Backwards I'm the girl that dancedAnd now look at me.A year, three thousand miles,And I'm still not free.I'm the girl that imagined,But nothing came true.And now there isn't much leftExcept a poem or two.
Man Sold SeparatelyIt was one of those houses dropped on the corner of the street, squeezed so tightly by the ones on either side that it was hardly noticeable. It was one of those houses where the hot water never ran out in the winter and the air conditioner never broke down in the summer. All of the neighbours in the similarly shaped houses, although never perfectly identical, shared gossip and brought over casseroles and generally pretended to like each other until the door closed and the lock clicked and their sincere thoughts on the daughter’s new husband came to light. It was a neighbourhood with the level of superficiality one could usually find in the suburbs.I was drawn right in.There was something about the idea of having a comfortable little life, a quiet life where I would often be alone and always lonely, that somehow appealed to me. It’s easy to be lonely; all you do is turn on the TV or open a good book and it goes away. I could never sit around feeling sorry for myself in a
Circus of Fleeting BreathI worshiped you,Madly thrumming against the walls.You looked past me,Unaffected by my broken rhythm.You summoned darkness to surround meIn my naivete, strangling the lightTo mock my vain attemptsAt earning your attention,But, in striking contrast to my flailing limbsDrumming out my desperationAgainst your cold stone,You did not move.Dance. Dance. Dance with me--The repetition of my futility.You wouldn't even do me the honorOf holding me at arm's length.People stared,Mesmerized by my disjointed movements,As random nerve endings fired.They saw only my self-destructing.You were the constant--So constant that, to them,You became the sceneryUnnoticed by my motion.They didn’t know the reasonFor my dissonant beating against the concrete;Trying to change what is certain,But I was their little circus of fleeting breath.They, too happy to observeThe funny sight that didn't concern them,Would not bestow the gift of death,And so, I danced.
crosswords + dot-to-dots.two a.m,in your kitchen,lighting cigarettes on your stove.i'm thankful foryour addictionor your arms wouldn't beholding me close.time is as long asthis cigarette will allow -the present,the future,is here & now.with each flickof my wrist,my eyes do the same -from your clothesto your oceanic eyesto your sunken in face.you knowi want your taste -but ashes lingerin my mouth& your hand headed south& i guess we were playingdifferent games.i searched for the wordsto fill yourunsaid thoughtsbut you searched formy body's beginningto connect its dots.