Tattoos

Published on by ARisoLeave a comment

I wish to cover my body with words.

I could start with every word I’ve ever uttered.

The base of my feet would carry foundational terms —
where words like mom and dad still go together.

Around my ankles would be words like quiet and shy —
hush hush, stop crying.

My lower legs, those would bear the words I learned
from my brothers and kids in elementary school.
Crabs would be there, along with suck and freak.

My knees, those would be reserved for only the words
I’d kneel to, like poetry,
understanding, compassion.

My thighs would be the playground of high school days,
my pelvis that of long, confusing summers.

My stomach and back would barely contain the world
of words introduced to me in college.

My chest would carry the heavier words,
ones associated with memories and time
and love and other things.
My heaving and laughing bringing life back
to those moments for split seconds.

My arms, those would be reserved
for every lyric of every song that ever made sense.

My neck would be stenciled with coneflowers,
butterflies, and sunshine —
a placeholder for what comes next.

My skull, my face —
those I would leave blank to not cloud
future thoughts.

Ramblings unsaid

Published on by ARisoLeave a comment

Have you ever thought about how you will never be able to read every book ever written
nor see all of the stars in the sky?

Have you ever thought about how you will never know every poet that passes by on the street
nor know the number of lives you’ve touched?

I’ve been thinking about hot air balloons and the hidden meaning of dreams.

I’ve been thinking about why life drags on as if a wagon pulled by a small child.

There seems to be so much said in the silence, yet are we only hearing what we dread or assume to be true without giving space to that which can break the quiet?

Splintering

Published on by ARisoLeave a comment

Suddenly,
Playing games like house are
Lingering in my mind as we joke about lobotomies.
It would be simpler, you said, easier to endure the world.
No words lend comfort though, even in our laughter.
The light is gone from your eyes, and yours, and yours, and mine.
Every one of us feeling an unimaginable splintering as our bodies are
Ripped away.
I can’t move from this seat.
No way, we said.
Going back is not an option.

Not an autobiography (pt. 2)

Published on by ARisoLeave a comment

I am retracted wings
and loose emeralds.

I think about flying
when I think of him. I picture
big jet planes and carrier pigeons.
I don’t remember much from
my early years, years when
he still came home to us.
Us, the small group she formed.
Us against him.

I remember hand-painted stars
and that blue sketch, framed.
But I can’t apply dates or times
to the snippets of he and us.

I am stairwell talks
and stunted voices.

I hid, I feared sharing anything,
knowing and not knowing
that the burdens I carried for her
were not for me to hold or share.

I watched car lights through the window
and cried until my face was bright red.
I told a lie to him, a lie that held truth,
but still a lie, because I was sad and scared
and didn’t know the words.

I am shadows
and slanted light.

I feel seen and invisible with him.
I am so much like him,
perhaps more than he recognizes,
and it’s startling.

I always wanted to be like him,
but as I learn and grow,
I’m not sure if that’s true.
I want to be like me,
not rebelling because of her or
pleading because of him.

I am not a paperback writer
or an aquarium diver.

Yet, I yearn for something.
Did he settle? Will I?
Is there stability in love?

I know he tried. I know
there is more to the story than she shared,
and there is more than he gave.
I was young and he was quiet.
He did well, not ladening emotions
on me, as if a mule, and I thank him for it.

I am of collared shirts
and rental cars.

I loved those weekends,
the ones that became more
than a saturday night.

I loved staying at hotels
and eating sunday brunch at grandmum’s.
I miss the days of overnight bags
and hiking trails we knew by heart.

I am these memories
and there are so many more.

The scars on my knees
and words inscribed on my skin
tell you my story.

I’m stumbling as I retrace
these steps, not prepared
as I go to turn the corner,
unsure of what will appear.

So, I count to three, as he taught me,
and know that if anything bad was coming,
it would have gotten me already.

Always

Published on by ARisoLeave a comment

It almost feels wrong
to turn you into poetry —
to distill each layer
of what makes you, you
into a string of words
with vague meanings
and suggestions.

Yet, you are poetry,
like me and them and them.

We are particles
of light,
of stardust,
of dirt
in the form of human bodies.

We are an accumulation
of thoughts,
of love,
of misunderstandings
as individuals with private minds.

I could write more,
but my ability to place words
like “you” and “I” is faltering.
There is no “us” nor “we”
in the same sentence —
at least not how they linger
in the sparkle of my eyes
and taste in my mouth.

And yet

Published on by ARisoLeave a comment

I have:

a beautiful pair of lungs;
funny tan lines on the tops of my feet;
three happy plants on my windowsill;
a heart refusing to give up;
a bionic arm, or so I tell myself;
black nail polish on my right big toe;
a desire to be held;
ink that tells stories of who I am;
a mind that doesn’t stop whirring;
love;
bones saturated with music;
poetry books within reaching distance;
apocalyptic dreams;
two strong legs and a soft belly;
tea, always;

and yet …

It feels like something is missing;
I feel lost, as if my reflection isn’t me all the time;
I see two blue-grey round eyes,
but it’s as if I’m looking through some
trick glass;
I’m searching, searching for
happiness
in myself and with others,
but it’s hard to see sometimes;
and the laughing with tears,
perhaps, is my only outlet.

Shower thoughts

Published on by ARiso3 Comments

I sat in the tub this evening,
feet pressed flat against the wall
under the tub spout.

I haven’t sat in the shower
since last time,
but that was a different tub,
in a different home,
in a different state.

I watched as steam rose
and water fell against my body.

Tiny droplets caught on my shins
and stomach,
pooled in the crevice of my thighs,
left trails down my face,
and soaked into my hair.

I thought about the world,
about blood draining from them —
abruptly and unknowingly —
to filter through shower heads
and cleanse bodies riddled
with ignorance and shame.

I can imagine the room smelling
metallic, metallic and sweet.
The steam would clog the vents,
sticky, and make any mirrors
appear as if a scene
from a horror film.

I also thought of you (and you)
as I stared at the green rust
surrounding the openings
in the shower head — of course,
I thought of you (and you) for
different reasons.

I sought comfort from the plastic tub
and metal fixtures.

The water weighed on my chest
like a thousand docking ships,
and the room felt bigger and bigger
as I stared off into the swirl
of the unknown.

I sat in the shower,
like I did last time,
but this was nothing the same.

I felt no gash across my head,
nor tear in my lungs.

The words for this poem
flowed, drawing me from a stupor,
and I leapt to catch them
before they followed
the water as it
drained
away.

to be loved

Published on by ARiso1 Comment

I talked with my papa
the other day.

I stood on a picnic table
trying to understand
the overlook I stopped at.
It showcased
the highway and trees
and a sliver of water
in the distance.

I pondered at him,
thinking about what
it would feel like to be

loved.

Loved in a way that
is not a parents love,
nor a platonic, tectonic
best friend kind of love.

He talked about
reassurance, and how
it’s hard to know someone’s
love without reminders —
words and actions
that point to the heart.

I nodded and yeah-ed,
watching the cars drive by.

It felt naive to think
I would know, that
I would feel it as if it were
a ray of sunshine on bare skin.

He said to love
is more telling.

To love —
to give parts of oneself
to others —
that is beautiful,
that is poetic,
that is more important
than being loved.

I smiled,
watching a family pull
up in front of my car.

I have loved many
in my life

and for that
I am grateful.

Reflections

Published on by ARiso1 Comment

I watch her stare through the glass,
only, it’s not her physical presence
that draws my attention,
it’s her reflection, so peaceful
in comparison to her anxious frame.

I wonder what your reflection
would say about you. Is it nervous,
jubilant, or perhaps a little melancholy?

My reflection always seems sad —
dark circles amplified
under fluorescent lights,
the lines of my face drawn without care.

If we only saw reflections,
would that make it easier
to have compassion for strangers?

I would see your truth,
and theirs and theirs and theirs.

What a beautiful place
the world would be,
still fractured,
but oh so much clearer.

Not an autobiography (pt. 1)

Published on by ARisoLeave a comment

I am the product of love lost
and old fairy tales.

I can recall the stories,
the ones that still stain my heart,
for I believed the lies
as if they were truths,
and they were, at the time,
fibs to keep peace, to ease her pain.

I didn’t know true from false
as I listened too well,
sat in that old leather chair,
and measured the floors by the length
of my kid feet.

I am the aftermath of a hurricane
and the eye of the storm.

Nothing felt safe
as I tried to navigate the tricky
waters of childhood —
simultaneously being a kid
and her confidant.

I kept secrets, heavy,
heavy secrets for her
about him and him. I
learned fear and desperation
each time I sat quietly,
pretending to be oblivious.

I am the result of distressing years
and hundreds of blank pages.

I filled journal after journal
with words I barely knew
to try and make sense
of the four walls she built around me.

My thoughts swirled on the paper,
dark ink tattooing stark, blank pages
that held the potential for anything.

I am the fruit of their efforts
and the cultivation of roses.

Each prickle extruding from my skin,
sharp and abusive,
tried to protect me from the unknowns.

Every once in a while, I recall events
from back then, events I’d rather forget,
having dug so deep to bury them.
I remember her and him,
and her and him.

I remember being in the middle,
not knowing it wasn’t my fault,
because I had yet to develop
the mental capacity to understand.

I am more than them
and yet nothing without the past.

The bones of my hips
and lines of my palms
tell you my story.

They tell you of my path
from there to now,
how I’m chipped yet unbroken
— a teacup well-used.