Contracts
It is July 5th, 2009,
And it is 11:56 pm.
And I am thinking about you.

I am thinking about love returned and reunited,
Unrequited,
And out of control.
I am thinking of the tangle of limbs and hearts and regrets.
I am thinking of how no one else understood,
But you.
And you.
And you.

And I gave up on coincidence five summers past,
Because that was when fate kicked my ass.
That was when diners were banquets,
And liquor was hard to find.
When cigarettes were arguments,
And psychics were always right.
Remember that?
When red and white and blue were sirens and fireworks
All at the same time?
I smell rain in the summer air,
Every time I picture us.
Me and you, hugging in the emergency room.
Me and you, praying like we usually don’t.
Me and you, on the phone all night.
And five years ago I didn’t think I would be
This far away from you.
And you.
And you.

I’m having one of those moments,
The kind that break my heart.

Philadelphia is too far for me,
And I don’t even know you anymore.
And, you, who is still so close,
I keep forgetting to call.
And Boston…
I miss you everyday.

But then,
No one calls here.
No one comes home.
I guess we’re all guilty
Of breaking contracts.
You, and you, and you, and me.
I hate it.

Ste. Anne
A snapshot from the lesser years.
My four single friends,
They’re all married now.
They’re all lost to me now.
And I don’t feel anything
Because I didn’t feel it then.
The precipice of my life
Was in that alleyway,
Where the city folk spoke a new language
That only one of us knew.
Dreaming of futures and friendships-
Me, taking the picture.
Wishing I was somewhere else.
I'm sorry.

And now their lives have left me,
On accident, on purpose, through time...
And I still wish I was someone else.
Ten years later,
And I'm still worried about high school.

6am
Have I slept?
I can’t recall.
Nothing is real and the sky is purple.
So early…or maybe late.
My body doesn’t know,
Past the hour when it can tell.
I’m out of blue pills again,
But usually that’s ok.
Usually I can shut down and turn off,
Close for repairs.
Not tonight.
Tonight I am hurting something terrible.
My finger is throbbing,
Counting heartbeats on a paper cut.
Disgusting,
Like this sleepwalk version of myself.
These headaches are new and scary.
I haven’t slept yet…
At least, maybe not.
I sleep to dream,
But dreams don’t come either way.
I wish there was a pill to turn my brain off.

Tuesday Mornings
Its gray and noisy-
Cars headed to work and birds awakening.
My father’s alarm clock
And my mother’s coffee pot.
My sister, refusing to get out of bed.
I remember days like that.
And outside,
There is bleak sunshine-
Signs of better weather’s arrival.
I wonder if old Mr. Son
Just woke up?
Does he need to rub the sleep out of his eyes,
Before showing off his brilliance?
It looks cold out,
But I could be wrong.
I’ve been wrong before.
It’s just so LOUD.
Every morning is so loud.

Niagara River
The waters depths remind me
Of the day I almost downed
In the literal sense, for once-
Not that figurative swallow of time and event,
That took me under so many times before.
My sister dreams of Fiji,
And I’d like to take her there,
Where waters are clear and blue,
And I can escape the imaginary undertow.
The breeze makes me feel so small,
Or maybe it’s the strawberry daiquiri,
Turning me into this childlike drunk.
I’m starting to wonder why I bother waiting.
I guess that’s all I know how to do.
I quit smoking.
But I can’t quit waiting for you.

Scenes
Second chances on stage,
Bear second glances at change,
And we dance like frightened heroes.
But the career is a preacher,
As we stand at this door,
Unprepared,
Fresh as babies with souls twice bared.
And movement with words seems easy to some,
But we,
The vaudevillians,
We come undone.
I trust in lights in my eyes,
The blinding white that hides and
Keeps me from you,
You from me, too.
Can’t see or hear-
No doubt or fear…
To breathe!
Or, perchance, to dream!
Oh, and this is only the first scene.

May 21st
She’s the queen of the bad day anniversary,
Amongst a million other kingdoms.
Whatever the weather brings,
Be it sunshine and warmth or
Those cold rainy October mornings,
She marks these days the same,
With her careful precision.
She treats it like religion.

She doesn’t remember birthdays,
Or the milestones of relationships,
Or the date of death of those long gone.
Just bad days, hers, as well as his,
Because they shared so many.
Too many, for a broken bond such as theirs.
She has no tears left behind her eyes,
And Lord knows, he shouldn’t be surprised.

mood: tired music: each coming night-iron and wine

...Lord knows, it would be the first time."

Deficient
My heart, at it's center,
Is sure of very few things.
It does not know what I want,
Any more than my head or hands.
It knows that I have a friend that makes me laugh,
Unlike any other laugh I have.
Another, who makes me feel like I’m home,
Even when I'm far away.
And it knows a certain smile, inside and out.
(But he comes later.)

And yet,
It does not love them.
Is it deficient?

Two years and four men later,
And I am still as alone as I was-
When I fell out of love
With the math equations of broken friendships,
That I think of often...
With liberty bells and rock and roll museums-
When Georgia was on my mind.

And oh I miss you I miss you I miss you…
But you’re not the reason I'm all alone.

Is it that monster with his honey coated smile?
He who pulled me out and up and over,
Carrying me away from myself?
The man who saved me only to crush me?
No.
Because believe it or not,
He did what he does best...
And it’s in his silence from his cell
That he saves me all over again.

And speaking of cells,
What of the one who loved me back?
No, he was hardly anything.
I wished he was more...
Oh, but as I’ve said...deficient.

Three down and three to go.

How about the first,
And our 12 year struggle?
I sometimes think "I love you" and "I hate you" mean the same.
But we don’t talk,
Not often, at least.
And he’s not on my mind anymore.

And my star.
Oh, my star that shone so brightly.
And burned out.
Burned out when he came out,
And broke my heart.
Him I do love.
Him, I will always love.
But that love is different,
It is true.
I laugh...my purest love is for a boy
Whose love, they say, is tainted.

So last but never least,
The voice in my head.
I haven’t any more words to spill over him.
I will not wait anymore.

Why am I here?
What lessons must be learned before I can be loved?
What task must I complete?
I am tired of waiting for God to answer...
I still maintain He does not hear.
If He does,
I am tired of Him replying with denial.

And then there is this...
It has been months.
I asked, politely.
I demanded, profusely.
Still, He will not take it away!
He will not wipe this latest hope from my thoughts.
Because I am,
As said,
Deficient.

And yet, this heart,
It survives, even when I do not.
It beats despite my best efforts.
So much is despite my best efforts.

I am so sick of my best efforts.

mood: lonely music: please please please-the smiths

Bad Hair Life
Falling like feathers in times of pain,
Or weighed down by product in times of beauty.
An experiment in color,
First black then brown then blonde,
With pink and orange and blue, too, at times.
Two whole years of purple,
When I thought I was badass.
Now, red since I was twenty.
And I fear the chair and the scissors and the cape.
And I want the reassurance that it will be perfect.
I am not the girl who liked to play beauty salon.
And it has been short and long and curly and straight.
It fights me every day, something moving in a different way.
Sometimes it’s missing.
Sometimes what’s left is hidden.
Sometimes I love it, but mostly I hate it.
The days when I thought I was the only one hurt the most.
And this poem isn’t all that good,
But I wanted to write it.
Because I want to remember it,
In case it’s ever gone.

Monday Mornings
The coffee is bitter,
Which isn’t unusual,
Sweet is what kills me-
Not quite my forte.
I guess it’s a signal,
A sign or an omen,
Sugar can hurt me,
What’s more to say?
Each morning I wake up,
With sleep in my eyes.
Your face starts to fade,
The morning has come.
So more bitter coffee
And a shower and change,
I find myself near you,
Again, nerves undone.

Unplanned
I’m sitting, after hours,
In a room named for a color,
But none of the rooms I’ve sat in
Have ever been that color.
I am fighting tears,
Even though I am alone,
And could express that emotion so easily.
But I refuse, because I do not know why…
It isn’t my family.
It isn’t my friends.
It isn’t my lack of a 9 to 5 existence,
Or the pressure of the evening hours I keep.
Still I find myself fighting tears,
Because this time it was harder.

I don’t know why it should be,
As I am not deep in this.
I am not too invested this time,
Due to my better judgment…
(Despite the fact it usually likes to stay home on game day.)
Still, this time it was harder to say goodnight.

I should have taken that one chance, damn the circumstance.
It is unlike me to shun a possibility.
I cannot help but think that if I had, things would be different…
Oh, but probably not.
It’s never really any different.

So I’m alone in this room,
Not for lack of trying on my own part,
Or the roles of friends.
I’m fighting tears because this time it was harder.
And next time, the last time,
It will be worse.

This wasn’t the plan.

mood: bored music: shimmer-fuel

Pour Me a Drink
I haven’t written a poem in a while,
Two months and counting, I think.
I guess I could make my excuses,
But the truth is just me, on the brink.
I am peering over the edge
Of this thousand foot deep hole.
I am fearful for falling this time,
I am starting to feel so cold.
And maybe its winter,
And Christmas and such,
The memory of her death
That still haunts me so much.
Perhaps it’s the end of the year,
With October that makes me cry,
Because I still cannot forgive him
For turning my life into lies.
Or maybe it’s that old hopelessness
That lies in lack of work,
But probably just the little post-it notes,
Left from the demons that lurk.
And I am not falling,
And I am not cold,
But you’d never know by looking at me,
I’m just starting to feel so old.
Usually my poetry is the stuff of love,
Unrequited or otherwise,
This is not one of those poems,
I can’t recall the color of his eyes.
So somebody hire me,
Or at least pay my health insurance,
Get me out of my own head,
Strengthen my endurance.
These people who are new here,
They don’t know my past.
They didn’t know me without my red hair,
They didn’t see me fall so fast.
And is this heart of mine still beating?
If not for me, maybe for you.
I would like to take a moment and say thanks,
But then what was left for you to do?
And I am drowning in my doubtfulness,
And I am smothered with my pride,
And I am so lost in the want of him,
It’s been so long since I’ve cried.
I haven’t written a poem in a while.
Two months and counting, I think.
But don’t expect it, don’t look for it,
If you have to do something,
Then pour me a drink.

mood: lazy music: the punky brewster theme song

Arm and Neck and Chest
You lie on the floor in temporary exhaustion,
Arm outstretched and sighing.
I would fit there perfectly,
In the space between your arm and neck and chest.
I held myself back, kept my seat so as not to crawl to you.
I cannot describe what this is-
Another bad poem that says little about nothing.
I watch you when you’re not looking,
Despite my best efforts, or because of them.
A feeling of comfort so unexpected,
Like someone I’ve known much longer than you.
I am scared of you, and yet,
Never less so of any man.
Dreams of you catch me sleeping and awake,
Seeing your arms, so strong and inviting.
Your smile weakens me, both in heart and knees,
But also resolve.
I wish to say what I feel,
And yet, if you don’t feel the same…what then?
Could you kiss me once?
To see, to taste? To know?
Could there be a moment between us and no one else?
Oh, but I felt it before, yet so fleeting-
I do not know the thoughts in your head,
Or at least, I don’t know if I do..
I think I’m supposed to be with you-how silly of me.
But I beg you, say the same.
Let me crawl to you,
To that space between your arm and neck and chest.
Do you want me to?
I’m not the kind of girl who falls like this,
Head first, arms akimbo.
I’m not her, but I want to be,
Entirely over you.
I want to blame you and hate you,
Or rather I want to want that,
But I never could.
Wrap your fingers in mine,
A spider web between us.
Say something,
Before I have to.
Say something,
Before I don’t.
Say something,
So I can take my place
In that space between your arm and neck and chest.

Stage Makeup
I often wonder what others see
When they spy us out of our costumes,
Minus our makeup.
What dream is broken in that moment?
What fantasy faded?
Without the lights and the music,
Scrubbed bare with sandpaper reality-
What world do our alien selves possess?
I am of water and weightless,
But outside we are dust-
Your waiters, your bankers, your shop girls.
Just dust.
But those hours are our glories,
As we explode our false sensibilities.
This isn’t real, so what are we?
Do we exist?
I only feel real when I play pretend.

This Isn’t English Class
I read words written by greater minds than this,
With true grammar and alliteration,
Symbolisms I do not possess.
I write true to me, not others.
I do not expound on how a cherry tree branch bends,
Sways in a golden afternoon breeze,
That smells of fresh flowers in a farmer’s field.
I write about being blue, lonely-
Being in love.
I use plain words and no pretense.
I shall not compare you to a summer’s day.
I do not title things with first lines,
Or the word “Elergy,” or “Ode.”
To me, the word ode is only for use in crossword puzzles,
The kind I do when I’m bored at work.
It means a lyrical poem, in case you never knew.
Those years of literature classes meant very little,
This book of the English language sits unused on my shelf.
But I don’t throw it out, because you never know-
You never know when I might need another word for cherry tree branch,
Or when I may feel that a breeze is scented by some kind of flower.

mood: artistic music: at night-buffalo tom