Mine is Mine

He reads my poetry.

When he tells me this,

my breath catches against my ribs.  

This is lovely;

this is too much to bear.

To think of:

his eyes digesting my thoughts,

gobbling them up,
stumbling through,

unknowing of soul-ache
resting rich inside.

He may dissect my words,

find his own existence,

translate mine into meaning for him:
 

to place his own

in shoes

too much ME

to fill

with otherness.

Or.

He may try to relate all back to me:

blind-feel on

sticky time-line

of my 21 years.

Whatever the case,

I hold them tight:

the secrets that lay quietly sleeping,

shuffled between commas,

slipped beneath words.

They do not come easy,
they do not come sweet.

So thumb through my thoughts,

double-layer on your own,

but mine is mine—

you will never fully know.

All is well

Pulsing light, forward being—

you were created for this,

this moment,

definition: of you.

Essence of self strains towards knowing;

comes away full,

belly satisfied with warmth.

Your steps: quick-silver,

dancing across wholeness,

propelling through all.

Fullness of soul catches you by surprise,

tosses you in the air,

giddy with relief,

with satisfaction,

with life.

Taste testing.

I tasted it again today.

The familiar You

paired with

cautious I.

But the flavors soured

quickly on my tongue,

stuck against my teeth.

I found I could not stomach it.

Three feet away,

hands clasped in thoughtfulness,

eyes wide with promise.

You shook slightly with sincerity.

The door opened:

to comfortability—

safety—

habit—

to Us.

I lost myself

in reveries

of the past.

But that was it;

there was no more.

Future dreams wisped

across my finger-tips,

adrift in knowing better.

A year ago,

I wished on every

11:11

for us.

A year later,

I know better

than to wish

for fairy-tale endings.

It is then.

how can I explain:

sometimes I leak happiness,

dripping sharp silver

like smudged joy foot-prints

on bleak gray world.

it is then:

my touch tingles with certainty,

serendipity sings,

the light bathes

all things purple,

and sudden smiles

come like soft snow.

it is then:

I am wrapped in self-expression,

unafraid, undaunted, undiluted!

no sudden moves, please--

you might scare it all away.

Writing Brokeness; Broken Writing

I sat down to write this afternoon.

To rid myself of ache

pulsing below soft skin

in veins volatile with

dreams and nightmares alike.

I could not.

Could not: wrap solid words

‘round hurt and desire,

Could not: push square

through circle,

(too brittle, breakable, real)

Could not: make paper

accept ink, accept word, accept thought,

accept me.  

There was hurt that rippled through--

pain settled deep

in gashes

long considered healed.

Weakness sunk

soft in my belly,

kept me from crying out;

my soul fluttered

anywhere but here.

I looked down,

saw what I’d become,

and wept.

Complications Arise

I stare at the ceiling because

--isn’t that where answers lie?

Your finger tracing my lips,

I lean into your body with

the effort it takes

to melt butter.

The blinking lights

(green/red)

on the smoke detector--

innocent.

Life swirls on,

ignorant of us.

Please define friendship.

I am losing it

amongst confusion

of emotions.

There is a tangle

of brain-wave 

hard

to keep

honest.

We are nothing,

could never be

anything,

but bodies hurt,

hearts ache,

emotions deceive,

lusts linger.

I do not want you

but in the simplest of ways

and even then,

friend,

no.

Because:

moments of desire

bring consequences,

bring unwanted thought,

bring heart-ache,

bring soul-ache,

bring pain.

Wasn’t life easier when—

friend + friend

not

you + I?

Do not complicate,

I ask of you--

of me--

of life.

But.

What is life

but moments of desire

wrapped confusedly

around bodies

searching

for meaning

searching

for soul-soothing

searching

for.