SHE

He was mad as hell. 
He wanted so badly to be the straw that broke her. 
He wanted to see the agony creep across her face as 
She clocked that she could never escape him. 

But instead she stood straighter. 
She held her head high in the air.
And spoke not to him, but around him.

"I am the strength of my own power.
I am the source of my own love. I am whole.
I am not a part of you or anyone.
I am a woman; blood, sweat and emotion,
And I will tear through your influence like the razor blade promises you cut me with."

He was speechless.
She was afraid no more.

I Hope That She Knows

I hope she knows that we see her. 

We, the masses, standing two steps to the left, but evenly by her side,
 Out of the corner of our eye, we see her. 

And we understand that she is learning, as we all are, 
She is trying to fill her life with meaning.

There's no meaning otherwise.

And I know that she cries when she feels broken, 
Tries to hold it in unspoken, but we hear her.

Because a heart like that beats loudly. 

It drowns out the sounds of sadness, 
And screams out into the the air of missed opportunities.

"Just try me" it says.

A heart like that beats 90 to nothing 
- stopping at nothing short of greatness.

All she wants is a taste of how forever feels.

I hope that she knows that she's the light when the night rolls in. 

The voice that we hear when we're unsure of our fears and our dreams.  

She's the one who shows us the goals that we want to reach, 
and each one of us is grateful. 

And even in the silence, when no one bats an eyelid, 
We know we're not alone, because her soul is far too strong.

And she is love - we know this.

If only she knew. 

The Victim

She is a fucking warrior -

This girl with rope burns around her wrists.

She’s been constrained for twenty-two years,

And tonight she will sever the ties.

She will not walk away empty handed

For the tension in the room

Could be knifed out, scooped up, and pocketed.

His broken promises have left splinters on her tongue

And his fists gave bruises to her cheeks.

She knows she deserves better,

But she will thank him anyway.

A man must be compassionate to stop when he is begged.

Her heart is black with dust.

He has left it sitting there on the counter-top

Since the day that she forgot to iron

His Navy button-down.

Her knees are dry from kneeling before him

In apology.

But one foot in front of the other –

She will walk away from this.

She will attempt to belie the affect that he has had on her.

Claiming that his reaches are not never-ending.

She will wake up one day,

Without his fingers wrapped around her throat.

Using a voice that is hers, and hers only. 

Even “Goodbye” sounds better with freedom.

And when she goes,

She will find her way back to me –

The thump-thump-thump of my heart

Beating out the path for her to follow.

Because I never left.

And I never will.

I will apply bandages to the things that are broken.

I’ll apply pressure to open wounds,

But none to her decisions.

I’ll allow her to find herself in open space.

Watch as she collapses

For the fiftieth time.

And will use my heart to soften the blow.

I will love her, as she has loved him.

I will hold her in my heart, as she has held him.

And I shall long for her, just as she has always longed for him.

Entirely and without return.

A servant to the heart.

A victim to the fall.  

Midnight Serenade

She was a novel.

A well-written tragedy.

She had been used.

Her pages had begun to curl at the edges,

But what remained was still captivating –

Even after all these years.

I was in love with the sound of her voice.

There was a rumbling in its depth

That carried all of her afflictions,

And I was swept up in the echo –

Hoping to drown in the wave.

It was through loving her

That I first learned to love myself.

Heart to soul.

Finger to cheek.

Lip to neck.

Tongue to clavicle.

Layer by layer she unwrapped my insecurities

And found me lying bare-chested

In the moonlight.

It wasn’t until after she left

My secrets strewn across the bed

That I realized

I’d have to tuck them all neatly in again.

I tried to analyze my parents. 

Story by story I would break down

their decisions and reactions and

I would try to compare them to my own

Hoping to find clarity in my mistakes.

But I am not my father’s quick-step

Nor my mother’s bleeding heart.

I am flesh and bone.

Foul mouth and crude humor.

I am a lady.

I am also a tramp. 

I am the definition of a fixer upper.

And I wear it proudly.

Because sometimes when the moonlight

floods in through the windows

I hear her deep whisper,

“It’s ok to feel broken.
It’s alright to survive.”

Just So You Know

I spent part of twenty-two living in a Harry Potter sized closet.

My father left us when my mother was in labor.

I guess I consider both tight places to be in.

He came back when I was two.

And then again at twenty-two.

I enjoy having him in my life so much now that it hurts.

I never forgot the years that he was gone,

But greatly appreciate the years he’s been present.

I prefer black socks to white.

It blurs the lines of my ankles.

Which I will always compare to cankles

Thanks to a girl in the fifth grade

Who had a complex given to her by her older brother.

Speaking of, mine:

Trust is something that shouldn’t be given away.

And neither should forgiveness.

Not to those who tear out parts of your inner child

And display them for the world’s most broken to ponder over.

Attending a women’s college the best decision I ever made.

The worst was Palm Springs.

When I was sixteen I passed out in the middle of a beauty pageant.

I woke up long before they realized, but was too embarrassed to admit it.

Because my high school sweetheart was in the crowd.

My mother and I aren’t as close as we used to be.

It’s unlikely that she will ever read this poem.

But I’ll say it anyway - I am disappointed

That she never held herself to the same expectations she set for me.

I am sensitive… But I love that about myself.

I watch Disney movies when I’m sick.

And a very deep part of me still wants to be a Princess.

I think about wearing a simple white dress every other day.

I don’t know how to tell you to disappear.

It hurts when you’re around,

But I love you so much I had rather save your heart than mine.

So I agree to call you on Thursday.

In my fridge I have California Pizza Kitchen, red wine, hummus,

and a soup that I infused with way too much garlic, but I am learning.

And this practice will make something perfect.

Or it will make someone really, really sick. 

My favorite poem is “The Type” by Sarah Kay.

It reminds me of you.

Someday, they will hold out their hand - offer seventy five percent -

And ask “Is that not enough?”

But know that it isn’t.

Because you each have two hands. 

And they should all bring something to the table.  

Missy Higgins just came on

And my heart wavers.

I am convincing when I say that everything is fine

But what I mean is

-       I will never give up

On The Street Corner

She stands there with her back pressed firmly against the red brick wall.

Her breath swirls into the smoke emitting from her cigarette –

The two dance wildly together through the cold night air.

She appears to be impatiently waiting for someone,

But you know that she’s not,

Because she stands there every Friday night around this time.

No, she’s alone.

She’s simply worn “unapproachable” like a sweater

Since she was fourteen years old.

Because invisible feels a lot less lonely when felt on purpose.

You almost spoke to her last Friday

As you watched her drop a dime into a parking meter

Just in time to deflect someone’s parking ticket

And spark fire in the meter maid.

“Rebel with a good cause. “

You almost said to her.

But then you realized how ridiculous it sounded,

And it took you far too long to think of.

So instead, you sat quietly inside the coffee shop

Sipping your tea.

Because that’s as rebellious as you‘ve ever been.

But tonight feels different.

She looks nervous.

Uncomfortable.

You clock the worry on her brow,

And innately you stand.

As a child, your mother accidentally taught you

That you should fix all that is broken.

So your legs carry you out the door,

Poetry in hand, to greet the woman you’ve only

Admired from afar.

“Los Angeles is cold at night.”  She says aloud.

Not really to you, or anyone.

“It is.” You respond anyway.

Aware of your presence, she glances at your hands.

“Still reading that one?”

And your heart pounds

As it settles in

That she’s noticed you too. 

The Thing About Me

The thing about me is that I would have waited.
At least a month.
Maybe a year.
Possibly ten.

The thing about you is you never stopped searching.
Not even for that long.

I was never surprised
when you tried to cram everything you were looking for
into a cranium attached to some asshole.

You would open them up, spill all of your secrets inside -
only for their bodies to reject you like a bad drug.

My contents rested openly visible on a shelf collecting dust,
but you never explored them for fear that you might like what you found.

The Sun Rises Early In Dixie

In the land of Dixie

A mother rises before dawn.

She turns on a pot of coffee, lays out the bacon.

Packs three lunches, feeds two cats and a dog.

She warms a bottle for the baby,

Pulls her husband’s jeans from the dryer,

And drapes them over the ironing board.

She will wake him with a cup of Joe and a smile,

And in return he will task her with finding his other sock.

Once the elusive article of clothing has been found,

She will quicken her pace to the other side of her single-wide palace –

Tossing eggs and bacon into a pan as she goes.

Inside a tiny bedroom, she will be greeted by six arms that groggily wrap themselves

around her waist, neck, and legs like limbs branching from the family tree.

“Shhhh.” She will plead as they lumber slowly from their beds,

past the baby’s crib over to the kitchen table.

The eggs and bacon, cooked to perfection (she’s had years of practice), will find their way

to the impatient mouths that she feeds every morning,

but like most mornings –

she will not remember serving them.

Instead, her mind will be twelve steps ahead,

Trying to remember where her husband left his wallet and keys,

 And going over the calendar she has hung in the back of her mind.

-          Soccer and tutoring end at 6, dance begins at 6:15.

Like every Thursday, she will have thirty minutes from the time she leaves the office,

To make her way across town, pick up the baby, grab chicken for dinner,

and be at the fields on time.

“Honey, where are my keys?”

Like clockwork.

Deductive reasoning will help her narrow down her husband’s hiding places.

“Did you bring them inside?”

“Yes.”

“Were you carrying anything?”

“Yes.”

“Check yesterday’s pants.”

Paying them no mind,

He will walk past his children to the laundry room

As their vocal crescendo becomes a “who can yell loudest” competition.

“Dad, did you know that Mark’s dad is a firefighter?”

“Mom, can I go to Sarah’s after dance?”

“My tummy hurts.”

“Ah ha!” He’s found them.

And the hi-hat baby cries out.

“Can you get him?” she will ask her husband, hoping for time-enough to put on pants.

“Sorry, I’m already running late.” He will conclude as he pecks her on the lips.

“See you at dinner.”

With that, he will grab his pre-packed breakfast and lunch and

disappear down the long dirt road

that separates them

from civilization.

With a baby on her hip, the young mother will clean up after breakfast,

Hop into a pair of scrubs on one foot, and manage her hair into a falling pony-tail.

She will chase children into the bathroom to brush their teeth,

Feed the baby with one hand, and sign permission slips with the other.

She will line up back packs and lunch boxes, hoist kids into car seats, and forget her biscuit on the counter.

She won’t  go back inside, for there is no time to worry about herself.

She will drop the baby at daycare, leave her oldest at the bus stop, and drive the twins to Kindergarten.

No one will tell her good morning.

No one will ask if she needs any help.

Instead her first patient will yell as she opens the office four minutes late.

This mother will work her nine to five (thirty) without a lunch break, chauffeur her children between after-school activities, conquer the quest of finding a meal-to-go, and find her husband asleep on the couch when she arrives home.  

She will let him sleep as she shifts her weight on swollen feet, warming the mashed potatoes,

And creaming the corn.

The baby cries un-apologetically, the kids run every last ounce of energy from their bodies,

And only after the meal has touched the table –

does her husband sit down, to tell her all about his busy day at the lumber mill.

After dinner, the mother will chase the children into the bathroom to brush their teeth, turn down their covers, bless their pillows, and kiss their foreheads.

She will tuck them in, say prayers, read another chapter from their bedtime story, and return to the kitchen to find dishes still scattered across the table and her husband captivated by "The Hunting Channel.".

As she runs the plates under hot water, she will thank God for her “alone time.”

Her husband will thank her for dinner, and consider it payment enough.

He will make his way to the bedroom, and she will follow

Knowing that he may very well want sex before sleep.

Just one more chore for the mother of four, who is allowed - finally - to turn in at nine.  

Because the sun rises early in Dixie. 

Stacked Standards

I fumble with the button on my pants.

I have no reason for taking them off, other than I’m lonely and she asked.

I’ve never heard of a flawless transition from “Us” to “Me”

And tonight, I’m no exception to the rule.

I’m over trying to pretend

That I know what the fuck is going on in my life.

So instead, I take another hit

And try not to flinch when she bites.

She doesn’t know why she’s here either.

Like we both just showed up one day

On the corner of Maybe and Why Not.

Her hands find my waist and they climb

                        Inch

                                  By inch

                                                Up my spine.

She pulls me down on top of her,

And her lips meet mine.

They’re cold.

Unfamiliar.

My tongue searches for a place that I know

Somewhere I might have once called home

But I’ll never find it here.

I find her naked body still beneath the moonlight.

“What is it like?” she asks. “Sex with her?”

“Sex with the woman I loved?”

I want to tell her,

“It’s like when heaven meets the earth.

A constant ocean breeze on a day too hot to stand.

It’s… not like this.”

But I keep it to myself for fear that

she might take it as an invitation to fall.

“Complicated.” I offer instead.

Life is easier when it’s only physical.

Maybe I get calls to come over at two in the morning.

I wake up with more marks than a kid in catholic school,

And the chances of being surprised with an intellectual conversation are thin.

But she never expects to hear the words “I love you.”

And she will never ask me if I meant it when I said she was beautiful..

When I turn my head and bite my tongue

She will not take my face into the palm of her hands

And tell me that everything will be fine.

Instead, she will dig her nails into the soft of my back

And tell me to do that thing again with my tongue.

I oblige -

Because the bedroom is the first place I’ve found

Where I can live up to the standards

Stacked against me.

Here In Pieces

I once claimed something was true when it wasn’t.

I said that I could only see you through the rearview mirror – and I’d never let you catch up to me again, but -

After the third time, I stopped saying it. 

Because every time I would, there you’d be with your long brown hair and dark eyes.

Whispering something about the cold air.

I’d give you my jacket and you’d stand there gazing up at the stars asking,          
“Whatever happened to us?”

Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed, but I thought you wanted to be loved by

                                    your heart on your sleeve

                                                and the gaze of your eye.

So, I would go on to open up the feelings that I had held for months locked inside.

Thoughts about where we went wrong, how we could mend things and maybe we should.

You would take me by the hand.

            Offer a distant “That sounds nice.”

And we’d sit quietly under the moonlight waiting for the world to turn.

Sitting in your bedroom floor, we shared secrets of our past

And foundations for our future.

But standing here tonight in this bar

We share nothing at all.

Not even an appetizer.

Her hand keeps finding it’s way towards your lower back,

And your fingers keep searching for mine.

I am not prepared to be your plan B, so I sneak off to a corner

With some girl named Rachel,

I’ve always liked that name.

Your gaze finds me again, your fingers wrapped tightly around your drink

Giving me the very look you gave me the first time we met.

It’s the same one I got the night that you told me that we were supposed to be together.

And it’s the one you gave me when you drove away.

It’s a look that says, “I’m broken, but please don’t fix me.

                                                            I had rather be loved here in pieces.”