all he is not

the bathroom wall is so receptive

as i ramble aimlessly to no one.

this charade has gone past the breaking point,

i tell myself with an air of dubiety,

trying to convince myself of the opposite

but failing miserably at both

at the same miserable time.

maybe he doesn't, maybe he does

has become a sour mind game

with no clear conclusion or consequence.

maybe he will, i plead with my heart,

knocking halfheartedly on its fragile doors

and knowing it's on the brink of wholly shattering,

leaving me to pick up the pieces

to this glorified mismatch made in haste.

maybe he won't, i advise the realist soul;

we know he's been broken before

and we know he's not been

as diligent as perhaps he should --

and yet his imperfections matter little

when his charms unravel.

the game, the game, it weakens; it unhinges me

from all it made me see

down the street from rationality.

typical or true?

the past makes me wonder

if the present is what he needs

or if it's a consolation to his quest for stability.

the light flickers and so does the clock;

too many nights for him

are probably a good indication

of all he is not.

in too deep now, i wonder, clinging to what i am,

where from here?

such incessant wonderings

keep me awake even more nights.

09.2006

like sand

like sand through fingers

i fell from you, not sure yet

if i meant to fall

07.2013

[written in response to the prompt "Sand" over at Haiku Heights. xo]

accessory

i met him unexpectedly

someplace we both wanted to be.

he claimed to be a friend

of a friend

but turned out to be much more in the end.

his face could erase

all the empty space

in my head

and replace it all with humility instead.

i didn't like what he did to me,

or maybe i did;

it was too early to tell

and i was sometimes independent,

but my heart knew me well.

i found myself stumbling over him,

dangling from him,

and soon it became clear

i was into his ways,

and so went the days

as i took it all in stride

and for once, vowed not to hide.

he didn't require words

to dutifully inquire;

just needed a beat

and a place for hire,

a full-blown choir.

he struck my every chord

and i'd beg someone's holy lord

to keep him in my weary life,

by His will or by his own accord.

a long time ago

i cared for one so

but he turned out to be

naught more than shadow.

he haunted my nights

and it took an end-all plea

before i could break free.

this one knew the time

and without reason or rhyme

was nothing with which to compare

the desperations of despair,

for he knew me and although

i couldn't really say

i was his favorite show,

it wasn't hopeless as long ago.

he brought me to my knees

with the greatest of ease

and still i was unsure

if maybe i was tangled in something

more than my heart could handle

or just kindling a new candle

of adventurous aspiration.

could be my damnation

or my salvation.

come what may,

he was perfection

and his aura in its reflection

told me not to fret,

that he wouldn't sell his soul

for anything alive

or objectified.

he made a vow

and i didn't understand

but i know it now --

he won't drag me down,

make me cry, steal my crown.

he'll be

an honest accessory

and i shall then be

valiant exclusively.

08.2005

at nineteen

well, well
it's a fine time for rustling up feelings
of dogwood summers
i left behind for you
back when i was wide-eyed enough to do
such a thing. and
i left a lot behind for you.
but we're not untouchables.
i laugh that we were ever considered so
in such web-crossed minds as
ours at nineteen.
i didn't quite know what to make of you.

i chose my wave not knowing
it would turn me black and blue
and drain me of the rest of my color,
transfused into your veins
when you were finished with me
(so you could go on living
and i could become parasitic, pathetic).

how i tripped over you.
your play-thirsty lips were begging
to be slaked
and i did not want
to leave them parched
but i did
and immediately wished i hadn't
for i lost you then
right then.

ignorance is not any sort of bliss
when it comes to you and me;
i spent months as your shadow,
dumb and matching your moves
but always a minute behind. when
i let my voice mix with your broken harmony
i also found that i was jaded.
how does it feel, i wonder
to know that you're the one who jaded me.
i have known many versions of love
but yours was by far
the most brutal.

i want back, if anything
except time and some tears,
the faith in love i abandoned
to breathe to your
he-loves-me-nots.

06.2011

a girl with a heart

i'm caught in you,

being tossed amongst your melée,

and i used to think it might be healthy for me --

i'm convinced

it's so good for my soul to love you.

should my soul, then,

be splitting itself down the center

in what can only be called a civil tug-of-war,

shredding me

in a juvenile game of

to-be-or-not-to-be?

a tragedy at best

written for only your benefit.

and suddenly here i am,

naked in the glare of a rogue headlight,

and i really wish you'd run me over,

slam into me head-on

and be done with it.

it would be less painful

than this.

i'd even venture to say

that i wish you could hate me

or that i could hate you

even though i know

it's not really in me

to ever harbor such emotions

or to let you know.

so could you please just sever this thread

that binds me so readily to you

so that i can be free of all this?

i'm coming undone at your feet

and i'm losing myself

over the pieces of us...

i can't be the done-up doll

the pill-popping priss

the mascara-smeared Marilyn

you chase

you drool over

you claim will complete you;

it's me,

this, just a girl with a heart,

or nothing.

that is all i can offer,

now or ever,

and so i must request to be

put out of my misery

or else risk

making a mockery of us both;

be attentive and real

or be done with me.

01.2010

livin' to live is a peculiar thing

she hung boho ideas from her ears like misplaced string,
leftovers of fires started by the pretty boy in gold
who could promptly match her twisted baby blues
in a way that revolving-door sea never could.

he said, 'livin' to live is a peculiar thing
but what happens to livin' when we grow old?'
she flicked through her hung ideas, paying her dues,
trying all at once to do the most good.

she was more atune to the potential sting
of the boy's fires burning out, a premature fold
that would leave her floating in the free-fall blues
which come when her heart don't beat like it should.

then she let the ideas go and was left with the ring
of wanted waste, of stories never getting told.
the pretty boy moved on, needing new news;
he couldn't place his disdain, didn't think he ever would.

his fires went with him, flame to soot, and then
she was sure she'd not hang dreams of such a world again.

08.2011

your anthems

Americana, that your unprecedented wisdom

should appear to shy you now,

for you have killed a dream today.

all that danced inside him was abandoned

for a chance at unsummoned victory.

they laughed at his candor.

he yearned to remodel his microphone

in order to restore his former glory

on an amateur stage.

chancellors encouraged him to do so.

thus began his journey across unmarked stars.

he was prepared to pave his own path

to infinity.

a juvenile gleam perused his aged eyes.

he had seen the world but wanted more, they said.

some were not ready to let him try.

he was vibrant yet innocent,

perfect yet flawed somehow.

still they adored him.

Caesar's throne cowered under his suave;

he played upon that most.

an icon, he knew

as did his peasants.

they bowed to him.

how they cheered.

an icon.

my Greek god,

how i long for your anthems

to make me swoon.

it has not been an hour.

i will hear the affections of your singsong heart once again,

and this time

they will not take you from me.

05.2005

in return

you've never looked so odd.

perhaps the true word more closely resembles

pathetic

at this point.

for it's clear from

the worn-down fingernails

the sweat on your brow

the pink flush rising to your cheeks

the throw of your garments

the hesitation that lingers on bated breath

that you crawled your way here, clawing

through a booby-trapped heart

to get back to me somehow.

all i can do is stand in awe of you

and ask resolutely why you've come.

after all,

you did just recently take your time

destroying me from inside out.

you took me for a ride --

and i wanted to experience you,

so of course i obliged eagerly --

but you wouldn't let me off when nausea overcame

and so i vomited all on your dreams

and you blamed me for restricting them,

as if you ever would have let me

have that amount of control over your life.

you promptly lit me up,

which in turn set me on fire

and scalded me senseless

with your dazzled wit

and cheap shots.

and when the flame backfired

i took my only chance for escape

and you berated my healthy intentions,

naming it cowardice instead.

i should have known on the days

i woke

heavy from yesterday's makeup

and stale cigarette breath

that the violation i felt

was not just my mind playing tricks.

i only had virgin flesh to offer

but you made your kill anyway

and then acted like

i would never be

good enough

to abate your hunger.

it was then

that i threw you from my sheets

and snatched back the bits of my heart

you'd taken liberty to play with.

and it was like you didn't understand but

my tongue was not foreign

and my tone was not ambiguous.

life apart for so long --

to me, a remedy;

to you, what you deserved,

for you don't deserve me

or rather,

no one deserves the treatment

you admittedly bestowed:

you at the helm

and me being drowned at sea.

and what now?

pleas for redemption,

another try?

second chances are reserved

for those who hurt me

without knowing so.

you do not,

nor have you ever,

fallen into said category

and therefore

should be lucky to be graced

with even a fleeting glance

this time.

but such reminiscing

has so quickly exhausted my patience,

for you never gave me the time of day

and thus you merit the same

in return.

i walk away;

i don't know if you've turn at heel

and done the same

or if you're still rooted to the spot

watching me go.

but should either be true

it matters not much to me,

for at last i am breathing freely

and at last i'm not chained to your tomorrows

and at last i'm

back to me.

01.2010

you look too long

one of the finer things about being a woman

is that she can always always

sense a lingering set of eyes,

remaining a moment too long

where perhaps they should not be.

i do not love you still

but your silky blues so honorably betray you.

it's the same awkward conversation.

you compliment my snake bracelet and i

say thank you and look away

and ask how your father is.

it's like that apocalyptic minute in your car

when we gambled our feelings at once

and the dice all landed on yes, let's be lovers.

it's like us and our movie-scene first kiss

on the front steps where anyone could see.

it's like i'm 21 again.

but you haven't let me go,

not really.

even after i asked you to.

i toss back Chardonnays like water, you know me,

and when there's music again

i'm on the floor

because it's a wedding and

because all of my friends' hearts are full as ever

and that means we should be

dancing like we did in college.

i do and we are drinking each other's smiles, all of us,

and you are there too at last

and i catch you looking

and you look too long.

you look at me,

glowing from my pores,

and i am in an instant, in some words

the one who got away.

you aren't supposed to wonder when you stare; your

girlfriend should be where your

eyes end up. but i am

the gravity tethering you to uneven ground

i'm no longer standing on.

i am no fire worth ogling,

no explosion in the sky. i am only

the girl you thought you knew,

the one who erupted into your heart,

a whimsical twirl in sync with your beat:

melancholy but all at once

wrong for me, wrong like

how you look too long at me

still.

07.2012

two meetings

she holds his heart so close to hers
and all i can do is notice mine aching wearily.
he remains oblivious to all affections,
but how am i to break her heart
when mine is halfway there?
his smile entrances that which betrays me,
swallows all doubt of regard,
illuminates my nights,
but it proves similar for she.
i'm left to share diluted tea
with only my unheard self
as i assume the masquerade
i've been avoiding from the beginning.
how can i give my love to him
when i'd be competing for his?
he knows me, yes,
but he attends to her willingly.
two meetings cannot accurately demonstrate
what many meetings can.
maybe the world would prefer my alter ego
to my honest heart;
the masquerade has become my shelter.

04.2005

to let those people whom i have loved go

people fall out of love all the time.

or at least they say they do. but i don't

know if anyone ever really,

truly and completely casts it off;

how do you

so condemn someone who has been

such a part of you?

this thundering heart never was good at forgetting or even

letting someone go; it does not warrant

closure that way. it only aches for a while

but then it always remembers

and it always feels

something.

it will always feel something.

it will always feel the ghastly remains

of every love.

one love held my hand as he chose his drugs over me

and i let it go on thinking

my rational heart wouldn't notice, thinking

my rational heart wouldn't mind

a casualty.

one love took his time reeling me in only

to cast me back out again,

a fish on a wire he set free

right before the friendly-fire; i was sure my

wholesome heart could forgive; i was sure my

wholesome heart would forget

the beating.

one love has struggled through years

of unrequited torment, quite differently

and always at the forefront

of thought.

i let his incongruities slip past my understanding

so i could capture him as something more

than what he was

and my clever heart caught the mismatch,

and my clever heart was consumed,

a victim.

i can say i do not love them

anymore

but my thundering heart would

disagree.

they left their marks and chose their ways

but the heart is still the same heart.

a wiser one, but the same one.

i will not be so arrogant to assume

it has not been as affected as i.

to let them go,

to let those people whom i have loved go,

would render me as naive as my youth

and much less prepared to love

the next

properly or

as deserved.

07.2011

take now my heart

i could have been the best you'd ever had.

now that you've done what you want

with my heart,

any remnants of attraction

are yours in lovely frailty,

and in the end

i think the foolish timestamps

i've placed on all my expectations

shall expire dutifully,

exposing your downfalls.

lest mine should trail,

i will not be undone.

all i can do is sing

until my tainted lungs resist,

until scream becomes song.

it will not cease

until the song sheds tears as i have for you,

and if you ears should play upon my song,

i will belt out notes

that would prefer a more suitable key.

take now my heart

and all its pieces --

it was yours to begin with.

look at yourself,

cleaning up after me now.

how i've longed for the satisfaction

that brings.

somehow you still retain your beauty.

'tis a shame you still don't see mine.

04.2005

peut-être fous

nous étions heureux, peut-être fous;
tu me manques
chaque jour.

peut-être ce n'est que moi qui est folle,
mais ça m'est égal, je m'en fiche.
j'espère que tu reviendras
bientôt.

(translation)


we were happy, maybe crazy;
i miss you
every day.


maybe it's only me who's crazy,
but i don't care, i don't care.
i hope you come back
soon.

01.2010

i owe you

my heart was out the door
before i met you
and you couldn't have known.

i should have told you when
anxious eyebrows questioned that i
could feel anything for you:

i should have told you when
the little wit i still had discerned the
contractible warmth you were offering.

you were more than mockery
and i was the reason we were a sham --
i owe you some equity,
i owe you my belated love.

08.2011

last in line

i.

it is not a crime

to be last in line

in someone's mind.

it is a shame

to be last in line

in yours.

ii.

to be last in line,

a meaning

altered over time.

children are told

where they should go

and the last is forgotten,

subjected to ridicule.

at fifteen

the last grows mad,

paints her fingernails black,

makes love to a razor

and never looks back

at the world

that didn't look back for her.

into adulthood

and it's the hell with you,

on no one's wait list

and confined to solitary musing,

slowly falling back

to last in your own mind.

iii.

in someone's mind

is the wish;

better yet,

in the heart

and stuck there,

adhesive affections.

iv.

it is a shame,

the connotations

of last place

that have become standard.

last is nobody's

favorite number,

yet it's never least?

an unfair juxtaposition.

sometimes last

wins the race

but it never feels like victory.

v.

to be last in line,

every time;

it's draining

to remain there

in the mind.

vi.

in yours

i have always been last

in mine

you have always been first.

it is not a crime but

it is a shame.

04.2010

shouldn't still

i'm angry at my heart.

it still beats fastest

for you

after all these years

when i'm well aware

i shouldn't still love you.

you've given me reason enough

to have gotten over it:

misinterpreting playful words for offensive ones,

calling me out on things you were ashamed of,

never berating your unruly ego

for trying to compete with mine.

it's clear your self-worth

relies on how many people

have downloaded your songs on iTunes.

i have never denied your talent.

in fact, most days i envy it.

but if all those soul-searchers had seen

your darker side like i have,

they wouldn't revere you half as much.

your darker side

seems to be the part of you

that you never reign in

when it comes to me;

have you discovered my game

or do you simply think me idiotic?

either way i suppose

i ought to stop telling strangers

that you're my best friend from high school

so they don't get the wrong idea.

...and even if i did

it still wouldn't be any less true

that all of the love poetry i've written

now or long ago

has been for you,

you moron.

04.2010

neat little charms

and in the next few moments we

might find our little pleasantries

if you could only

graduate to me.

what has she that i haven't?

she's pretty.

i have a beautiful soul.

it's not perfect, but it's beautiful.

she laughs at your jokes

but you never really did

put much stock in them;

are you putting on a front for her

or am i made naive among your untruths?

from the way she looks at you

and the ease with which her tolerance falters

after a few mimosas

i'm lead to believe she'll give you everything

without you asking --

everything except her self-respect, that is,

if she can even find any.

i'd never be so brazen

with you

just like i'd never be so easily intoxicated

on anything in life

but whiskey or you.

she's affording you her flesh

and limited affections

to make herself feel better,

not to please you.

throw away.

i'd be there

through even your ugliest days

and i'd make you happy

because i wanted to,

nothing in it for me but the satisfaction

that you're content

on my efforts and company --

not disposable.

her charms are merely meant

to conceal how she's been used

by so many before you in the past

because she lets them use her.

i almost feel pity,

almost,

but her chances of extracting such pure emotion from me

might be better

were she not using

you

as her latest pawn

in some sick chess game

you've already lost.

the fact that it's

you

makes everything not OK

this time.

but as usual

i'm unarmed and not briefed to take action.

all i can do

is watch her move through you

destroying all the genuineness you were born with

and turning you slowly to stone.

i'll wait,

a fool at court

only required for sideline entertainment,

and when she's left you

open-hearted and overheated

you'll wonder where you went wrong

and i'll assure you again

that you went wrong

when you chose her

over me,

her with her neat little charms.

and you'll grin at such thought,

mistaking my disdain for friendly banter

like always

thinking me a good companion

but not a lover.

never more than that

as a rule

(more on your part

than mine).

and so it goes,

and by now i'm well-learned in the subject

of you

and those neat little charms

that had me hooked when you first said,

'hey, i like your style.'

notice how i know you better

than any of the bittersweet tarts

who bargain for your time.

i know you better.

i know that you like to hear yourself talk

and that you'd die a slow, painful death

if you were forbidden to play guitar.

i know what your parents do for a living

and who you were named after

and why.

i know you prefer chunky peanut butter

like me

and i know we can harmonize like no other

when we want to

(like when we sang White Christmas at the senior center

that one time

with pride).

presently

you're occupied

with the newest plaything

who will suck your soul dry

but who am i to prevent you?

until you grow up and

graduate to me,

you'll forever be lost in familiar neat little charms

and so

i'll go.

01.2010

[this is one of the first honest pieces i ever allowed myself to write to the man who once was the muse for most of my love poetry. it's clear i had jaded views on love then, and it's interesting to see how i write about love now. this sort of evolved into more of a ranty letter to him than a poem. x]