me this time.

Oh to be delicate.
ethereal and elegant.
mild, muted, and tender.

Oh to be a mystery.
A coy, perplexing symphony
of esoteric refrains.

If only I were strong enough
If I sang our song enough,
You would have remembered me.

If only I were eloquent
oh the letters I would have sent
to tell you of my love.

"And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.

Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
"Is the theater really dead?"
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives."

nada.

I have no right.
I have no right.
I have no right.
I have no right.
I have no right.

What a selfish girl I am.

Your lips betrayed me.
My fingertips betrayed me.
I have to believe that you are not being cruel.
Just helplessly naive.

You exercise as much freedom as I do self-control.
Let's pray the ratio stays even.

Beloved.
Come to me.
Be still.
I can make you feel.
With my carefully placed kisses
soft lips
and willing hands.

Forget your day
(weekmonthyear)
and be with me here.
Let me help you
Be still.

I can make you
love
me again.
hush while I whisper in your ear
secrets delicate and sweet.
hold onto me.
so you won't forget
that I'm here.

Slip your hand
Into my hair.
Kiss me deeply.

Let me help you to remember
the way we love.
Let me help you forget
what we've become.

When I kiss your collarbones
and each fingertip
your shoulder blades
your eyelids
your hands


I'll kiss away each painful moment
Every dark hour
Any remnants of your broken heart

My fingertips will brush away your heaviness.
My lips will wash away your pride.

Come to me, Beloved.
I can make you feel.

coulda shoulda woulda.

All we were was potential.
The only thing we could ever be was conventional.
I know this now.
Now that I can see you.

Bitter was all that I could be
Once you stopped singing to me.
You all but shattered my rhyme scheme.

You used to touch me so gently,
as though discovering something delicate and wondrous.
I was a mystery.
Oh how history
Repeats itself.
(you wouldn't lift your voice on my behalf.)

When we were new and lovely
Fresh and whole and naive,
On the nights you loved me
It was so easy to believe
That our youth and beauty were enough.

when music was our lifeblood
when the ocean was our home,
the sand our bed.

"hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"

I stopped loving you
the night you wouldn't sing to me.

practice.

How I became your mannequin,
I will never know.
You clothe me in your poems.
You adorn me with your tenderness
with your passion.
I am decorated by your songs.
You whisper sweet things into my plastic ear
and run your fingers up and down my plastic arms.
Knowing(thinking) that my heart is as plastic
as my limbs(you'rewrong)
And that I will model your love to the world
because that is what I, your mannequin,
am here to do.

One day, you will not need me anymore.
I, your practice lover.
You will, unknowingly, strip me of what has
kept my plastic body together.
your words, song, touch...

Maybe that will be the day
That I have needed(dreaded) since the day
you claimed me.
Perhaps that will be the day that,
when I have been stripped down,
layers of practice-love peeled away, and I stand before you,
you will know me.

ice cream

it is
by definition
one big
grey area.

slurring
blurring
melting together
until it all tastes the same

it's dripping down your fingers
(iwanttolickitoff)
and watching your heart break as yours
slips off the cone and falls to the ground
is enough to make me cry.

you tell me your favourite flavors
and I lie about mine.


you were right, my dear brit.
it's never just ice cream.

this is painful.

the way you touch my hair
touches my heart.
do you touch other women
to tenderly?

your fingers whisper across my hands
makes me feel guilty
for how pleased I am at your touch.
do other girls hunger for these moments
as I do?

Your eyes on my face
lingering on my lips
watching me speak and laugh
drinking in and memorizing my features...
do you make others blush so?

as I rest on the edge of sleep

your voice moves in.

infiltrates the boundaries of my subconscious.

the words are foreign and beautiful

and although I cannot understand them, they break my heart.

they are heavy and dark, blanketing me.

"you're drunk", you whisper, smiling.

if I am drunk, than it is your voice that has intoxicated my heart and mind.

you and I are precariously placed.

delicate.

we are new.

and you.

are dangerous.

in the dark, warm state of mind

and delicate state of heart,

with your voice coming in waves.

provocations.

please stop talking
so I can stop watching
yourlips.
please stop walking
so I can stop watching
yourhips.
stop calling me "...Darling..."
so I can stop falling for you.

don't walk beside me,
or our fingers will brush
don't sit beside me,
or our bodies will touch
and I can't be held responsible
for the reprocussions
of such provocations.
(youknowhowIam)

and please, dear, PLEASE
don't take my hand--
I don't think my heart(mind,body) can stand
the way your lips move across my skin
and if you kiss my fingers again

we'll both be in big trouble

I am full of earth and dirt and you.

There truly is
good
grief.

I used to be much better at writing beautiful things.
or did I just have more beautiful thoughts?

I think your thoughts are beautiful.
I love how you
articulate.

Like e. e. cummings.

One of those.

"Like arrows in the hands of a mighty man, so are our youth."

I don't know where I stand.

And I don't know why I'm standing there.

confused

free

determined to be

ok.

afraid

alone

alright

let's go.

let's get this

show on

the road.

So I go now,

and I grow now.

Right?

Ideally,

I deal.

and I heal.

I don't want to think about us.

Or that beach.

Or that night.

Or that time.

Or the way that you

Or the song that we

Or that trip to

Or that smile.

Or those hands.

Or your heart.

ican't.

And so it begins.

Ashley wanted me to start a blog.

And I kind of wanted me to start a blog.

So here we are.

A blog.

Although I feel it is presumptuous of me to assume people care about what I think.

But this isn't for you, people.

It's for me.

Kthanks.