ab initio.

from the beginning.

and the list of words in my head that send of warning signals to run while i still can grows longer and longer with each conversation and i want you to stop i want you to leave me the fuck alone but i can’t stop and the list grows until the dictionary is your list and every single word has some little flash of you some little drop of your corrosive blood eating away at the very structure of the words its very definition and foundation until it all collapses until it has all melted into a goo of liquified letters and the dust of punctuation

let’s talk about bursts of sensation. it always starts with a jolt, a sudden gripping in my chest, a sudden tightness in my limbs. black vision for a second. step two: the color of my dress. a cheap kind of orange and dirty white. it was powerpuff girls. the colors were all wrong. it hang to the tops of my knees. it was comfortable for the roundness of my stomach at the time. my stubby little legs. my face devoured by the fat of my cheeks. step three: a hand on my thigh. a hand tracing up. a hand stopping. a question, a promise, a secret. a threat. another promise. tugging, tugging, tugging, hands smoothing over the fabric, unnecessary. “it’s fine, it’s fixed.” “no, no, no. i have to smooth it out.” more hands, hands, hands where they shouldn’t be. sounds from the room, hurried hands, frantic hands, stopping hands. pulling away. sitting down. whispers. “it was a game, just a game.” a foot apart. “it was a game, our secret game.” a whisper, a promise, a threat. a threat. feigned kindness. step four: you remember forgetting that there was a process to this in the first place. you remember forgetting that you are not living it again, only remembering. you remember that you are filthy, you remember that you forgot to scrub away the dirt. you remember: it’s at least five years later and there is a lady talking on the television about hands hands hands where they shouldn’t be. and you remember a game, just a game. a game, a secret game. and you shake and you hide and you cry and you dream. and it’s been at least ten years later and you shake and you hide and you cry and you dream but now you have this, now you have the words, now you know. (and you go back to step one.)

blatant motif

the sunshine cicadas sing
as the sunshine itself dances
upon the fall of your chameleon hair
that shines golden brown now
the curve of your lips say i know
and the dark of your eyes say no
it’s too bright for my own
and whether it is you or the sun
and whether the two have any difference
remains to be seen
what i’m waiting for really
is to feel your sunwarmed skin
is to feel if it is as soft and warm
as the sunflower’s petals
as the sunshine air itself
and the light’s playing tricks on me now
because you can’t be leaning in
and you’ve never looked more at home
than you do right now outlined
by the loving sunlight
by a love almost as great as mine
but there it is
you lean in
and oh
softer warmer than i could say
almost as though i’d been kissed
by sunshine itself

running out of bad poetry titles

up at the crack of dawn without a wink of sleep
sitting out on the fire escape waiting–
because you’re a fucking cliché–
for the sun to rise.
thick sleeves, umpteenth cup of coffee
only barely warming your hands now.
expanding gradient of the sky from blue to bluer
to blue to pink to orange to red to too bright
and your mama always told you never to look
directly at the sun but the light sashays
the colors cascade
the pain entices
and you can’t look away.
and the graying buildings downtown
and the high class apartment uptown
and the yellow taxis on the wide roads
they drown in the burning reflection of the flames
and it hits you just right the warmth on your face
unfurling under the sun’s gentle, fierce caress
for a minute the light loves you
for a minute it feels like the sun rises just for you
for a second you forget that the sun rises over everyone else too
for a second you can pretend that it’s just you
and in this world the sun rises
but only for you

the overture begins and it sounds like a prelude
it sounds like the march to the battle
and it starts out soft, deceivingly calm
lulls you into a sense of complacency
into a bubble of bliss
and then the drums come pounding
and they shock you out of your seat
and you can feel the beat vibrating in that layer right beneath your skin
and everything gets too loud
it is overwhelming
the strings are shrieking
the percussions pounding
everything sounds too sharp too loud too near
and the crescendo bursts into its climax
an explosion of sound
a wall that swallows
and the tears on your face are a surprise
and you’ve discovered you’ve missed battle
but you remember every part

Over-caffeinated 2AM thoughts.

I keep dreaming about hands. Most of the time they’re pretty mundane: my mom’s hands working on some intricate beadwork, my professor’s hands as she writes illegibly on the blackboard, my sister’s hands as she catches a ball. In one dream, I held hands with strangers and we walked around a broken city. In another, I grabbed a friend’s hand and she set me on fire. There was one where I wore a hand around my neck. There were several with heavy hands wrapped around my neck, pushing down, crushing. I’d wake up with the feeling still there. In my dreams hands cover my eyes, fingers work down my throat, nails claw at my skin.

This doesn’t really have a point; I’ve just been wondering what they mean. I’ve always liked people’s hands, but I’ve never really thought about them. I had a best friend who would always know when I needed my hand held. I’d grab her wrist and her fingers would snake their way around mine. One class fieldtrip had us hiking up a mountain with a path too narrow for two people to walk side by side. Her hand was in mine the whole way, though. We had natural signals. If one of us had to stop to grab something from our bag, we’d wait until one of the other’s hands was free to resume walking. If there was a particularly steep incline, one of us would go up first and reach out whichever hand did not touch the mud to pull up the other. If it was completely impossible to walk side by side, the person in front would leave both hands behind her back so the other could still hold both. That’s what remains in my memory: my hands extended behind my back, her reaching out to take them, both of us laughing as we walked the rocky path by a stream. I miss her.

When I think of hands, I think of this girl I thought I loved. Mostly I think it was her addends I loved and not the sum. I loved her voice when she spoke, even more so when she sang. Every time I thought I’d fallen out of love with her, she’d sing and I’d fall all over again. More than anything, I loved how tactile she was. She was so much taller than me, and her hugs always felt like warm blankets and my favorite pillow. She hugged me everyday. She’d tell me she loved me every time. The thing I loved most about her, though, was her hands. She hated them, and I loved them. They were big, never sweaty. They were rough, calloused. I’d call them well-loved and she’d tell me to stop. Wherever we went, no matter what we were doing, she would hold my hand. And I loved how it felt, how it made me feel. She told me once that she loved my hands, and I was too shocked to tell her that I loved hers. I miss her, but mostly I miss her hands.

College is a lonely place: I don’t know anyone well enough to reach out and make an attempt. There are people who hate being touched. There are people with sweaty hands. There are people who hate me. I don’t know how to classify people, so I never try. Maybe that’s why I dream about hands all the time. Maybe it’s a kind of withdrawal. I don’t know. It’s 2AM and there is too much caffeine in my system and I want to hold someone’s hand.

put your pen to paper and see what becomes of it

and she, she could never be so affectionate. she hid her love away, locked up with her words. she was beautiful and good, and she was terrible and sad. she never let me speak for fear that i would have her respond. she sang over all my secrets, afraid that she’d be forced to tell her own. and i loved her so. i loved her, that woman who pretended to be a girl. i loved her, the lady with the single face. i loved her, the woman who caused all my tears. i loved her like the sun, i loved her like the flowers in the gardens, but she hid herself in a labyrinth, winding and wound, the ridges so grand and so thick she herself had forgotten the way to the center. they fill me with fear, they devour me with shadows, yet i wander, weeping for her to let me find her. she does not want to be found, she does not know how to be found. some days i think i’ve found her at last until she slips around some corner and she is lost once more. i wanted only to let her know i love her, nothing more. i want only to let her know i am willing to search, yet i’m sure she resents me for it. i struggle between my fear of your resentment and my love for you. i will search for you until you find me, until you sink your golden dagger into my chest, until your fingers are stained red, until it dries under your nails, until your golden dress is soaked in it. then i will tell you my secret, then i will tell you i love you. then you’ll be able to keep yours until another as foolish as i falls at your feet once more, until another as foolish as i comes to believe that she is the only one that searches for you, until another as foolish as i believes that she could be the one to find you.