks you into a slow dance outside your aunt's house, he keeps kissing you even though it bumps his lip. You lie to yourself and say you truly love him. Maybe a part of you does, but the inner you knows this is all wrong. There have been signs along the way and you've been ignoring them. Especially the ones that hurt.

You've been together a month when you both decide to break up. Not because you want to, but because his uncle has threatened to call the police and expose your relationship. You begin cutting again. You had promised the other guy friend that you wouldn't anymore, but you can't scream. You can't cry. You have to bleed it out. You cut your upper thighs because no one will see them. You become so depressed you can't even see straight. Your mother doesn't say anything, but she worries about you.

You are only broken up a week, before he tells you that he can't do it and its too painful to be separated like that. He gallantly says he's willing to go back to jail to be with you. You love him even more. Or so you say.

You are together for another month before you discover he has been cheating on you the whole time. You have no actual proof, but you trust what you've been told. Not only that but he has gotten into some gang activity, which scares you. You don't want him to be involved with the gang, but can't stop him. You break up with him, but still cut yourself over him. He has the gang spy on you. Some days you look out the living room windows to see a black car with tinted windows sitting at the top of the driveway, just sitting.

He tries, unsuccessfully, to win you back after he gets a car of his own. He plays a stupid song about making out with a ghost. You let him kiss you, because you enjoy kissing so much. But you don't agree to go out with him again. There is retaliation from the gang toward one of your girlfriends, but none towards you.

It doesn't take long before he is caught violating his probation and he is sent back to jail. His phone isn't disconnected though and sometimes, when you are extremely lonely, you call to listen to his voice on the voice-mail. Sometimes you wish you had agreed to go out with him again. It doesn't matter though, because you find out he has a new girlfriend, a thinner and prettier girl.

It takes a car wreck and a spontaneous letter from him to make you look back on those days. You regret them with your everything. You regret the decisions you made after he was gone, decisions that you still keep hidden in the pocket of your, still over-burdened, heart. You read his letter and recognize the manipulation. You recognize it because it was there all along.

Sometimes, when you are kissing your, now, husband, you can taste the man with the cigarette breath. It always shakes you up, because you always have a reaction to it. You feel the same feelings you did then, when you were seventeen and lonely. It still shakes you up because a part of you misses the feeling of his hands on your hips as you danced in the grass. A part of you misses the power to make him aroused.

You keep the letter from him in a box, hidden in the closet, out of sight. You keep track of him on a sexual predator tracking site. You only look every couple of months, just so you know you are still safe. You are still frightened of him. Not because he could actually hurt you, physically, but because of how you will feel if you see him.

You don't love him. You never loved him. You cared about him, more than you should've. You can't forgive yourself for your foolishness though. You can't forget how you felt when he would caress you, when he would kiss you. He never loved you, but you miss him sometimes.

A Gentleman

I want a gentleman.

I don't need a bad boy to take me for a ride,
a cardiac collide with bad attitude and restlessness.
I want to be more than a sacrifice on the altar of his lusts,
his games, just another notch on his leather belt.

I want a gentleman.
I want to be taken down slow, kissed breathless.
A sweet collapse into bed, a gentle joining of spirits,
not just two bodies.

I don't need the stereotypes.
I am not a saviour come to rescue the damned.
I can't change someone who doesn't want to be changed.
I am so much more than that.

In Your Arms

I wish I was in your arms.
The smell of your skin,
the scent of your breath a whisper in my hair.
I dream I am in your arms.

I dream of kisses along my jaw,
I wish for your heartbeat in my ear,
I long for you to just hold me.
Hold me.

I want to bask in your sweetness.
I desire nothing more than you,
your arms protecting me from myself,
our lips tasting secrets and truths.

I want to be the prized flower in the garden of your heart.
I want to bloom in the soil of your arms,
watered with kisses and sweet words.
I want to be your favorite flower; roses, lilies, hyacinths.

I wish I was in your arms.
The taste of your kiss lingering on my lips.
Your breath mingling with mine,
your eyes asking me for my everything.

I dream of your heart, a pillow for my head.
I wish you would see all of the love I'm willing to bleed.
I long for the day you realize that I've stood here,
begging, for years, waiting to be yours.

I'm still waiting.
I am waiting for you to be willing to wait for me.
I am waiting to be your everything.
I am waiting for you to put me first.

I'm still wishing for your arms around me.

Drinking the Poison

"If you drink too much from a bottle marked 'poison,' it's almost certain to disagree with you sooner or later."
- Alice; "Alice in Wonderland"

There is poison inside of me. A poison I continue to drink from, daily.
It is from a wound; a festering mark on my insides.
I let it grow. I leave it untended. I let the words, the actions, build up.
I leave it open to the air; exposed to infection.
It has become toxic and I don't lance it. I just let it rot.

I don't know how to cure it, what anti-dote might work.
I don't know how to care for myself, because I feel uncared for.
The sharks of memory circle the piece of me I try to hang onto.
They circle, scenting my blood, craving the final cascade into insanity.
Its your fault, its your fault, its your fault.

You did it to yourself.
You deserve it.
You are worthless.
You are horrid.
You are ugly.
You are stupid.
You are hated.
You are worthless.
You are nothing,
nothing, nothing.

But I want to be SOMETHING.
I long to be WORTH IT.
I want to be BEAUTIFUL.
I want to be LOVED.
I want to be INTELLIGENT.
I want to be MORE than nothing.

To be more than nothing, I have stop drinking from the poison.
I have to stop taking in the words and letting them fester.
And letting them grow, until I want to slit my skin to bleed it out.
To be more than nothing, I have to let it go.

Lost in Mathematics

We're all evens and odds.
Can you divide me by two and come out even?
Does the Pythagorean theorem apply to my equation?
Am I greater than the sum total of pi or
am I trapped in the acute angle of this geometry?

I'm not trying to be obtuse, that's just how I'm calculated.
I'm a miracle of Fibonacci's spirals,
spreading further and further from myself,
juxtaposed so nicely,
but always parallel to myself.

I never meet myself,
except at intersections and y equals x.
Truthfully, I belong to the odds that one in a whole lifetime finds themselves,
polished by fractions and whittled down to decimal places.

We're all evens and odds.
Do I calculate properly?

Clara Bow

I may look like Clara Bow, but I have an "Exquisite Corpse" sense of
humor and I may look sweet, but honey, I can be oh, so sour.
There are methods to my madness, a verbal sputtering, trembling. You
may think you know, but you don't.
I'm made of jade, the veins show so clearly and I love them dearly. If its
a question you want to ask, I have all the answers: 42.
I'm practicing my telepathy and my teleportation devices.
I'm working on heading to Jupiter's 27th moon for a brief vacation. I was
told I don't need reservations on a Monday night.
I can be a sweet dream, but “I'm your nightmare. Did you think you
were done with nightmares, now you've become one?”

Staying Power

Will you still love me if I don't shave my legs?
If I don't wear any make-up or low cut blouses?
Will you still think I'm pretty if I gain five pounds?
If I wear t-shirts and old, faded, jeans?

Am I more to you than the facade I give the world?
Am I more to you than my outermost being?

Will you still love me when my breasts begin to sag?
Or when I no longer am able to control every bodily function?
Will you still think I'm beautiful if I gain another five pounds?
Or if I stop dyeing my hair to hide the white strands?

Or will you leave me for breasts that are naturally perky?
For someone whose body is supple and perfect?

Will you love me even though my body is a graveyard?
One that is unable to ripen and produce fruit?
Will you forgive me for the faults of my imperfection?
In spite of all the weaknesses?

Am I more to you than a person in a crowd?
Am I more than a wilting flower of a body?

Will you still love me when I am no longer perfect?
Will you still love me, in spite of myself?
Or will you walk away, your love a mere trifle,
an empty promise made to a weakening heart?

Do I have staying power?

Infertile

They ask me why there are no children around me.
They ask why there is no infant in my arms.
They ask how I was so lucky to escape motherhood.

"You've been married for a while..."
"When are you going to have a baby?"
"Why don't you have children yet?"

I try to explain, try to swallow the anger and the shame.
I was in a car accident,
a mangled pelvis that will probably never be able to cradle life,
a hip so thoroughly crushed that they didn't know how to repair it.

I try to explain, try to bite back the tears and the sting.
I have an imperfect body,
ovaries that never really knew how to work properly,
a cervix too far tipped to one side and tilted downward.

They ask me why I don't want to be a mother.
They say I'm wasting my natural mothering skills.
They say I should try, I would be a wonderful parent.

"Why don't you adopt?"
"You'd be such a wonderful mother!"
"You'll change your mind one day."

I try to explain, try to pinch off the sarcasm before it escapes.
I helped raise three children,
a younger sister who has blossomed into adolescent womanhood,
two cousins who are quickly leapfrogging toward teenage years.

I try to explain, the sadness and the depression like a stone.
I watched my mother,
watched her almost bleed to death on our bathroom floor,
five embryos spontaneously aborted by her body.

They offer opinions, telling me I'll change my mind some day.
"You don't want to die a lonely old woman do you?"
They criticize, echoing all the sentiments I have already heard.

Admission

Yes, I love you. I love you so much I can hardly stand it.

You make it hard to breathe.

How many languages must I learn to convey this to you?

Eight? Ten? Twenty-five? A thousand?

Are there even enough letters in all the various alphabets to begin to explain it to you?

How many times am I going to let these words die on my tongue?

Twice? Three times? A million?

Mən səni sevirəm.

Je t'aime.

Saranghae.

Te amo.

Aisheteru.

I love you.

Feminism.

The question isn't how will I fail, but how do you intend to stop me. I am my own person and you can't silence me.
Let my voice ring out, louder than the church bells. Let me be heard. Let me be understood. Let me be kind.
I dare you, try to stop me. Try to pin me to the ground, I'm already soaring.

Rising Against

I am a tide, rising up, wild and free.
I crash into the hard truth of the shore,
bashing my skull against it,
trying to make some sense of it.

I am a survivor, raising my fists, fighting.
I am crumbling flesh,
divorced from the traumas,
devoid of the reasons behind actions.

I am terrified.

I can make no sense of these realities.
I can't breathe the poisoned clouds.
I don't understand the reasons,
the misgivings, the belligerency.

I am simply a tide, rising up,
eager to devour the, hard won,
knowledge of the earth. Eager to be.
I am a survivor.

I am stronger than I believe myself to be.

The Meaning of Sarah

The meaning of Sarah does not lie in the literal meaning of the name.

Instead, it resides in sun soaked meadows in September, the taste of wild strawberries and the color red. It lingers in her fractured poetry, her overly opinionated voice, her lack of boundaries. It ripens in the pools of her eyes, in her belief in the mythological.

The meaning of Sarah does not exist within the perimeters created by others.

It flies beyond the borders, open arms to embrace the earth and a heart scarred, but willing to love.

Its like standing outside of my body and watching myself. Like I don't actually belong inside of me, but I'm still a part of ME.

I have no name.

"Sarah" is too ethereal to belong to me. "Sarah" is too beautiful to belong to me. "Sarah" is autumn and blood red leaves and fields of strawberries growing wild in the sun. "Sarah" is memories that have lost their meanings. "Sarah" is hollow, but "Sarah" is full.

The meaning of Sarah is not in the name.

What is in a name? Does it belong to any part of one's body? Or does it lie at the soul?

Sarah does not have a name. Sarah does not exist. Sarah is fractured poetry and the bumper stickers of would-be presidents. She's an equal rights rally. She's equal parts Marilyn Monroe and Edgar Allan Poe. She's a love of the wild and spirit. She is obsession.

The meaning of Sarah lies in her inability to let her conscience be silenced.

The meaning of Sarah is directly proportionate to the meaning of Donnie. And the meaning of atoms and stars in rotation. And the meaning of love. And the meaning of choosing who and what you will be.

The meaning of Sarah gets lost in the shuffle, because even Sarah doesn't know the meaning. There is no dictionary to explain one's self to one's self.

The meaning of Sarah is something brilliant. Something waiting to be born, that's afraid to be born.

The meaning of Sarah has been lost in translation and translation after translation.

The meaning of Sarah is like a holy book. Abused by those who want to make it their own. Pages torn out, meanings lost. But still there.

The meaning of Sarah is not the body that houses her. It is not the body that houses me that makes me. It is the person inside of me, inside of her, that doesn't know who she is, but is willing to try.

The meaning of Sarah is flying, despite the obstacles.

The meaning of Sarah is fighting, despite all the tearing down.

The meaning of Sarah is finding yourself inside the pages of a beloved book, the words jumping off the page embracing you like long lost lovers.

The meaning of Sarah cannot be found in a dictionary, because she is more than words on a page. She is more than the loves and the hates and the cruelties and the bad memories and the bad dreams and the dreams that never came true. She is more than strawberries growing in a field.

The meaning of Sarah does not lie in the literal meaning of the name, but in her willingness to grow in spite of the tearing down of her hope.