yawn, why are you so silent?

ankle-length skirts and oatmeal for dinner
yes i'm a very old woman
but where was my age in the sunrising arch
of floral stockings?
horrendous headache and a vague clinging past
wrap around my neck but don't keep away
the shiver of winter or
the steady draining blood from fingertips
yes i'm old and crippled
paralyzed on diner benches and in car seats
behind the wheel and behind life
yawn, why are you so silent?
white air but invisible life
much too quick for weak knees
and weary shoulders
strengthened by push-ups but tired from
pushing the earth back into place
the bed sinks under weight of exhaustion
and eyes remain open to greet slanted reflections
when will tomorrow arrive undisputed?
celexa shoveling through snow
mock bliss and empty sockets
a mouth to use
catch snowflakes
throat to burn
and the air passes silent from
body to body

until... [christmasy thoughts or something]

a touch of red
and white wine
striped socks slid out of oldnew drawers, remembered
beneath vixen fingers glide thread and needle
wrapping paper candle
cookie pie, snow sunlight
loud phone calls with distant realms of the heart while
the table waits expectant turkey cools
books wait for ritual to subside diminish forget
and glasses of wine sit and reflect, watch elf with the rest
and glitter the secrets of sober mind
texts from strangers and those close
faraway lovers with invisible arms hugging stroking
lounging under weight of tomorrow's cares
pre-worry pre-plan new
year's resolution
beneath home lights in front of television swirled into
complexly simple conversation suspended
and then the week is over the year has turned and life reignites
turns crimson again at the fingertips black soon in an instant
bracelets cling to inches of skin, time greets the age
golden vanilla reaches cinnamon arm
shapes colors wrap beneath blankets
greet tomorrow with open limbs empty bags laden pockets
spend into oblivion fix for the fresh year
endless white until

even though

some things feel like they're crashing around me, i feel okay. for now.
i like being drunk and waking up in strange beds.
sometimes i'm such a hot mess. sometimes i feel perfectly fine. sometimes i want to die. and sometimes i'm just happy to still be alive.
some days, like today, i'm just glad to be able to eat chick-fil-a and reminisce about the previous night's hilarity. suck on a candy cane, remember his freckles, and think about being home in less than a few days. think of snow and sleep. laugh at the bruises and soreness. laugh at imminent finals, and cartoons. wonder what tomorrow will be like and whether i'll fail this semester. wonder what tomorrow will be like. and smile because at least there's a tomorrow, at least i'm okay for now.

windy

too windy to light a cigarette
and yet still hand becomes numb
holding
on

12/10/10, pieces of my journal

I don't want to do this anymore. I can't do
this anymore. I can't sit and wait while
the world laughs at me, calls me stupid, watches me
self-destruct. I can't be what anyone wants me
to be. I can't pretend that everything's okay
when it's not. Every lie is multiplying and I'm
becoming too trapped to do anything. I am unfolding
on stage, but the curtains are drawn, the spotlight's
dimmed, the theatre half-empty.

in some ways [i am frankenstein]

this feels like the funniest week of my life.
people are concerned about my well-being, as if i'll jump in front of any passing cab.
they said, "tell me about death. do you think about it often?"
well, yes, of course. doesn't everyone?
why do so many try so hard, every day, to ignore the reality that we all die someday.
i'm just trying to remind everyone: you will die.
and though i have no intention of meeting death cordially and so soon -
no, we don't have a lunch date, nor have we scheduled afternoon tea - it has
placed itself rather delicately and firmly at the front of my thoughts.
she's concerned about my safety - what safety? me, here, in my room,
writing and listening to music. who knew it could be so dangerous?
i walked home last night feeling no possible harm could meet me from the streets that
couldn't be worse than the monster or cavity or whatever inside of me. oh that horrid villain, it's alive, sparks of electricity shooting everywhere, illuminating wild eyes. that's how it goes in my head, mad scientists, probing, creation of a creature great and terrible. [but who is frankenstein?]
the greatest danger is myself, which makes me giggle and giggle,
for i'm powerless

12/1/10, pieces of my journal [and i became medicated]

What will they find, after the tests? What if nothing is wrong? Am I crazy to think that nothing could be wrong? Is it ridiculous to assume there is?

The email only said that I was dead already, a shadow, dead Woolf and dead Dickinson. I only mentioned the way Time whispers in my ear every morning and each hour that all is futile, that all is death eventually.

What is happening? I suppose I really do only have my words now.

Oh, I don't want to be probed.

I fled like a madman, not unlike the mad woman I am.
What else is there to do but run for my life?

And I give up my last cigarette so easily.

How can I run from everything? Where does that leave me? Do I exist in some separate plane, an alternate reality? Am I a third world of myself?

I will run, but for how long? To what end? How long can the rain cover, shield, blend my tears?
Or maybe it can't.

A wet cigarette wasted in the rain,
tossed on cement, discarded - itself
slimy surfaces, slipping pen and running nose
walk with no intentions, she says
I'll do just that