Poetry

Desire is an ugly dog

whos ribs stick through his fur

his paws jut out in

twisted claws,

to save him is little self worth.

He drags his legs and begs for love,

his heart had thumped astir.

There is no home,

so he will roam

vicious liquid fills my chest hardening and falling apart taking my flesh with it

You are the universe i am the footprint evidence that You were here

i surrender my soul to your amusement like a sacrifice to God and hope it is enough

Did you know how often I lay awake digging my nails beneath my skin making sense of all that does not

waiting for the knock at my bedroom door whispering into my ear to wake up I stay up for you to come save me

I fall asleep behind the wheel in the mornings counting the pennies in the fountain knowing no one got their wish

pick a star and keep it close don't bat an eye when you're still sick trying to tell yourself it can only get better with streaming tears in a room alone

Told a horse about its blinders, couldn't took away while it developed a fetish Molded leather, black intimacies commanded it to remain of course unconsciously turned on by a lack of visibility.

Knowing of nothing, intimately unknown to knowing what common denominator unknows its own nothing?

Lot of abandoned infant chimps studied, cling wrapped to their plush mothers for psychotherapy leather tongues like unwashed soap.

Whips up bubbling theories recoils at last, as tastes infinity then it's just a fact.

When I was thirteen, I had a dream of someone discovering me, not as a beautiful model walking the streets of New York, but as a lost house key found within freshly mowed grass, an item someone accidentally dropped and spent days retracing their steps for, cursing themselves for being so clumsy.

I keep getting older though, becoming one with the soil and growing familiar to each blade of greenery surrounding me.

Many job descriptions and personal questionnaires allude to strengths and weaknesses. I always want to answer: depends. On the month, whether I slept, if God and I are on speaking terms.

Those questions always seemed unfair. I knew myself far too well for a brief response.

I am stubborn enough to endure and survive nearly anything, but gullible enough to repeatedly test this theory again and again. That is both a strength and a weakness. I'm never quite sure what category to put it in. Same coin, different side.

I've reached terrible conclusions about myself on a monday and bough fresh flowers and seductive perfume by thurday. I suppose that's why I can never stay buried.

Each time I begin constructing a tragedy, I get sidetracked by the vermilion notes of a sunset, the musk smelling bark found in the woods, the color my hair turns in the summer. Or I abandon the project halfway through.

If i could be somewhere else for a while, If I could be a little more eccentric under the warmth of the sun and tie my identity together as easy as I do with my shoelaces.

If I could be fourteen again and do a bad paint job with my favorite nail polish, the rug stained with acetone.

If my mother could look upon my bare face not as another mouth to feed or a mirror of herself, but as the daughter she once held beneath her ribs.

I was not supposed to be placed in the center of generational curses and gullible beliefs, perhaps I was misplaced belonging to a quieter century. Where a girl could go missing for a couple seasons and return bronzed and changed. Where nobody could question what sort of sorrow drove her in those woods in the first place.

There could be a forest or a countryside waiting for me, but not here. Not in this cluttered kitchen nor the unpolished bathroom floor I once slept on.

The only mercy I keep is found beneath a box under my bed, one that tells me nothing in me is final yet.

Drown me in your holy water Push my head beneath Surround me with your love and your grace

Clean my impurities Wrap me in psalms of love Carve verses into my soul

Break my body and drink my blood Go and pass me around the table Remind me of the promise you gave

The red on the door tells the angel to pass over A whisper of death brushes my ear

Take me back to Eden Back to the beginning Still naked, still afraid

The ocean teaches us to be alive for a moment.

Cold water rushing over bare feet, our toes in the sand, The sky is wide open to us, endless and soft

I try to memorize everything at once,  Salt dries against our skin like a forgotten memory, Our laughter carries over the sea, rippling across the ocean waves,

I know moments like these are small, But small moments make life worth living.

Our love lies here, carefree and sunlit With tangled hair and linked hands,

My life is a blur of days but it's quiet.

On Sunday mornings I go to my holy grounds and allow waves to pour over my feet.

Of course I miss you. There is no life in which I don't.

My mind is an unfired clay vessel, and it warps with the weight of thoughts of the rain.

I remember Orion, belted hero of the Northern Sky. I cannot find his bow beneath the clouds.

Do you see him beside you?

My body is a taut string laid across a guitar, buzzing with sound.

In my dreams, Im in your bed and the rest of the world does not exist.

These four walls are ours and I’m safe under the covers and you’re touching me like you never want to stop and im looking at you like Im looking at my future.

And I want to tell you “i love you” but the words that come out are “stay”

Everything is fine. I see you everywhere, In every strand of light, In every falling drop of rain.

Everything is fine. The sun is setting, tomorrow will be better, it’s not yet time to surrender.

Everything is fine. I set the sky ablaze so you would never have to see it lifeless and gray again.

You can braid my hair, as the january wind chills something deeper than just our bones. A cacophony swirl of orange and regret.

The powerlines hum along with the sound of our grief. A weight so heavy, here and gone again as the sun sets. If we aren't careful, it'll eat us alive before we've been laid to rest.

I'll love you forever, a certainty never allowed, not for people like us.

I'll braid your hair, and kiss your neck. I'll murmur every thought I've ever had into your shoulder and laugh as you lick my tears away.

Two bunnies play in a daisy field together while our hair is intertwined on a pillowcase. Would you like to twirl around the kitchen, or would you rather sit with me on this rug and pretend time isn't eating away at the clock and our summer freckles aren't fading.

There's a small intimacy of your shoulder occasionally grazing mine and the way you lean in, carefully yet secretly reckless.

Sure, we can ignore how your knee constantly finds mine.

Perhaps we are no different than two animals drawn together by something gentle and wild.

It's the same pull that leads deer to the lake late at night and birds to their nests.

Nature never seems to apologize for it's instincts so why do I?

In a world of coffee drinkers and obsessive love, I choose tea and sunlight.

You can be my high school romance, only if we can swing together at dawn and collect fireflies at night.

My heart still chases kites, still listens for God at midnight.

The kind of reckless hope that something beautiful will always happen. I can belong to the light as much as I belong to you.

Love me with open windows and dully lit lamps. I'm not running from love, I'm running towards wonder. If you want me, you'll have to catch me.

Don't save me, just see me. Take my hands, warm and certain, you might find ink in the indents of my palms.

I still have plenty of dreams to chase but for now, I'm enjoying the color of your eyes.

This time, the medal is a pair of shed antlers and a sweating glass of ice. This time, dad is young.

The catastrophic night wave isn't foam on the sand, it's a sea of trees.

This time, the neighbor's kids are still alive, and her horses aren't blinded by brown bags.

The swamp is boiling over, and your colic cry is a cinnamon candy that warms my molars.

This time, mom's mom is swatting gnats from under the big willows arms. Her brother is alive mowing.

This time, a Ruby is not a precious gem, it is the name of a mystic chariot.

It won't be tomorrow, and maybe not for many seasons but some distant afternoon you'll lean against the railing listening to the soft clatter of insects in the grass and you'll notice the ache has thinned like a knot deciding it has held long enough.

You will not need to speak, the breeze will do what it always does drifting over your arms as if seeking a place to rest.

Somewhere behind the hills a wind will comb through the tall stems lifting their small, stubborn voices and the sound will reach you without asking permission.

And if it doesn't work out, I will go hike into the mountains- let the trees hear my failures, let them rinse me of my sins.

And if it doesn't work, I will go nest in the suburbs- a quiet neighborhood of children and ostentatious lovers.

And if it doesn't work out, I will swim along the beaches- bask in the sun as I feast on a picnic of peaches.

And if it doesn't work, I will become one with the world- slip from my own dreams, find refuge in being held.

But, until I try, I cannot sleep, cannot eat, cannot truly feel.

I must run headlong into the fire and feed the desires of my will.