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Cuddled Up and Angry

The snow looks like tiramisu,
but you see a dirty, late Spring.
Too many plows blocking us
in and too many cancelled dates
and rain checks for nights out.
We want to
forget about who we are.
It’s too much to be alone
with ourselves.
We have to stay in
and think about what it means
to stay in.

Close enough to
smell Dorito breath of your
brother,
cuddled up and angry.
We don’t want to be home,
but when we are cold and
numb
with shovel marks
on our hands,
all we want to be is
inside.

Exit Signs

When I shut the door,

my cat’s eyes widen.

They need to know

there is a way out,

like we all do.

Exit signs always glow,

but not for comfort.

It’s out of necessity.

We need to know

we can get out,

and where.

 

I feel this endless space

between when

I wrote the last thing

and when I will write

the next—

My shadow

is chasing me.

 

And my biggest fear

is that when I don’t feel it

it just won’t be

there.

Hey everyone! I apologize for not posting a lot lately. I’ve been consumed with grad school application materials, papers, and finishing up my last semester of college.

But I do have exciting news…

I am now a freelance writer for Skirt Collective! And my first article has been posted.

You can view it here:

http://www.skirtcollective.com/love-hate-relationship-depression-abuse/

No Longer My Face

Buried under this snow
is the day I will be leaving
and won’t push open
that heavy door
that those broken steps
lead up to.
I won’t walk
up that ramp,
leading to his office—
walls covered in paintings
like in a living room,
and a cleared off desk.
Typewriter next to him.
I sat in the same chair
every time.

The benches that I found
refuge in will no longer
be my benches,
but they will remember
my warmth,
and the sound of my typing—
those essays and stories
they heard for hours
in a form of Morse Code.

I wonder how long
it will take for my name
to just be a name
and no longer my face
or voice.
My poems might take on
new meanings.
Or I might take on
a new meaning.
But I am not sure that
I want to find one.

My Stranger

You were an illusion to me,
but nothing had ever felt more real.
I saw your light, winter eyes when I closed mine,
but I couldn’t draw them.
I couldn’t find a person that echoed
you or a voice close
to the made up one
I talked about so often.
I thought of places
I could find you.
I kept thinking
you had to be real
for me to feel yanked
out of place.
The drain in me was pulled,
and I couldn’t escape myself.
I told myself
if you were real,
you would have stopped this feeling.
I’d stand in front of the mirror,
knowing I must be insane,
obsessed with this notion
that a soul lives in my head,
waiting for me to find you,
as I continued to create your life
and who you are and who you
could be.
I went on to be with real people,
tangible heartbreaks
and mistakes I had to work through.
Kisses I could feel on my lips
and hands I could feel on my skin.
But I thought of a stranger
that I knew I spent lifetimes with.
I thought of you
when the sky was sharp with sunsets
and when I drove by glassy lakes
at night.
I knew how you’d feel about
the air after it rained,
and the sound of cicadas when it got
just hot enough.
I knew how you felt about me
because I felt it when I was alone
and when I wasn’t alone
and when I convinced myself you were
my imagination.
But when I opened the screen door
that winter afternoon,
I knew it was you.
“You feel so familiar,” I said.
“Maybe we met before,” you suggested.
But you knew too.

A Certain Shade

What if we only saw eyes?
Like the deep blue of the mechanic
down the block,
great deal on tires.
I’ve never seen a blue that dark
on a person.
And what about my cat kneading
the zebra blanket next to me?
Light green, but a certain shade
that only a cat can have.
Is there a cat green?
I saw a picture of a girl today
and the first thing I said was,
“Her Eyes.”
They could have been any color,
but they were light and shaped
the way that day made her feel.
I wonder what color my eyes
would be if I looked
at you now.
What color is
Please Don’t Forget Me?

Tone It Down

Sleepovers used to be dance music,
movie popcorn,
small sips of
Oh-My-God-I-just-tried-beer
and trying to forget
what it tastes like.
Sleepovers used to smell like
makeup and body sprays, and
feel like leather purses
we would wear to the mall
at night.
Sleepovers had 2AM secrets, and
“Please tone it down, girls” laughter.
Sleeping bags were rolled up
with “I think I might love him,”
and braided hair.

Now sleepovers are nights
we sleep in the
same bed, watch a bad
TV movie, and coax the cat
to sit between.
We turn the lights out at
11, and turn on our sides.
Back to back, body to body.
The feeling of your own outline
being colored in by
your best friend sleeping
next to you.
In the morning there is the
good morning yawn
that is more like
“Nice to see you again.”
We lay there and stretch–
the cat is on me.
“I actually liked that movie,”
she says to me.
“Ya know, I did too.”

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