what perplexes me
i don’t know if i enjoy it anymore
what frustrates me
i can’t think of something to write
what worries me
i don’t have the time
what scares me
i’m not any good
what stops me
i
Tag Archives for identity
snakebite
if i knew what hardened your hands to stone
i’d suck it right of out you. a breathless attempt
at your salvation.
you stiffen–the flowerbeds on your chest decompose
underneath the kisses i try to plant. i panic.
i am trying to remember remedies
i never learned.
bad habit
sometimes i mutter i don’t know, when i do know.
it’s a disclaimer of sorts, in moments of vulnerable diffidence.
or, i don’t know–it’s automatic sometimes, too.
white lies
when others begin to smell the
green, murky brew from my lips,
bubbling with lonely late night thoughts
i stumble. the concoction bewitched me!
i mutter weakly. this isn’t me.
breathing underwater
waking up to the dread of day
and convincing myself of its impermanence is like
trying to breathe underwater
it all feels so wrong
paper
you’re that detached, controlling lover,
whose eyes follow me everywhere
and remind me that i need you. i wish
that i didn’t have to rely on you so much,
and that i could make decisions without
consulting you. you warn me that to keep our
relationship steady, i need to make sacrifices.
i need to think about us.
late at night, this makes sense to me.
you’re everything, but you’re nothing.
you’re money.
lost
alki beach is crowded today. shirtless men
are softened by the sun as they
play volleyball and
children race to the edge of the ocean,
squealing as puget sound waters
lick their toes. at the beach’s center, however,
there is a stillness.
a woman faces the shore, her long black hair and
red paisley-print pants ruffled by
the impassioned breeze,
her black crop top exposing a finely wrinkled stomach.
a baby is on her hip, pointing and giggling at seagulls
as she smokes the cigarette that was gifted by
kind strangers.
she stands, immobilized in time.
