Trigger Warning (TW):

Mental illness, death, drug use, violence, miscarriage

&

The poem “Ten Little Girls” includes the topics
of sexual assault, suicide, eating disorders,
body shaming, kidnapping, weapons,
death/murder, and drug use.

Lampyridae & Our Bioluminescence

The short years when we were children,

we would chase fireflies around the yard.

We would capture one and

peel the sticky light from its skin.

We would wear it on our fingers

like glowing diamonds; trophies.

How cruel I was to steal the light from this creature.

How naive I was to believe no one would ever

try to steal my light away.

How resilient I am to keep shining anyway.

The Denouement

I am

 sick and tired

 of swallowing the blood

 from biting my own tongue

 just so you do not have to

 swallow your pride.

But I am not like you;

 I am not a destroyer.

 I toy with the truths

 I keep trapped behind my lips.

 I mix them with my saliva until

 they are as smooth as river stones.

All I need to do

 is skip them across

 the sound barrier and

 you’d be exposed.

But I am not like you;

 I am not a killer.

Collateral Beauty

Tragedy leaks into the buckets of our bodies.

We don’t realize we’re cracked until

we’ve flooded and the pressure releases,

pouring out in tears from our eyes and

screams from our throats and

anger from our clenched fists and

prayers from our bended knees.

It is those same unassuming cracks

where grace enters to replenish us through

the light from our eyes and

the songs from our voices and

the humanity from our outstretched arms and

the new chapters from our forward-marching feet.

Hypnic Jerk

I find my voice is tired.

My vocal cords strained

from screaming over

my own self-doubt.

I find my voice is tired.

I find my heart is tired.

Each tick takes effort,

forced and erratic,

much like my smile.

I find my heart is tired.

I find my mind is tired.

Thoughts arrive slowly,

steering through the fog

of my murky brain.

I find my mind is tired.

I find my eyes are tired.

Each blink is heavy,

yearning to just sleep

some time away.

I find my eyes are tired.

I trust the process. I let them all rest.

Some Piranhas Are Vegetarians

I switch the song on the radio

because it reminds me of you and

I don’t feel like visiting you today.

My mind understands the feelings

evoked by the music are illusions,

but try telling that to my soul.

You were not my person.

You were my lesson.

You were . . .

You were . . .

You were the piranha, circling.

I discovered too late that you

made a habit of attacking people

with hearts much larger than yours.

The ’90s Seem So Long Ago

The smell of peeled oranges

makes me think of Thanksgiving.

The crisp crunch of raw celery

and the aroma of steam

rising from radiators reminds me

of my father on Christmas.

My childhood.

I used to breathe here.

Impatiently.

Now I look back,

fondly,

missing the sounds of a

crowded home with love

and arguments

and dogs yapping.

I remember it all,

eyes closed tight,

angry with myself that

I was ever impatient.

Fits

I outgrew you.

It saddened me greatly.

Like outgrowing

a favorite sweater

I wished still fit

because the fibers

felt so familiar and soft

against my skin.

But your mistakes

became your patterns

and your patterns

never looked good on me.

I Am Marked

They all can see

that I carry

what no one will address.

The guilt, the shame,

I’ve had enough,

I want to catch my breath.

The elephant

here in this room

is sitting on my chest.

And unbeknownst

to everyone,

he’s crushing me to death.

Hemlock Falls & Fairy Houses

Everything is greener at the top of New Jersey,

including your eyes.

The waterfall is falling how I was;

fast, without remorse, naturally.

Once you sit down by the falls, I do the same,

putting a safe distance between me and you and

your hands and the spray of the water.

You notice the distance between us and

bait me to close         the         gap.

I stay put, blaming the puddle that formed between
us from the early morning rain.

I’m not afraid of a little water, you say and move closer.

Me either, I say, blowing my cover.

Saturday-Morning Cartoons

There’s always a bad guy,

a three-year-old tells me

between playing with my thumb,

referring to a children’s show.

He doesn’t know much of anything yet,

but he knows this to be certain:

There’s always a bad guy.

Riviera Maya

My lips have touched

so many salt-rimmed glasses today,

they have started to prune.

I am reminded of bath-soaked fingers and toes.

I live 1.2 miles from the hospital where I was born,
and flew to Mexico to watch two children of divorce

vow never to end up like their parents.

A testament to remembering where you came from,

but understanding you do not have to stay there.

Wandering, Wondering

We are walking

across the uncut grass.

I, barefoot,

you, in shoes.

This is how we differ.

Do you ever wonder how many

four-leaf clovers we are crushing? I ask.

Probably not a lot, you say.

This is where we differ.

Rome & My Ruins

After I am gone,

my words will be excavated.

Dug up,

dusted off,

preserved.

My cross-outs that never became thoughts,

my thoughts that never became words.

Perhaps a lingering eyelash or

finger smudge will reveal itself.

And my words will be shared,

and I will speak again.

There’s the Rub

You were weak.

You were weak, and you gave up.

You were weak and took the coward’s way out.

You were weak, and you left without a word.

It doesn’t take much strength

to slam the door

of an empty room.

I was strong, and I locked it behind you.

I was strong, and I cried.

I was strong, and I moved on.

I was strong.

Amalfi Coast

I wash the Mediterranean Sea from my hair,

it slicks down my face,

drips from my nose to my lips.

I find I’m smiling.

Some days really are

good enough to taste.

I brush the breeze from my hair,

pick the sand from my fingernails,

and watch as the last seven hours

swirl down the drain.

Some days really do

leave their mark.

If Only Romeo Were Running Late
to Her Funeral

My desire for you has become palpable.

I dream we kiss, and I wake up aroused.

Wrong timing makes for

star-crossed lovers

and lethal thoughts.

The tension has manifested itself in other ways.

Today, in the tearing of napkins and straw wrappers.

What will happen when the paper runs out?

When I want you turns into I need you.

When I shouldn’t turns into I can’t help myself.

Pressed Dandelions

I keep weeds in a vase

in my living room.

I feed them water.

I bathe them in sunlight.

A child picked them for me,

believing they were flowers.

Who am I to tell him

not all pretty things

are worthy of saving,

just as not all things

worth saving are pretty.

Dive

I have been daydreaming, treacherously.

You and I, we slow dance in this dream.

I do not dance; but with you,

I imagine it would be nice.

Pressed together.

Heartbeat to heartbeat.

Palms and lifelines kissing.

Swaying to words we cannot say

but feel nonetheless.

Absent

We aren’t here forever.

Sometimes, the conclusion

will come suddenly

and arrive much too close

to the beginning.

We will feel robbed.