Monsters

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When will you come knocking on my door,
begging for forgiveness and looking for the shine in my eyes?
Only, the shine is gone.
All that’s left is the glossy rim of tears,
for you and me,
for the dream we couldn’t figure out,
for the continued pain of existing with a heart cleaved in two
and a shattered reality,
like the vase you broke that night
or like the swelling as the blood flooded my cheek and warmness coated my neck.

I sobbed for forgiveness,
even though you never learned how to give.
I shook,
splayed out on the porch until the neighbors saw the bloody handprint on the door and cradled my head.
I lied,
telling the police you didn’t mean to hurt me.

How, even after everything, I wanted you to return and say you would change.
How I prayed for you to change and to heal,
not to heal yourself but me
because I thought I needed you – couldn’t survive without you.
I thought I needed your guidance to grow old
like the live oak in our backyard,
the one we climbed on the last night of our love.
The night before you learned you had power in your words
and a spell over me,
bending my mind to your will.
Before you learned beer was your fortitude and it could help you wield your power like a loaded gun pointed at a deer in the woods.

I couldn’t believe it,
still can’t believe I fell into a love of selfishness and pain because I thought it was perfect,
because I couldn’t see the real you.
The one that got jealous when I talked to strangers and who would break things against the garage door.
The last thing I cleaned up was my grandmother’s crystal wine glasses,
the ones she gifted me in her will.

I never saw your monster
I didn’t know I was feeding it by cowering in the corner, tears blurring my vision as you came closer with the hammer.
I remember the night in the ER when you asked me to say I fell down the stairs of our single story house so they wouldn’t take you away from me.

I should’ve been smarter, they said.
I should’ve known you were bad, they said.
But I still love you,
even the monster inside because you loved me when no one else would.
You showed me how to live.
You showed me how I was weak and strong at the same time.
You showed me my own monsters.

I am

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I am half war
and half peace;
I am half anger
and half sorrow;
I am half me
and half ghost.

My words are daggers,
and my pencil holds their true potential.
I yield the power of a thousand scratching quills
that can strike you down in three swift movements.

My smile is painful,
but my laugh is effervescent.
I look through gray eyes to see the wind
and avoid the manic wisps of energy.

My emotions fluctuate with my surroundings,
and I yearn for quiet moments.
I seek comfort in the stillness,
but it reminds me of loneliness.

My spirit lifts as time progresses,
but my soul earnestly looks for an open window.
I am living on this plane
and in another.

I am all of these things
and none of these things.
I am me.

The Sky

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It is easy to stare at something like the sky: an empty, unyielding presence that can be so comforting

It is a place without walls to let your dreams soar, but with the capacity to hide your most discomforting thoughts

It is so vast, so untouchable, but somehow still in reach; like a child’s hand
searching for the stove’s burner

It is unknown, yet familiar; unheard, yet soft-voiced; unfelt, yet smooth; indescribable, yet described

It is blue, blanketed by clouds, but somehow completely clear to the viewer, an intimate friend

Her Moon

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*I wrote this poem in 2017. It was the first time I felt like I could write, really write. I felt like I could find inspiration in the life around me and tell a story. It may not be the best (or the worst) poem I will ever write, but it was the first. It is my stepping stone. I hope you enjoy!*

She dreamed of the moon,
of the stars
She dreamed of the forgotten folk,
those lost in space,
the ones too tuned out to hear
She dreamed the sun would never come
and the night would last forever
She lost those folk in the sunrise,
the ones tuned out like her
She missed them at daybreak,
like she imagined they missed her
One day, she said, I will be out there,
one of the forgotten,
floating aimlessly about
But that day will not come soon enough,
so she dreams
the moon is her friend, the stars are her aspirations
They let her dream,
dream of better days
But once again,
the sun blots her,
shields others from her
She cannot dream, only return back to Earth,
tuned out
tuned only to the night sky,
to those like her,
to those that understand,
Tuned to her beloved moon

Paper

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I sat quietly as my body was folded and unfolded
each crease a perfect streak through the sunflowers staining my skin

I lifted my chin as my voice box was removed and placed in a box
carved of wood with intricate vines trailing across the lid

I watched as my outstretched arms turned into paper wings
that caught fire and burned brightly through the night

I became a crane seeking comfort in the stillness of the room
and the warmth of my fire

Young Again

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I yearn to tumble through the grass,
feeling the dirt on my face,
and seeing the world spin in a new direction.

I yearn to see through youthful eyes,
forgiving and excited,
crinkling at the bright sun.

I yearn to stare across the water,
wearing a silly yellow hat
because someone once lent it to me.

I yearn to feel young again,
when I had an unbreaking spirit,
and dreams of soaring through life
with feathered wings.

 

She

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Feelings
tango back and forth,
trying to lead in too many directions.

Is right or left the better choice?

Anxiety drips down her back,
nervousness echoes in her brain,
and blurred visions of her past
rise to the surface.

It is all too much,
yet not enough.

Who is she?

Her pale blue eyes
and permanent sad smile
mark her face.

All she wants is to help others,
but she won’t let others help her.

It’s the irony of her life that keeps her going.

If you see her on the street,
give her a smile.

It’ll mean more to her
than you’ll ever know.

Hands

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The artful hands:

Mold new days

Erase past regrets

Carry the sun

Lift the moon

Shield the young

Empower the weak

Bend trees to the wind

Move waves across the ocean

Distribute hope

Bring peace

Diminish pain

Wipe away tears

And shake in the cold.

Listening

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The creaking struck my core;
The swaying moved my arms like the waves of the sea;
The sun nourished me and the ground supported me.
As the birds sang,
the trees budded,
and the grass whistled.
“I am here,” boomed a voice
“You are here,” I replied, timid and meek,
reverberating from the sound of the words,
ringing, quaking,
in awe of the strength that existed inside.
I stilled myself and listened again.
The wind blew secrets in my ears;
The clouds laughed as they passed.
I looked through broken eyes to see the light dancing on the water,
the leaves skipping along the ground,
and the creaking,
creaking of an old pine tree.

Untitled

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“I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship.” – Louisa May Alcott

I found this poem in my journal from early November. I have fond memories of this day. I laid in the grass with friends, soaked up the warm sunlight, talked to a cat, and drank some hot tea. However, I also had a migraine that felt like my brain was splitting in two. The following poem tries to describe that feeling.
**Updated in March 2020 

The walls move closer,
my vision goes blurry,
the pounding in my head refuses to yield
and I am crumbling—
inward on myself,
on my feelings,
on my state of existing.

Everyone is locked and loaded for a war that should have ended years ago—
a war that shouldn’t have happened.   
There is no cease-fire,
but the medics enter,
the battlefield is cleared,
and my mind stops retaliating.  

It doesn’t stop for very long
so I sit, watching, feeling, waiting
as this war settles in.

New camps of men arrive to relieve the old ones.
Fresh blood anxiously waits to spill—from the ruin
comes new life. 

The battlefield becomes overgrown with black-eyed susans,
the sun beats down rays of healing—
there are no cries or screams for mercy. 
The last drop of blood, absorbed
by the forgiving earth.