like the ink whispered on my wrist.

does it disturb you to see me like this?

to see me.

to see a book on the table that wants to be read…

not like some smutty magazine with photoshopped fantasies.

the cover screaming at your eyes and hormones

or some newspaper with headlines…

always headlines

never articles.

never conversations.

never chapters and pages.

snap judgements. snap your neck around.

drive thru information.

we're afraid of spending time.

does it disturb you that there's a story to tell?

one that's alive and keeps unraveling.

i'm bored of looking at your cover

and reading the back description and all of the articles and reviews

by trusted, but unknown people…

because really i just want to read you for myself

and not have it interpreted.

i'm happy to learn the language…

i'm happy to sit and be quiet…

while you speak. tell. say. sing. walk.

i l l u s t r a t e

live!

everything that lies beneath.

and with every tight lipped acknowledgement

every weird situation

the text is branded on my skin

the response that: you don't see me.

the response that: you don't want to.

move along merry fool.

even my most extravagant of dreams,

just underneath are quite simple.

a deep current of frustration and pain i harbor and channel into

work and art and… well… this.

recompose it before it decomposes me.

i refuse to settle.
refuse to wither.
to be a victim and shut down and check out…

like. all. the. rest. of. them.

but keep on kicking my bruises

and i'll warn you just before…

but i'm being pushed toward the line of exasperation.

i will throw the next punch.

i will burnout and speed off and recklessly disappear.

because i'm sick with worry.

twisted by envious comparisons.

soul sick and livid with all of this injustice.

overstimulated and uninspired by these dramatic tantrums that are a waste of my time

allowing all these opinions to define me.

dear city, why am i the object of your rejection?

why does it offend you if i should taste affection?

why is my smile distasteful?

what deal do you have with karma that says i'm exempt from recompense?

and what do you have on grace that makes her overlook my downcast face?

God forbid i be a beauty that rests in that.

A beauty that is reveled in and enjoyed…

not taken for granted, advantage, misused, under-appreciated, discarded…

used.

because, all we really want is to be loved in return.

let me love well.

let me be loved.

beloved.

like the ink whispered on my wrist.

march tenth. the tenth march.

there is this disconnect

and i can't find the right wires

can't pick up the wireless signal

can't sort out the password

i just am.

walking in the door hands empty, palms up, arms open.

hope it's enough.

the talking turned to screaming.

i blasted the sky with my ranting and raving.

if anyone were to see, i'm sure they'd suspect lunacy.

i am the first bird singing in the middle of the night

calling the sun out to play

stirring the rest of the birds from their slumber

but singing from joy? or from sorrow?

singing out of hope or out of despair?

singing in my sleep… at rest

or just calling out in anxiety.

is it just that my screams sound pretty because i've gotten so good at phrasing it?

too polite?

the bottom line is that i don't feel like this is enough.

i keep adding to and subtracting from this genius design.

wrestling my maker.

diminishing his art. comparing to others. afraid to rest in this skin...

where just beneath the surface is something beautiful and teaming with life.

just enough shows to make everyone believe i'm a contented peaceful girl.

but i feel shut up and dormant, like an old abandoned house.

haunted and full of memories craving… groaning to be occupied. for vacancy to be over

and spilling over with laughter instead of melancholy broken furnishings.

passed over, the ghosts are getting angry.

every bone, fibre and strand aches.

and this is why the agonizing silence…

because as soon as i write, it's like the wound splitting open…

the blood released

but reminding me of the reality. of the depth. of the ache…

inviting feeling where there was a numbness.

inviting life to the barren wilderness.

reminding me of just how very livid i am.

a child once again, begging for a crumb of goodness.

begging for these wrongs to be made right.

because i don't want to be forgotten anymore.

adorned with empty promises

like cars without engines.

ever waiting.

my hope is deferred and my heart is sick.

what i heard... [before the dam broke]

he strummed

and our ears strained to listen beyond the obvious

our heads flooded with a thousand educated guesses at what he might be hearing when he plays those chords, it creates an atmosphere.

nonetheless, i'll speak for myself.

it makes the chaos and tremors of those worries just wailing away in my head subside.

the music makes them quiet.

and maybe that's why i run so hard.

my whole body working together with me to silence the voice of that relentless prima donna singing the worst case scenario

maybe that's why i will escape this quiet sanctuary any chance i get.

remember the first time your heart was broken?

and how the infection made your soul sick?

those vows we make… those fortress building vows… i made them.

rejection and abandonment inspired my heart to wish for nothing more than to disown itself.

i remember wanting to take the word 'stoic' and somehow make it part of my dna.

over and over, plotting the assassination...to shut it all down and become someone else.

but something feels wrong when the gun is loaded and cocked…

the trigger beckons, and i never did have the guts to squeeze it.

and now, the dam struggles under the weight trying to hold back an ocean.

and all of the friends who really see glimpses of what moves behind these brown eyes know that it's only a matter of time.

i am holding myself back.

and when it all falls down…

you'll hear it. you'll see it. you'll feel it.

until then, you'll strain your ears to listen beyond the obvious

and your heads will be flooded with a thousand educated guesses at what i might be hearing when i play those sparse chords…

so real. [surreal.]

in the last month:

• i went home to virginia, as my mom had blood clots on her lungs, was in the hospital for a week and my grandma was sick with a stomach virus.
• i too caught the stomach virus.
• i got a new tattoo.
• someone i thought was lost for good, came back into my little world.
• someone i thought hated me, is now a very close friend.
• i moved into a new place.
• i started a new job.
• i got a pair of adidas gazelles and my first raybans
• another estranged friend returned.
• made an unlikely friend.
• talked to my sisters for the first time in a couple of years.
• woke up with not-so-mysterious bruises.
• drove around in the snow for hours.
• had a mini breakdown.
• bowled for the first time in a couple of years.
• danced in a storm.
• drowned in the new radiohead record.
• discovered the gooey butter cake at jackson's IS actually better than the cookie dough eggrolls. i know. far. fetched. but so true.
• jumped back on the whiskey train.

and i'm pretty certain i've missed a lot.

soon, i'll figure out some sort of emotional response that's beyond a blank stare... stuttering... nervous laughter and/or crying.

until then, goodnight.