25 March 2009

equinox; and the long dark is over –

is it cold again is it cold again
is it winter again
is it dark again

and now for something completely different.

these two songs are my life right now:

her morning elegance – oren lavie

empty – ray lamontagne

i’m trying to come to terms with this.

just like glass.

is it sad that I can’t remember what you look like when you smile?
you were a truth.
I am bereft of our potential.

- – -

. . .
small cats and ginger tea.
i’m grateful that my only complaint is that my life is too full.

hypersomniac

sleep deep sleep sweet
morpheus would be proud.

***

i’ve been pensive lately. introspective lately.
antisocial, mostly. strangely so.

7 january 2009

little moon.

little worlds.

i’m very fragile right now.
just this side of shattered.
not sure what it would take –

my head is over this.
it’s all the rest that is going to take time.

there is nothing wrong with this.

i feel so fucking broken sometimes.

oh sweet january

i forget how young i am
(most of the time)

i knew this was coming (some how, some way)

i’m just a little bit broken
(a little bit broken; easily fixed)

(6 december 2008).

Goodbye.

22 December 2008

oh, heaven
it’s quite a climb.
(gutter twins / seven stories underground)

22 December 2008

I’m packing to leave tomorrow (today) to go back to visit the family for Christmas. I’ll be gone for a week. The cats know that something’s up (I think it was the frantic cleaning, packing, and crying that tipped them off). I’m stressed out about packing, about seeing my family, and about not getting to see Evey and Jack (my cats) for a week. About not getting to see anyone, really, for a week. And not getting to dance for a week.

So the monsters are doing their very best to help me in this situation. And when I say “help” I mean “constantly get in the way and be as annoying as possible to ensure that I’m not going to miss them at all.” At least that’s one thing I won’t miss.

It’s so sweet.

I’m going to go insane.

8 September 2005

chimera, I:

born to dissolution,
well-acquainted with such agonies.

cut-paper eye sockets tearing,
tearing up, falling away;
i am a masterpiece of
water-born cliffs and slow
sculpted bone (im-
purities burn away in the steam).

woven of lace and stone, I:
a majesty of wasted time and
misunderstandings;

these words press
soft on damp skin left
white-hot and malleable to
probing syllables and
ink-clad fingertips.

rough edged, I:
laid open to your pressure gaze.

strained desire guides this change
(you mold my flesh like clay).

nineteen and i didn’t know any better.