Anxiety

"Oh, hello," I say.
It seems you have come to pay
a visit and I am woefully
unprepared for your company.
My anxiety is like a frightened child,
crawling into my bed, inviting me to share
all of it's nightmares so that sleep seems
terribly far away.
It causes my mind to chuckle at
itself. I know this is silly and foolish,
there is no reason, but that is all the
reason I need to want to fight or fly.
My anxiety is sometimes ever present,
sometimes hardly here, sometimes
creeping along the southern walls of
whichever brain's hemisphere, I do not know.
It drops in, uninvited, at the
most random moments.
Whispering nonsense that makes
only sense to my fears.
It wrinkles the blankets,
races my heart up and down my ribs,
like a ladder to some heaven or hell,
knowing very well there is neither.
It wrings its hands against
imagined slights and old debts.
It trembles at phone calls and
knocks upon the door.
It forgets that we must eat,
forgets we must drink,
forgets all but the encompassing
fears.
My anxiety, it is a friend I do not
want to speak with anymore, but
somehow I can't seem to show it the
door.
Only, opening my arms, pretending
I am fine. I am satisfied with this
shell of a life, hugged by a butcher
with a skillful knife.
My anxiety, it kisses me to sleep,
rolls itself into my waking dreams,
shapeshifts into things I think I can't trust,
then back again.
My anxiety is a living, breathing, being.
A guest that refuses to leave.
A child that wants only to share its dreams.
And I am alone with it.

The Skeleton Remains

The skeletal remains of your kisses
clink around my incisors, tickle the
ivory of my molars, tap dance across
my canines.

At night I can hear them, tinkling
like chandeliers in a breeze. I can
taste the bittersweet, hollowed, bones
of them curled against my tongue.

Their sugar melts into cavities of
emptiness, blackening my teeth with
the ash of them. They rub themselves
against my taste buds, reminders.

In the still of your long absence,
all of my teeth have rotted away, wasted
by the frame of your feelings for
me. Too sweetly  bitter to remain in me.

The ghosts of your kisses have replaced
the skeleton of your love. They howl,
but at least the clink of your chandeliers
against my teeth has ceased.

Drowning Sun

The Sun drowned last night.

He followed the Moon through starlit passageways, black hair streaming behind her in waves.

She tripped over galaxies, swaying in the celestial ocean; waiting for the next starry tide to come in.

He waded out to stand beside her; their hands entwined like the constellations.

His lips grazed her still night hair, breathed in the newest scent of her and laughed.

She kissed the lemon slice of his mouth, drinking in the golden lips, a hand coming up to tangle in his wheat field hair.

The stars chattered, their diamond teeth clinking together like spoons in glasses; warning bells.

He lost his grip on her hand, slipping under a crescent wave, drifting out on primordial seas.

She lost him amongst the roiling blackness; holes swallowing the sound of her cries.

It was foolish to believe such moments were endless.

When all of heaven's din was hushed, they found him glowing beneath the mirror of the universe.

He had drowned in the tempest of her skies, lost in the voids of their eclipse.

The Sun drowned last night and the Moon has yet to stop weeping.

If you love me

If you love me
it is the same as loving fire.

At some point
you will be
burned.

Not because I want to burn you,
   but that is the nature of fire;
to burn.

I can be calm,
unassuming,
like the flicker of a campfire
or
a candle's flame.

But there will be times
where I rage;
  out of control,
  full of anguish,
  of wrath.

It is in my nature
  to burn quietly
or
  rage out of control.

Would you ask the ocean to
stop kissing the shore?
Would you ask the winds to
never whip the trees?

As romantic as it may seem to be in love
with the flame,
you must know,
that someday it will burn you.

Some day it is going to sweep through,
destroying everything in its wake.

And I will try to hold it back.
I will try to never let you see,
but there is a trail of
ashes.

And I am what I am.

Safety.

Her son won't come home.
His new home is decorated with headstones.
He wears maggots as one would evening wear.
He no longer sings.
He no longer laughs.
He longer breathes.
He can't breathe.

Her son won't be coming home.
What should've promised safety,
should've protected him,
murdered him for holding a toy,
a sandwich, his hands in the air.
He doesn't play anymore.

They murder our fathers
and condemn us for our fatherless lives.
They murder our husbands
and mock our single parenting skills.
We can't run for fear of accusations,
justifications, "precautions."

Her son won't be coming home anymore.
Another Emmett Till for a different era.
Another Michael Brown.
Another Tamir Rice.
Another Eric Garner.

We Can't Breathe.

Would you want me to?

I won't cry.
I keep saying I'll stop.
Maybe I scare you.
Maybe I'm too much.

I blame myself.
Its always my fault...
when I am left.
How foolish to think you'd be different.

They all leave in the end.
Its inevitable.
And I'm always the dust,
settling into the cracks.

I'm different. I admit that.
Was my difference the final
nail?
I won't apologize for that.

I can't help that I love
too passionately. That I'm
crazy. That I long for stars
too far from the earth of my body.

Was it my love that sent
you running? Was it the Cheshire
Cat of my personality?
I can't apologize for who I am.

Would you want me to?

The Things We Claim

Flowers in your beard,
your arms around me,
the way you looked when
you fucked me...

Those are the memories I own.

The taste of your smile,
like a slice of the sun,
dimpled perfection...

Those are the things I miss most.

Tears and burnt love letters,
the snarl of your anger,
spitting venom...

Those are the things I remember.

Prometheus

You thought yourself Prometheus;
stealing fire from the gods to warm
the world.
In the end, you turned my bones to
firewood and warmed only you.

Love Poem to a Cannibal

Blend me with all of
your raw fruit.

Shake me together with
your tossed salads.

Mix me into all of you
until I am dissolved.

Add a pinch of salt,
a sprinkle of sugar.

I was never flavorful
on my own.

Bake me at 375° until I
am done to your satisfaction.

I hope I am delicious.

Concrete Shoes

Concrete shoes
sinking further,
falling to the bottom
of your ocean.

The weigh isn't all
      You...
Some of the concrete is
      Mine too...

But what am I to do,
drowning under you,
feet weighted down in
concrete shoes?

A Fault in Our Stars

These faults are not in our stars;
they do not lie in our falling in love,
but in how deeply and utterly we fall.

The fault in these, our stars,
is simply that we are made of the
essence of stars and not wishes themselves.

Summer

I'm trying to bleed summer,
pushing sunlight from my veins,
slicing through ripe fruit to
reveal the frozen boughs of
all the winters I forgot.

The Balloon Letters: Ibrahim

"My father calls me 'youngest son.' He says it with a tone of disappointment, a tinge of shame. His deep voice practically hums with his dislike of me. He won't look me in the eyes and, for the past five years, he won't say my name.

"Its Ibrahim, though my younger sisters call me 'Ib.' They are the only good thing in my life and they will be married out before too long. Mariam will be sixteen soon. Father has already started the bargaining process for her, as if she were a piece of particularly choice meat. It was the same with Farah, my older sister.

"She is the reason my father calls me 'youngest son' and my mother no longer looks at me. Farah, beautiful and radiant as the coming dawn. I couldn't let them kill her. I could not follow them as they dragged her through the streets, screaming for her blood. They called it an 'honour' killing, but there was no honour to be found that day. Only my sister, dead. And I am alive because I am a son."

Mariam and Jinan clambered into Ibrahim's room, their sandaled feet slapping against the stone floor and echoing down the hallway. They held their breath, trying to keep their hearts from leaping out of their chests. Ib was acting oddly lately. He always grew more quiet this time of year, but this silence was punctuated with odd and jumbled bits of nonsense.

He looked at his sisters and smiled. They reminded him of Farah so much. Even now, five years later, he felt the spasmic ache in his chest for her. He still heard her pleas for mercy as they stoned her. Her cries to God as the lash settled across her bared back.

Sometimes he woke up to her screams, his tears streaming down his face. Looking at Mariam and Jinan only strengthened his desire that nothing like that happen to them. Looking at his slip of paper, he silently pleaded that someone, somewhere, remember Farah after he was gone. He could not bear the idea that she be forgotten after he had left the world.

He stood and wrapped his arms around his sisters, holding them close. His father had finalized Mariam's engagement to a man three times her age; the brother of Farah's husband. The brother of the man who forced his sister to undergo circumcision and had her murdered when she was raped. A man who beat her every day for not providing him with a son. He would not see Mariam be killed and mutilated by the brother.

He grabbed his pack, a small black balloon hed been given after a trip to the city inside the front pocket. He would take his sisters some place where they'd be safe and he would send his love, and pleas for forgiveness, for Farah to the starry night sky in a tiny black balloon.

Reality

Am I real?

Or is it just the way your hands feel on my skin?
Is it the way our palms touch when you are looking into my eyes?
Or is it the way your lips whisper haiku against the paper of my breasts?

You leave me breathlessly questioning if I exist or if I am merely a figment of your imagination.

Can your mind paint the sky such a heavenly blue?
Can you bind me to the earth as reality?
Are you a God that you can breathe life into my empty lungs?

Am I real?

You say I am only as real as I believe I am.
If that is true than I am nothing more than your will.
I am of simple design, easy tastes and childish whims.

Will I bleed if you prick me?

There are days I don't believe in myself.
Almost mythical, not quite beautiful, a dream wishing to be born.
Will you give me birth?

I am Woman, Phenomenally.

Maybe I'm just a little girl in a big world full of monsters.
Maybe I can't stop even a fraction of them.

But in the end, I'm standing there brandishing my sword,
screaming the battle cry that is pounding in my blood.

I have big dreams; a big voice inside my head calling me
to something greater than all this.

The monsters may come. Let them. I may die,
but I'll die fighting. No one can say I didn't try my hardest.

Isn't that what courage is? Running towards the monster,
rather than away from it?

Maybe I'm a speck in the endless seas of humanity,
drifting in and out on a tide of relentless insanity.

A ragdoll, tossed into the fray of the screaming waves.
Another pair of breasts in the wriggling masses.

But I was born to be Joan of Arc; the heart of a lioness,
consort to scarecrow princes and ready for battle.

Let the Jabberwockys come, let them do their worst.
I am still standing, a giantess with my soul painfully alive.

There is more to me, a little girl in a big world,
than could ever be imagined by the seething oceans.

In the words of Maya Angelou, "Phenomenal woman, that's me."

The Dream

They always started the same way.

She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, the round one with the crooked leg that makes the whole thing wobble. She was sipping cold coffee, the taste and texture like sludge sliding down her throat.

"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your fears."

He didn't know what true fear was.

While sitting at the table, coffee in hand, she would watch herself in a mirror. It was precisely at eye level. Sometimes it seemed to ripple, ever so slightly, whenever she would turn her head away.

The dream always started this way.

Though she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw everything. It was as if she were peering through a kitchen window, watching herself struggle to swallow coffee, even as she watched her reflection in the mirror. With the panoramic view, she would watch the door behind her open and the darkness would creep in.

It was thick, like tar and it radiated with heat. It oozed into the cracks in the ceramic floor and pumped from the holes in the violet wallpaper. She would watch herself in the mirror, seemingly glued to her chair with no place to run. She would watch from the window as the darkness congealed into human like shapes and slid across the floor.

"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your relationship with your mother."

It was true that her mother had abused her. That she had forced her to sit at the table, eating cold and, sometimes, rotten food that she had refused to eat days before. Sometimes she would make her sit and stare at her face in the mirror, sometimes for hours. She only did that after she'd beaten her though.

"Look at the bruises flowering on your skin." she'd say, slapping her hard across the mouth. "You look so pretty."

This was normal. For years, she couldn't look at herself in the mirror, except in her dreams. In the dream she was glued to her face.

Usually, around this point in the dream, she could startle herself awake and away from the suffocating darkness. In the quiet stillness of her childhood bedroom she would hug her knees and whisper to the darkness that she would be a good girl.

This was something she had not told the psychologist. She had been living with the darkness for years beyond when her mother had lived. And, when her mother committed suicide in the basement, she had stayed in the house with the corpse for at least a day before calling the ambulance. In the cool shadows of the basement, she watched her mother's body tremble with the weight of sins.

She kept the house because there was no other place to go. And her mother would be angry if she left her behind.

The dream started over as soon as she closed her eyes. Always the same.

She sits at the table. The round one with the crooked leg, all of the world around her wobbling on uneven ground. She stares at her face. Funny, this is the first time she has seen it un-bruised. There isn't even a cut. Why is she staring at herself, when there is no imperfection to make her beautiful?

From outside the room, she can see the creeping darkness. It flows, like molasses, shifting into figures not quite human and not quite alien. Something feels off.

She watches herself take a sip of coffee, slugging it back like a shot. She feels it, like hot coals, slithering down her throat, tripping her gag reflex. She sputters, but doesn't quite spit it all up.

The darkness glides closer and closer; evolving, shifting, changing and undulating. Its hands wrap around her throat, choking her. It slams her head into the table, cracking the crooked leg against the ceramic floor with the percussive resonance of gunfire.

Looking up, she sees her face is bleeding. Bruising begins around her eyes; the years of bruises branding her purple and yellow against the violet wallpaper. The darkness slams her face into the table again.

The table breaks under the force and she feels her face begin to cave. The darkness forces her to the floor and the ceramic seems to swallow her.

Her mother looks at her, smiling.

"Look how pretty you are."

The Hospital Room.

The scent of the hospital room clings to my skin like saran wrap to a plate.
Its not too cold or too warm, it is tepid and smells faintly of chloraseptic.
You are lying in the too big bed, your limbs purpled from the needles,
bruises stamped across your flesh like a child's sticker-book.

Your lids are half open, heavy from drugs you would never have taken,
if you were willing. All of you sags into the bed, hidden in folds of too
white blankets and a gown that does nothing to flatter your body.
You look wilted, like a flower in a too sunny window with no water.

Most of what you say comes out in mumbles and indistinguishable
gasps. You are shrinking, but expanding at the same moment. You
look like Death has come to visit you, but has not yet come to claim
you as his. Your eyes speak of fear that he will return.

And I am afraid too. Afraid of the languid look of lost strength in your eyes.
I am afraid of your bony hands, a pale pin-cushion for needles and IV's.
I hold on to you, because you are all the strength I have left inside me.
I hold on, because I am afraid to let you go when you are so calm.

The fight fades from your eyes too fast. The last bit of light fading before
the sun rises. And you are gone far from me before I even have so much
as a moment to say goodbye. Standing in an empty hospital room, your
clothes folded neatly on a too big bed. The smell still clings to me.

Beautiful Merry Oak (fragment)

Her mother called her "Oak." She believed in the power of names and held that when her daughter grew up she would be strong and unbent by the weight of time. She called her "Beautiful" because she had never been called that by her own mother and the taste of it was like honey on her tongue. She called her "Merry" so that she would always smile, despite the pain life often brings.

She called her all of these things and she named her "Melody" because she was a tune to the song she had dreamed as a girl.

Melody was her mother's only child, though her father may have had many scattered across the countryside. When she was just shy of walking, he ran. The arms of another woman seemed to be far more enticing than the love of a scarred teenager and infant girl. Her mother never spoke a word against him; the love she carried for him remained as a silent wish that he would return and she never married.

"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother would say, smiling in her sad way. Melody would touch the map of her mother's face, tracing scars created by hands she would never see, smoothing the wrinkles caused by a treacherous childhood and an adulterous man. Her mother would kiss her cheek and put her to bed with a worn, slightly torn, stuffed lion, a gift from her father when they met. It still smelled of his after shave, ever so faintly, and she would pretend not to notice the smell of lilacs. It lingered from the many times her mother had held that beloved toy to her breast and cried.

Melody never gave a thought to her appearance. She was a knock-kneed child, a smattering of chocolate colored freckles across her nose and cheek bones. She wore her dark brown hair in twin braids, tied with yellow ribbons, and her eyes were different colors. Her left eye was a very dark blue, almost black, and her right was the green of the ocean preluding a storm, silver flecks of lightning lingering in the depths of the iris. Her mother said it was because she had a trace of fairy blood and, alternately, that she had been murdered in a past life.

"When you were born, my beautiful, merry, Oak," her mother would say. "your hair was the color of a rose and your father laughed. His mother, your grandmother, had red hair and she was as wild as daisies in spring. Your father wanted to name you after her, but she had a name that would stand your pretty hair on end and make your toes curl. She was wild, but she was sour. I named you after the song in my heart, because you gave it a melody."

To Melody, her mother was the most beautiful woman on earth. She had the palest blue eyes, the whitest hair, the veins showing pale blue beneath her, almost, translucent skin. She had a heart shaped face, her almond shaped eyes carrying what seemed to be a thousand years worth of sparkling grief and sorrow. She had a scar across her face, a lash from a heartless father years ago, that split her face on the diagonal. It was thin and pink, a perfect slash across her face. On her right cheek she bore the mark of a ring, a ring Melody's father used to wear on his left hand. Now the ring hung on a tiny chain of silver, almost in homage to the face it had scarred, around her neck.

At fifteen, the age at which her mother had given her life, Melody discovered a love for music and the piano. They were quite poor, but her mother found ways to pay for the weekly lessons, even finding enough to buy a small, second hand, piano. It would not fit in their room, a room they rented in the house of Mrs. Garfield, an ancient and coarse widow from Germany, but her mother was determined that she should have it.

"Mrs. Garfield, a piano would brighten up the parlor. We could put it by the bay windows, maybe put a few potted plants on it. She would only need to practice three times a week. It won't be in the way if we push it up against the wall just over there." Her mother wheedled and coaxed until Mrs. Garfield finally gave her consent, somehow turning the story around so that she came out as the advocate of the idea and Melody's mother the detractor.

They took in extra laundry from the other tenants, even taking in Amos Abernathy's dingy long johns for the washing, though they reeked of alcohol and urine. Her mother said it was because he had lost his wife to pleurisy, but everyone knew it was because he had beaten her into an early grave. She never spoke an ill word against anyone, though Melody couldn't understand why not. Mrs. Garfield was cold, at best; Amos Abernathy was a drunk and a brute; her own father had been cruel, leaving the marks of his wrath across the creamy complexion of her face. Yet, she never spoke an unkind word toward any of them, silently accepting the abuses and the circumstances as they came.

Melody could not, clearly, remember when she made the transformation from child to young woman, but one day, seated at the piano, she realized that she had become less gangly and she no longer wore her hair in childish braids. She had become soft in areas, her body ripening in ways she did not understand. She caught herself gazing into the looking glass more often, patting her hair into place self consciously. Her mother had to adjust the seams of her favorite dresses to accommodate her newly developing body and the young men she had grown up with suddenly looked at her with a hunger she did not understand.

"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother said, dusting the piano as if it were made of glass and avoiding looking at her. "there are many things you must know, now that you are a young woman. There are men, even those you believe that you know, who may try to take advantage of your age and beauty. They will tell you that they love you, that they will always love you. They will flatter and wheedle, but you must resist them, my darling. You must resist until you truly believe you love them in return. You will believe you do at first, flattered is a close feeling."

The Magic Man: Part I

Sleep now, sleep deep. Soon you will awake and the morning will no longer be.
Soft, sweet, softly. They'll hear your breathing, but not your heart beating.
Soon we will be swept up in the dark of night, candy colored lights to guide the way home.

Celeste awoke in a cold sweat. Her thin shift clung to her drenched and shivering body. The fire in her tiny cabin had gone out and only the faintest glow came from the coals. Tugging on the tattered quilt, she burrowed into the warmth of her bed and tried to block out the sound of the snow falling.

It wasn't that the sound bothered her, but snow reminded her that Poppa was gone and Momma was sick with the fever. It also made her feel nervous; as if there were a thousand eyes watching her every move. If she closed her eyes tight enough, it was summer time and Poppa was out in the fields. Momma would be in the kitchen, the windows flung wide and the whole place smelling of bread and lavender. William, the butcher's youngest son, would be playing on the floor with the kittens and Susan, her youngest sister, would be banging her wooden spoon against the table legs.

"Celeste," moaned her mother. Her voice seemed to echo from beneath the covers, growing louder against the well of her ears.

"Yes, Momma?" she whispered, curling into herself. She imagined her ribs growing outward to cage her within them. The smaller she was, the less chance of being found by whatever it was that seemed to be haunting her.

"The fire," her mother's voice sounded weak now. "its out."

"Yes, Momma." shivering, she eased out from under the covers. She did not look out the window as she tip-toed to the pile of dry wood. If she looked out she was sure she would see the Magic Man from her nightmares.

Squatting, she gathered the smallest sticks first. If she could get those going, with what little flame was left, then she would put on the thicker logs. Poppa had taught her well. Without fully rising, she moved toward the fireplace.

Sleep now, sleep deep. Soon you will awake, my prisoner you'll be.

She jumped, falling backwards, scattering a few coals and dropping her sticks. His eyes were glowing in the pit of the fireplace, shining like two moons in a sea of fire. A small scream pressed free of her lips and the wind rattled the windows so that the whole room was shaking.

She did not have to look out the window to see him. She knew he was there. His long black cape flapping furiously in the bitter winter wind, his long black hair plaited down his back and his black hat dusted white by the snow. She did not have to look out the window, but she was drawn to it. Her eyes met his auburn coloured ones and his smile, sardonic and mirthful, gleamed in the faint light of the coals.

Soft, sweet, softly. Mustn't let momma hear you leaving.

Gingerly, she lifted the latch on the door and stepped out into the swirling white world. She did not feel the bite of the snow against her bare feet or the sting of the wind as it whipped against her reddening cheeks. All she saw was his face and the edge of summer rising behind his black cape.

Writing Exercise: The Statue of Liberty

Phil stood on Ellis Island taking pictures of the Statue of Liberty. It was a fairly
average New York day, nothing too spectacular. In fact, he was already starting to get a
little bored when this oddly dressed couple approached him.

"Excuse me, sir!" said a woman dressed in tie dye extreme, her long black hair braided
with pink and white ribbons.

"We were wondering," said her companion, his beard decorated with bows.

"Yes, wondering!" said the woman, her smile a little too practiced.

"Wondering if you would like,"

"Yes, if you would like to,"

"Join us for a tour!"

They both smiled, which slightly creeped him out.

"What kind of tour?" he asked, holding his camera in front of his chest like it would
protect him.

"Why, a tour of the Statue of Liberty!" cried the woman, her impossibly perfect smile
widening.

"Its only one of the best things about New York!" cried her companion.

"I don't know..." said Phil, backing up a bit. Before he could fully escape, the woman
had his arm and the man was leading the way. They dragged him up to the statue and began
spouting off random facts about Lady Liberty's journey across the ocean.

"This is the entrance right here!" exclaimed the man, opening the door and ushering his
companion and Phil in.

Looking up, Phil noticed something slightly amiss. There were legs. Impossibly long and
slender; and further up was a shapely bottom and a delicately shaped female sex. Even
further up were perfectly rounded breasts and the face of Liberty shone with such sweet
gentility that it almost knocked him backwards.

"Wow." he murmured, completely in awe.

"Isn't she lovely?" said the woman, her grip tightening on his arm.

"Isn't she a goddess?" said the man, his hands coming around Phil's waist.

"Hey!" he cried, struggling.

From the shadows came at least a dozen more men and women, their smiles eerie and their
eyes glowing with lust.

Over powering him, they drug him up toward Liberty's breasts. Securing him so that he
stood before her face, they cut off his clothing. He squirmed and tried to escape, but
found he couldn't move.

"It will all be over soon." said the woman, her eyes seemingly shifting in color and
shape.

Pulling knives from their clothes they began to cut him until a decent amount of blood
flowed. Gathering some into a cup they offered it to Liberty. She drank deeply and,
before they slit his throat, he saw her smile.