Every day I go to war, and every day
I don’t come back. If you think I am
wandering, I’m letting you know I am
only lost. Dejected. This here is the
letter I am sending home. I am in no
way asking for sympathy; this is a road
I’ve paved myself trying to find my
way to you. You think I’m insincere
but I am nothing but terrified of the
way I feel when you are not around.
Separated for you, I am frozen in a
darkened room with my worst night
mares playing on loop. I need a little
safety but I’ve given up on comfort.
I have sculpted arrows out of words
and aimed to kill. I’ve set up camp in
the middle of a land mine and dug a
hollow grave for myself behind my
tent. Here lies a lousy writer. Faithful
daughter. Sister. Friend. Emotional tease.
Still in absolute awe of everything we
couldn’t be and everything we didn’t
know we were.

Was it not you who said that everything
was an art if you paid enough attention to
it? Well, I’m still in one piece and I
dub that my finest work.

I know I told you I wanted to grow but instead
I have grown de minimis. I need you to pick me up again. Lift me
higher. I’m in a mess again and it’s beautiful.

Disclaimer: The title of this poem is a line from Laura Cronk’s piece “The President’s Companion”.

And then the concrete touched the sky
and God sighed. This is an invasion
of personal space. And then there were
ghosts in the spaces between us and
the ghosts spoke in languages we didn’t
comprehend, so we murdered them. We
called it an act of love. Their blood
spattered on our skin and even though
it was invisible, we saw it and it
haunted our dreams for months to come.
The world carried on with nonchalance.
Our night-mares turned us into monsters.
We fought off our words like soldiers
in a battlefield. We burnt all the bridges
that could take us home. We fell in love
with pain and with each other. But you
said

you changed me and then you left

but we’re both at the place where it
all started and I haven’t moved an inch
away from you. But you said

I don’t know what I want

but I wanted you and there’s so much
I’ve given up for a future I could
never see clearly and I know I know,
I know you need me with the same greed
that I need you with, but I’m tired of
asking and you’re tired of not knowing
and I just want to feel safe again.

The truth is, you’ll probably find me
at your door, bare and bearing a sword –
ready to fight off old monsters and new
ghosts – whenever you decide to call.
This is what shames me.

*Disclaimer: The title of this piece is a line from an Adam Clay poem.

You’re tired of painting halos
on all the walls I stand against.
It wears you out and you vilipend
me for the stains on all your
clothes. I know this. You
whisper it into my pillow when
you’re asleep and it makes my skin
leak what my eyes refuse to.

You claim you’re a victim
and I claim to be a poet.
I do it with contrition.
I find flaws and fill my pens
with them. I write my
poetry with blood that isn’t
necessarily my own; I make it
look pretty. I make it swirl
and dance on paper so it’s
aesthetically pleasing.

We are all lost and bewildered,
but these walls around me put me
in my place. I’ve named all these
bricks and I’ve painted them all in
the same shade of red.
And now this fort is tall
enough and the walls are sturdy so
I’m well protected, but what of
these cannons poking proudly
through – ready to fire?
And what of these mettlesome
rifles I seem to enjoy fondling?

This summer, I am ravenous with
the idea of trading in my
masochism for something a little
less self-oriented. I wouldn’t want
you to get caught up in that.

So when I ask you to give me your
heart, dig your nails deep into it
and never let it go.

 

*Disclaimer: The title of this poem is a line from Adam Clay’s poem “For Your Eyelash Anchored To The Sky”.

I am recalling a certain January.
Your voice humming melodies in my ears
and you whispered that there was
a temple between my legs and
that you were a new-born believer,
your agnosticism currently leaving
tire tracks on all passageways that
lead to the window.
I knew then and there that
everything I am is everything that
unhinged you and unhinges you still,
and I remember it all
so clearly; you said,

I am at the mercy of your words.
Kiss me like you want my knees to hit
the ground, like the thought of me
standing still is against everything
you stand for.

It’s the end of May now.
There are burn marks around my
mouth from when that filter
settled in five months ago
and let me just tell you
you really can tell a lot about
a person from the way their heart
breaks and while yours shattered
into a thousand different pieces
the surface of mine
cracked and crumbled
until I felt its top layer
deteriorating and completely
falling off to welcome a clean slate.

Pieces falling to my feet
like dead leaves. New but familiar.
We’re at layer number three now.

Mother nature greets a
new season.

Repetition scares me irrationally
but I have found that I could
get used to you, the same way
the sun has gotten used to
caressing the sky from dawn to
dusk with deep blue calm and
fire-red passion and should you
crash into me like an angry lightning
bolt, I will make myself into a
generator and watch you penetrate
me in a way that lights up whole
cities, and should you fall onto
me like a careful raindrop on a paved
street, I will turn myself into
a field and absorb you whole
and grow acres of beauty
in your name.

And you can tell the whole world
you’ve melted stone with your
bare hands, baby

and you can tell them to
watch it leak out of me just
for you.