fire escape

slip out the door,

two by two...

running off like fugitives

under cover

out of sight.

no guesses made.

no excuses.

no fights.

just closed young things,

blooming in the night.

on fire.

deaf to the ticking clocks

and healed of the bruises on their hearts.

no prying eyes,

no eager ears.

he let the words spill out down her cheeks

sending away all that was scared in her tender veins

her eyes like mirrors without distortion

he likes the way she sees him

he follows her regard

trees twirling past

and everything is alright

he begs her lips to kiss

he begs her heart to speak

'say that i'm your baby'

'say it's not nothing'

'say that i'm the right one'

'and when you've said it all, my lover'

'say it all again'

and all the world fades slow from view

dropping down like a sunset

but only for just a moment

last call for the trains to depart

last call for boarding

hands unclasped

minds unravelled

the reappearance of hearts so bruised

quietly resume routine

time ticks in their ears

pushing distance

pushing space

pushing and pulling them back to their place

back to their cues

one step

one step more

alone again

slip in the door.

i was almost called april.

It's very much like the weather here.

It's the end of april and nature is keeping the warmth just out of reach.

Maybe she's just bi-polar. giving a few days of spring-cum-summer…

followed by some violent outburst of a storm that brings a cold front.

She takes you on meaningless, taxing roller-coaster rides.

Much like the chosen lovers of so many good men.

Because they'd rather go in circles and on thrill rides through amusement parks than on adventures around the world.

Wait. Hold up. We were talking about weather.. warm days... ah yes.

Just when you thought you could get comfortable…

skin bathing in the sun…

mind running like children from a school building outside to recess.

All of them pulsating with a thousand ideas that are just one moment away from becoming a reality.

you know that feeling…

so simple, but you know it.

still.

the day off with nothing planned.

gaping like a blank canvas waiting to make your thoughts visible.

but we get scared and we book our days full of routine.

or never have a day off.

or get used to spending it alone.

'controlled'

disappearing in work.

in stimulants.

in depressants.

in escapes.

in people.

in the mundane.

in the meaningless.

in anyplace we don't have to show up.

or it rains.

and we find ourselves in this same old space.

and i think i just wanted not to be alone in this room.

with all these creature comforts that don't quite match the feel of nearness.

i spoke aloud just now and my voice quivered in a way i've never heard.

i didn't recognize it.

like every fibre is deteriorating.

like that forgotten gown hanging in the closet…

could you remind me that i'm not a novelty?

remind me that i'm not worthless.

remind me that i mean something.

and you'll have to repeat yourself, because i'm in the habit of believing lies.

i listened. my face lit up...

and i woke up an hour before the alarm clock just trembling for the cold front that has crept in, yet again.

left alone in this room, nothing new.

playing solitaire.

and they keep sliding messages under the door asking if i'm doing okay.

i'm tired of answering.

a chapter of a story summarized like a bad knockoff of cliff's notes.

you'd fail the course for reading it, of course. because the headlines spell out some catch phrase.

but to my heart nail down injustice.

the beat dropped and my middle finger went up.

and there was no one there to see it.

there was no one there to feel it crack.

because no one fights for me anymore, and with resignation, i'm walking away.

i've heard a thousand words. a million. all of those gorgeous well constructed sentences.

i've heard the verbal bullets fly…

but, darlings, there's no target.

and speaking behind backs, you just pretend you never said it.

all these words in an inflated economy.

worth less than the US penny.

there is no fort knox to back it up.

there is no accountability. no calling out.

just texting. just venting. just blogs and status updates.

just passive aggressive hot air.

a sharpened sword in the corner collecting dust.

i know you didn't mean to.

i know you meant well.

i know what happened was...

but i'm equally bored and wounded by your silence.

and then, actions speak far louder.

they scream at me like some drill sergeant's breath and sweat on my face.

it feels like it's coming to blows.

the bottom line driven across the lands of my heart like a cold war.

and every so often i can shut them out…

but only if i turn the music up loud enough.

it hurts again.

i had a dream a few weeks ago…

far less disturbing than the one i had last night, thankfully.

i thought if i could reach the highest height to get to some great force that they could fix it.

i thought if i could petition the 'adjustment bureau' … the divine at the top of the world…

if i could just have a moment, they would hear my case and step in.

my helicopter met a storm and had to land before i could get there.

in a world where equations run rampant…

where karma is revered

i question it.

because my 2 and 2 always make a five.

the guilty get off scott free, the innocent never looked more guilty

and in the meanwhile i am willing to take my lumps for both sides.

and defiant, i remain unmedicated, open, vulnerable, much/unafraid.

ever prying my hands away from the reigns of control…

desiring to love better.

reach out and then they slap my hands.

doors slammed in my face.

truth met with lies.

embraces lined with daggers.

my heart looted and defaced.

ignored.

forgotten.

passed over.

and for what?

all of this interwoven into this fabric…

all of these words making lines making this story that i'm in…

it has the markings of something incredible.

convinced it's a setup for something greater.

onward and upward

hope rises, much like the temperatures in springtime.

each disappointment met with hopeful expectation.

slow but sure, everything in bloom.

even i.

and then a violent storm… bringing back the remnants of winter.

and it all drops dead.

frost-bitten with shame.

and i beg of you to let me sleep beneath…

and rest here a while.

make it new or bury me with it.

because it all feels like the weather here.

and it's all wearing me out.

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…