So many parties, so many naps

Do you realize that?

58 notes

It never lasts for long

Why is this
the season for old lovers to reappear?
Is this my chance
to see you vulnerable?
I am not interested.
You can’t shield your eyes to me
and expect me to not
treat you like a sunbeam
I’d pull the visor down to while driving
Did you call
because it’s cold,
the kind of cold 
that makes your toes press against the soles
of another?
Learn how to be alone.
Do I remember last winter?
Yes, the same familiar way
I count my friends
like rosary beads
all of the spring and summer times
I promised myself to never
be vulnerable again.

Filed under poetry poem winter

131 notes

It has been nine years


I think about what if people still wrote to the people who broke their hearts or whose hearts they broke several years ago. The loves they forgot about and got over. Someone sat us down with a pen and said write to them.

Dear Mike,

Remember how I used to make noises before sleep? That was for…

30 notes

prodigalsun asked: Human

I try to be,
but sometimes
I pretend I was born differently:
a slug, a cat, a thumbtack,
anything with less feelings
and the ability to stay stationary
or at least move slowly.
Anything that, at the end of the day,
doesn’t need a horoscope
or alcohol or a phone call to its mother.

248 notes

Here is how you loved me (since you asked):


Like a choice. Like I had a beautiful brain. Like I was too much to ever get over. Like you would always come back to me. Like my hip bones were handles. Like the way I made the bed was the only way you could sleep in one. Like you would spend nine hours with me in a hospital bed and you did. Like my love back could undo every bad thing from before me. Like my head was so full of words you admired that you had to steal my lines and call them your own. Like my bones were too familiar for you to ever change. Like a decision you only had to make some days. Like I would always be there, even when you slipped or slammed the first part of you to understand love into nine other women. Like you would never need a second chance because you had been given a fourth, a fifth. Like I would always turn my car down your street instead of going past to where I lived. Like I would always sing songs in your passenger seat. Like I was in pieces made and meant for you. Like four years was not nearly enough time to decide to leave you. Like I would always call you when I came home. Like I was home. Like you were empty and I should be, too. 

15 notes

the-last-air-blender asked: The way you use words is beautiful, they impact me greatly, I was wondering who you take inspiration from?

Thank you kindly. My writing comes from many things: overheard conversations, something I’ve read, a sentence I remember my mother or a friend of an old lover saying to me, a song.

Most of my poems are based on life experiences, though often I write about them months or years later. I’ve found that these topics or experiences are the ones that need exposure the most. There are also often the poems others need the most.

56 notes

When people ask me what I write
it is hard to answer poems
or anything at all.
My words
that sometimes skip down a line
are made of the times I stayed quiet.
It has been pointed out
that I need to get better at these things—
stop treating every conversation
like a confrontation or possible explosion.
I am too old 
to participate in this idea that
the louder you are,
the better the chances are of being heard,
but I am too practiced
in being put second
and staying silent.
I can write words,
I just can’t ever say them.

79 notes

What will we learn today?

To the people
who speak about American education
like they know
how it feels to ruffle the curls
of a boy who,
before his father went to jail,
was kept in an oven,
To the people
who ask me why I often sit
on carpet, concrete, ground, floor
before standing above a child,
To the people 
who think throwing money at anything
means a damn to a kid
who just read his first book
I bought for a quarter
from a secondhand store,
To the people
who ask me whether the system is broken,
I am writing these words despite you.
For my students
covered in grease burns
from working the night-shift at their family restaurants.
For my students
who keep half their lunch in their pocket
for supper.
For my students
who ask me for hugs
when I’m not supposed to touch them.
For my students
who translate for their parents.
For my students
who are more than a red dot on paper
that means far below proficient.
For my students
who love such simple things,
new words, their own bowl of paint, a sticker, a fist bump,
Monday mornings, a chance to say the announcements,
in a system that they single-handedly
keep from being broken.

Filed under poetry poem education

254 notes

It’s mental health awareness week again

It’s mental health awareness week
and I want to be like
I know.
I am always aware.

At sixteen, buspirone
At seventeen, eighteen, nineteen zoloft
At nineteen, an enema,
the drug has ripped through my body.
At twenty, lexapro
At twenty-two cymbalta plus abilify
and that terrible psychiatrist
surrounded by awards
who is the fifth professional to tell me
"Yes, you’ll always deal with this."
I shake uncontrollably on the inside for three weeks
until my body adjusts.
My arms are covered in scratch marks
that never reached the itch.
Twenty-five, viibryd and lithium,
No one’s ever heard of viibryd.

"Is it…vi…bird?" at each doctor.
It’s new. They start to give you the new stuff
when you’ve tried everything else.
Twenty-six, a cat scan, an MRI,
no answers.
The sixth professional tells me
"Yes, you’ll always deal with this."
"You’re like a light switch, sometimes you just turn off."
I have become an inanimate object.

I pass out every morning for two weeks when I stand up to shower.
I learn what hypnogogic nightmares are after I am half awake
ripping a pillow open with my fingernails,
feeling myself kill my father.

Twenty-six, I stop.
I fucking stop.
I spit in my pill bottles.
My seventh therapist tells me,
"You have pieces of you that might be
these things that you’ve been labeled: 
but, you are not these things.”

I get to the root of my problems.
The list is too long for this poem.
I retrain my brain to love itself.
I retrain my feet to walk the way I could never go:
I retrain the beat of my heart
to slow itself down without chemical help.
I retrain my mouth to say “Excuse me”
not “I’m sorry”,
"I forgive you"
not “It’s okay.”

I learn that the word professional means nothing.
I learn that every dose they put me on was too big for my body.
I learn that I was not born this way, my life unfolded just so.

I am twenty-eight in two weeks.
It is mental health awareness week.
I know.

Filed under mental health awareness week