conversations in the cove

he is not her
and she is not he
yet they share the same
sinking familiarity

he’s done working as a sailor
but still a man of the shore
she hasn’t gotten any paler
she felt the sun and wanted more

he tries his best to talk
from regent’s park
to the nearest bar
she enjoyed the little walk
even if it isn’t far

she is standing in his door
wanting to stay a little longer
he can let her in now
since his heart’s a little stronger

his kitchen has green tiles
the windowsills hold her favorite candles
he feels he’s walked for miles
and sipping tea’s become a scandal
he remembers the scent of lavender
and finds something to say
she sees her birthday on his calendar
and decides to look away
he speaks,
she speaks,
the candle wick shrinks
she remembers how he always faces downward
when he thinks
it takes more than warm drinks and fire
for roses to bloom on a lover’s cheek
memories of many moons,
recent movies they critique
he put his pen to ink, she still looks good in pink
they start to think too much and they share
a little drink

cherry wine, never opened,
escapes from the cupboard broken
hearts poured into glasses
he tries to tell her but he stutters

he opens a door and points inside
and says his bedroom’s on the right
standing by the door again
he tries to say goodnight
her drowsy eyes refuse to open
stubbornly relying on him
like a child swimming in the ocean

“i dreamt of your hair, it felt
as soft as i’d remembered.
you haven’t been this close to me
since that warm november.”
“i should be off now. i hope you got some closure.
my heart is weaker than i thought
i’m afraid of getting any closer…”

“you know i don’t let just anyone
play with my hair”
she brushes above his ears
brings him near and says “i’m aware”

“are you asleep yet?” his finger hovers above her eyelids
“no” she’s somehow comfy, sleepy, and overexcited
“am i boring you?” he thinks of singing lullabies
“no no” she lifts the blanket to let him move inside

he asks her “is it not cramped
when we lay beside together?
you can take my queen bed i
think it might be better-”
she playfully scoffs
“it is cramped in the good way
turn the nightlight off
i feel the texture of your sweater
and when you whisper in my ear
i can hear every letter”

he holds her to his heart and takes a deep breath
it’s embarrassing to sing so he says he’s not the best
they’re worried about the future
they lay together and make their blanket warm
they have one another, like kids hiding from a storm

his fingers separate
one by one from hers
she’s sleeping peacefully now
and he leaves without a word

Remote Control

I watched her scramble out of her seat

I saw her face was fresh with tears

We share a glance, but do not speak

We both knew all our fears. 

My shift is here – I join the fight

My chance to give out hate

I go home and say work was alright

I think about his family and fate

His child clings to his corpse, his wife shrieks

His white-hot body cools to gray

And mine tells me she gave her class a speech

And that she learned division today

The creeks turns to blood – they roam and wind

The deserts’ heats unending in their wrath

I lay in bed, clinging to my mind

I hear the drones of fans, machines, and death

Riptide

The riptide carried me across the sea

And when I heard the shouts from land, I turned

I saw the distance from the shore to me

The panic fed my muscles, my lungs burned

I saw my parents – I apologized

Their youngest son lost to Formosan waves

My will was broken now, I had surmised

That I would join the world’s darkest graves

Eternity had passed, I knew I lost

Succumb to fate was all that I could do

But fate would have it that a wave had tossed

My lifeless body back onto the dunes

Now dreams, I have, of murky waters deep

That steal my breath and fill my lungs with cold

And when I’m at my lowest, those thoughts creep

That I’d be better off to not grow old

Survivor's Creed//Airman's Deed

I am an American Airman.
I am a warrior.
My nation has failed to answer my call.
I am an American Airman.
My mission is to fly, fight, and freeze.
I am faithful to a poor heritage,
A tradition of harassment,
And a legacy of assault.
Wishing for freedom and justice,
My nations burden and guilt;
Where’s my sentry and avenger?
I gave my body and my life!
I am an American Airman.
Whore. Liar. Weak.
I am the airman left behind,
I will never forget,
And I will not stay silent.

bloody mary

May your Bethlehem collapse
With the foundation of sand
It is built upon

May your ark burn
Like the bush
Who speaks deeply
And claims to know of god

May your cross be bore
For once
By you
For your crimes

May you one day learn
That the thorn in your eye
Is a baseball bat

May your vision go blurry
As you stumble around

May you finally be
blind as you act

Ghost

I study my hand
 
wondering if     it’s different,
wondering if the coarseness of yours,
sanded mine down and made it smoother,
wondering if any fragments of you,
remain on any portion of me,
and mourning
when I find
no trace
 
of your existence
left imprinted on my body.

Icarus

A melting man with wings of wax,
I think I’ve heard it so
And as he tells it no one laughs
For the tale is laced with woe

He flew up, up, to the burning sun,
Touched heaven until he met hell.
And kissing the ground, plummeting done
not a sole soul could watch as he fell.

A father looks on with tear ridden eyes
as an angel meets fire with grace
muting his scream, or so he tries,
as God surely laughs in his face.

Faithless indeed with no remorse,
He plucks a fool from the earth
For who is at fault, who could be worse
Than creator, inhibitor, birth.

Freedom’s Price

Oh glory, oh honor, a deep yearning within,
A call to be embraced, a battle to begin.
But the price too steep, for a lone soul to bear,
A heavy toll to pay, in the battlefield’s glare.
Lay the flag upon my chest, a solemn goodbye,
A poignant moment, beneath the endless sky.
The flag whispers tales of sacrifice for all,
As comrades converse, “Glory be to thee,” they call.
In the dance of shadows, where heroes retreat,
A lone figure stands, a heartbeat’s discreet.
The cost of valor, etched in every scar,
A solitary journey, to history a mar.
Oh glory, oh honor, elusive and bright,
In the realm of sacrifice, where day turns to night.
The flag draped, a canvas of stories untold,
A narrative of bravery, in letters of gold.
Speaking in silence, the language of the brave,
In the echoes of farewell, by each fallen grave.
“Glory be to thee,” the whispers intertwine,
In the tapestry of sacrifice, a legacy divine.
For in the quiet moments, when the world holds its breath,
The forgotten struggles, the dance we have with death.
Yet within the silence, a resilience unfolds,
In the chapters of service, where tales are retold.
Oh glory, oh honor, an anthem unsung,
In the heart’s echo, where memories are strung.
A tribute to the fallen, a hymn to the free,
For within each sacrifice, a hero’s decree.

Hostage

Who is here? None, no one like me, but I am,
Cold stone, sore bones, alone I contemplate my fate.
Why am I here? In the dark heart of Vietnam,
All alone, all alone, left in my despairing state.
To the one light I cling, the candle’s ring,
Keeping me, reminding me, my hope is there.
But it is dimming, into the shadows it is dimming.
For my dancing memories I grasp, yet they fade into air.
Till just a stub is left I cleave to the light, the dying ember,
They must come, but it has been so long, so long.
Do they remember? My name – do they remember?
Nobly I fought, gallantly I fell. So long, so long.
Then to the Lord a desperate cry I shout,
As blows the weeping wind my candle out.

The Color of Eyes

Once upon a time all eyes were the same
When no one was different but no one to blame.
This was just the way
Once when all eyes were grey.
 
But there was a maiden so fair and so true
Who would walk in the woods to admire the view.
She would sing with the birds and the willows
A princess to follow where the wind billows.
 
But she was mandated to marry a prince of a land
Who had more money than trees and a castle grand
Her adventures ended her freedom suspended
Doomed to live a life discontented.
 
So far she fled for solace through her trees
To confide her troubles to the breeze.
The nymphs came out for they knew the maiden
And away took her pain she laid in.
 
The nymphs of the forest granted her a gift
Forest memories to close any rift.
Her tear stained eyes soaked in each color apart
And she stored them in her heart.
 
When she bore the prince a son
The colors in her wholesome heart run
And the boy came out with eyes the color of grass
Of her trees and summer leaves past.
 
Every time she looked upon his face
Through his emerald eyes she saw the place
And they brought her back to the forest
A perfect portal to her place of rest.
 
The boy with emerald eyes grew into a strong man
And attracted the love of every clan.
The good goddess Iris even fell for his eyes
Eyes a color in her rainbow skies.
 
When his mother neared the end of her years
In love, a blessing Iris bestowed hers.
For she was the precious mother of her lover
The world Iris would have given her.
 
The mother wished not for palaces of gold or immortality
Life was full she did not hide from fatality.
Instead she wished to see Iris’s rainbow in every eye
Once she left to live beyond the sky.
 
As her wholesome heart boomed its last beat
The colors of the forest bled out, the world to meet.
Each memory painted a soul
The sky, the sun, the soil.
 
Every man, woman, and child tinted their own hue
Hazel, brown, gold, and blue.
Yet green has become the most rare
A goddess given gift to the most fair.
 
To this day, from Olympus Iris looks down
Her emerald eyed immortal sharing her crown,
And only they recognize the blessing in disguise
The beauty in the color of eyes.

Too Late

The flower that flowers once a year
Novelties, yet eye’s desire for snow
Lasting labor of nature so sincere
Oh fleeting flower how would you know
What’s gone is what’s wanted more.

The vampire who fears not death
Fears also nothing but the willing
Of a purpose to each breath
Maybe eternity brings the misgiving
And lacks the luster of living.

The child so impatient life lingers
“One day” she seems to whispering
She counts on little baby fingers
Her life is a game of play pretending
Pretend she too is not living dying.

The man who dies with goodbye eyes
Regrets waste living life left behind
Regrets the brevity superfluous lies
Do not be too late to find
Utterly intrinsic value of time.

Untitled

The flower that flowers once a year
Novelties, yet eye’s desire for snow
Lasting labor of nature so sincere
Oh fleeting flower how would you know
What’s gone is what’s wanted more.

The vampire who fears not death
Fears also nothing but the willing
Of a purpose to each breath 
Maybe eternity brings the misgiving
And lacks the luster of living.

The child so impatient life lingers
“One day” she seems to whispering
She counts on little baby fingers
Her life is a game of play pretending
Pretend she too is not living dying.

The man who dies with goodbye eyes
Regrets waste living life left behind
Regrets the brevity superfluous lies
Do not be too late to find
Utterly intrinsic value of time.

Hollow Shadow: Miss Dela’s Blues

You spoke false words with a hollowed tongue
And my ears had been eager to take in the lies
You painted a facade over sharp fangs and irises of black
But my eyes refused the cracks and saw only the masquerading beauty
 
You sprayed sweet cologne on your neck and wrists
And its scent was too strong for me to smell the rot it concealed
In the paths that you walked
My feet would anxiously follow, unaware of the traps you laid behind
 
You waited until you had the whole of my heart in your hand
Which I gave all too willingly
Waited until you could feel the tepid flutter of its beat
Before crushing it in your palms
 
Now the lies are all I hear
The fangs all I see
The decay all I smell
The traps all I know
Nothingness all I feel

I Once Dreamed

I once dreamed of the world on fire
The night sky painted red with flame
The air clouded with smoke and ash
 
I once dreamed of the world on fire
A chant of a reform filled my ears
Indignation injected into harsh voices
 
I once dreamed of the world on fire
And I made no effort to put it out
Perhaps I thought it deserved to burn
 
I once dreamed of the world on fire
The groan of skyscrapers collapsing
The crash of their metal scaffolding crippled on pavement
 
I once dreamed of the world on fire
Glass shatters as brick is thrown against it
Masks breach and take what they can
 
I once dreamed of the world on fire
A voice booms over a speaker
Crowds are enveloped by gas
 
I once dreamed of the world on fire
A gunshot sounds through the clamor
A body thuds against concrete
 
I once dreamed of the world on fire
The red is now on the ground
It pools around sprawling hair
 
I once dreamed of the world on fire
Someone kneels in the crimson
A sob catches in a throat, a scream in the distance
 
I once dreamed of the world on fire
Its heat seared my skin, but I did not move
Perhaps I thought I deserved to burn
 
I once dreamed of the world on fire
But I could not wake
For my eyes were already open

About War

I don’t write about war
People tell me that I do
They say that I write about conflict
About brutality
Ares and his many vices

but I don’t write about war

I write about little girls,
holding folded flags at military ceremonies
I write about parents visiting their children’s graves
about burning swing sets
abandoned textbooks
and the young people
who will never open them again

but I don’t write about war

I write about empty train stations
in cities that never used to echo
I write about nurses
and the people they can’t save
I write about clicking clocks
with no one left to hear them
I write about empty chairs at weddings
I write about weddings that never happened
I write about young boys’ rooms
collecting dust
Like snow in Moscow

But I don’t write about war

I write about ash, settling in places
it doesn’t belong
I write about painters without hands
I write about dancers missing feet
I write about pianists who can’t hear the high notes anymore
I write about teenage boys who don’t like planes so much
when they’re screaming in the sky
About how the fireworks only used to scare the dogs

But I don’t write about war

And I would tell you,
even if you’re so sure
I write about war
I would ask you to consider,
that maybe
once you’ve seen the gun
the bullet wound
will never remind you of anything else

CST

I saw this girl today
Her face still lingers in my mind
Her silky matte black hair flowing to her shoulders
Her perfect cheeks, seeming strong but ever so soft
The lines around her eyes allowing her star like pupils to shine
As if god wanted to resemble the galaxy
I want her to know my love for stars
How I spend hours alone looking at the sky
If she were mine I wouldn’t have to look again

Dazed

If the stars were to align,
And we were to be reborn,
I pray for God’s strength.

For I know that making perfection like you,
Not once but twice,
Would be impossible.

Neath Great Oaks

‘Neath great oaks in humid air
I looked to see him standing there,
His ghostly form unseen by most
And not among the divine host,
For earthly deeds unsaid, undone
Constrained to roam this river run,
‘Neath great oaks in twilight’s gloom
The clouds gave way to Autumn’s moon,
He casts his shadow ‘cross the grass
His time for watch has come to pass,
A cavalry cap torn at the brim
Its silver edge once proud and prim,
Not doomed to sit and burn below
But stuck instead two centuries ago,

And just beneath the Spanish moss
I understood the deadly cost,
That stationed him on guard tonight
In growing fog and fading light,
He raised his hand as if to toast
The ages lost beneath great oaks

Sturdy Little Elm

Not a shudder in the gale
Or twisting branch in lighting pale,
The tallest monument for miles
A frowning crest in springtime smiles,
Cast out upon the open range
Has it felt the growing change?
The wildfire of society burning
Closer to its form enduring,
Year by year in solid state
The Little Elm is a constant mate,
A friend to birds and beasts alike
It stands atop a small dirt hike,
Ever watchful o’re the west
I wish our Little Elm the best,
And though decades pass, I wish to see
The Elm so set atop the lea,
Ever present through passing time
A benevolent guardian of our kind

A Million Wonderous Things

I’ve been benighted from afar
By a full eclipted star
But it’s the least
I’ve seen a million wondrous things

So I find it most bizarre
To be preoccupied by war
And fear my kin
May fall like doves with broken wings

So our still and quiet rage
Bourne to term within this age
Now burns white hot
And melancholy feels less grand

But dim the lights
And burn some sage
We’ve had our hour on this stage
I lay it all
On mine and god’s own unwashed hands

**Author’s Note: “eclipted” is an intentional typo**

Granite and Clay

Mountains to my front
Mountains to my back
My past an ecstasy of burning sunsets
My future glistening in a rose quartz dawn
It will come back to them always
The current of my life
Inexorable retrograde
Something of granite in my spine
Something of clay in my heart

a midnight smoke

the porch, the plant, the rocking chair, i sit and watch the night cry
scattered stars and lightning bugs light up the navy sky
a perfect storm is brewing, so strong you can smell the rain
it’s nights like these i let you in and let me feel our pain
 
a familiar melody sounds aloud as the clock strikes twelve
it’s bedtime now, but i’m not tired, so into memories i delve
i think about your pretty face, the one you used to own
the lady you were before i no longer considered you my home
 
i hate the way i cannot let go of your memory
i wish you’d just leave me alone, i wish you’d let me be
i miss your hugs and the lip gloss stain you’d always leave on my cheek
i washed it off much too soon but how could you be so weak?
 
in my attempts to run away from being anything like you
the very act made us alike as i unlace my winged shoes
there’s days i can’t look in the mirror because the woman staring back
looks too much like you with daggers in her eyes, lets her heart attack
 
people worry aloud that one day they will become just like their parents
but i was petrified, it ate me up alive, our situation aberrant
so as it stands you are addicted to how substance makes you feel
and i’m addicted to missing you, only the latter is real
 
the back of an old newspaper and a pen nearly out of ink
is where i’ll leave these words of you, is where i go to think
roll it and up and smoke it like it’s a null and void joint custody agreement
you have your wine i have my words, i guess we all need an inebriant

enchanté

all the things you say to me, all the things you fail to consider
carves a statue of resentment, shapes your words so bitter
 
you grew up with a kind of love i have to live without
its absence grew my sorrow and fueled all of my doubts
 
i know you to be benevolent, would never want me to hurt
but i wish you would be more careful in how you string your words
 
because i can tell by the shade of your shadow you’ve never been sad alone
i can tell by the color of your grief your heart has always had a home
 
the way you carry your head on your shoulders is blatantly indicative
of your past, of your stories, of the way you got to be a kid
 
i won’t lie, i don’t have to, you know i’m just jealous
but lock me up and throw the key if its a crime to be overzealous
 
you met grief, you slammed the door, and you cursed the day
but that’s an old friend, i let him in, told him enchanté

hit list.

walk past you and i feel the gaze of a pair empty eyes
from someone who used to sit at my table and feed me pretty lies
 
all those things you said to me all the nights i wasted
i was addicted to your words, i knew not what they were laced with
 
feared or loved doesn’t matter to me as long as i’m not nothing
because i won’t accept that it was all fake, that you were merely bluffing
 
it stings to feel you regard me with little more than indifference
i’d rather you hate me than feel nothing at all, so look at me like i’m on your hit list.

love is a waltz

i know what you want me to do, i know who you want me to be,
but i can’t keep doing this–choosing other people over me
 
you sit there and pick all the petals off a pretty flower
wondering whether i like you or not, contemplating for hours
 
i sit here and think about each thing that will go wrong
i’ll ruin every one and blame it all on my mom
 
the truth is you’re perfect on paper, not one hair out of place,
and yet i’ll say goodbye every time as tears roll down my face
 
i wish i could give you all the love i know that you deserve
but i’ve been talking to the girl in the mirror–you won’t get that from her
 
i can promise you i’ll break my own heart before i ever give you the chance
you say love is a waltz, but i say i don’t dance

Frog in the Kettle

It was the slow burn that took me by surprise.
It all started with those threads, weaving themselves
High in the air, forming a web
Whose pattern constantly evolved,
Just like us.
Warm embraces followed by slow dances,
I wanted to share my loves with you
So I would know if you could become one.
Music, art, language, they loved you back in kind,
Almost as much as I.
No matter what the world showed you, you wanted to see more.

The beauty of these unimportant moments
Never lost on me.
The person in those moments was anything but
In a way, you’re something new for me
An end-goal I never knew I’d achieve
Makes me wonder
What makes you so special?
That’s when the water boiled around me,
Too slow to even notice.

Shadows of Invisible Birds

Their forms flit past
Yet ‘twixt the clouds there are no birds to see
The shapes instead were the dreamers in front of me
As dreams of freedom fly,
Cast into the sky
The forces of Day remain
Silhouette and Subject— sustain’d
If only they were the birds.

Firsts

There are very few firsts we get to keep in our memories:
first words, first steps in this world, very first day of school, first sunset, first snowstorm, first favorite song, first original idea. As life would have it, though, some will be the biggest staples we return to in dark times:
first double-digit birthday, first embrace with a boy, first best friend, first pr, first heartbreak, first non-familial “I love you,” first drive in the left-side seat.
The first time experiencing certain things sometimes isn’t pretty:
First time putting on makeup, first post-training wheels bike ride, first sport, first injury, first goodbye.
Sometimes firsts are onlys. But with luck, firsts are precursors to seconds, and thirds and…
Finallys.
At the beginning of writing this, the word had a nice ring to it, but dulled as I said it over and over again.
fresh? new? initial? Well, looking at it now, there’s really no other word that quite presents as lovely as first does in all its glory.
I finished first. I earned first in my class. First human on the moon. First mountain conquered.
First college acceptance.
First time my Congresswoman called me.
My first Academy “yes”.
The first time I cried happy tears in public, in the middle of a busy doorway, as a matter of fact.
The first time I felt like I was doing it right, like all the studying and pushing myself to my limits and missing parties for my candidate kit and telling my friends and family that I had been stood up the year before but would keep trying and the absolute grind I had been on finally was paying off for the very. first. time.
The first person I called after hitting the red button that was there for the firsts I couldn’t remember.
The first “you did it, kid.”
My first plane ticket to Denver.
My first day of basic.
My first “toe the line”
My first squadron.
My first all-call nap.
My first 341.
My first Jacks-Valley hack (that most definitely wasn’t an only).
My first breath after the assault course.
My first parade on A-day.
My first day of “Cadet Wagner”.
My first run on the strips.
My first spirit mission.
My first time reaching Eagle’s Peak pinnacle.
My first trip home in service dress.
My first time being able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

My first smile after being recognized.

Oftentimes, we, cadets, get lost in the lasts that the hill brings:
last day of freedom, last moment without stress, last good meal, last time I’ll actually be able to use the internet, last day with a shower curtain, last haircut touching your ears.
Not all first will have seconds, but fortunately, lasts will lead another first until our final finally.

This place brings out the good, bad, and ugly. It will send you many lasts, and perhaps lead you to your final finally, but will give you so. many. firsts. Why dwell on the door closing when the side you stand on faces out? I may have more firsts to experience than any other class, but you can rest assured I’ve dealt with my own many lasts. And I couldn’t be prouder to have them all intertwined with my dream. My passion. The place I first felt I really belonged. The first major accomplishment that is, most definitely, not my last.

So prize your lasts, invite your firsts, and trust in the incessant cycle of them both.

Aftermath 12/24/2023

A few burn down the throat
The monster I remembered reappeared

The little fire burned bright
Scared the monster
The monster roared louder
than the flames

The little fire grew
Ragging
Then shrinking
Letting water stroke the flames
to calm

The water sits
It watches
It flows where it is needed

The ghost floated into the shadows
Phasing through walls
Just wishing
Only wishing
For peace
But finding none

Warmth 9/17/2023

I hope
While it may burn the skin
It warms the soul

What is it to be a Woman?

What is it to be a woman?
To be a woman is to be questioned.
It is to be left out of the discussions
that decide what you can and can’t do with your body.
To be a woman is to be forgotten until you’re needed.
It is to be relied on and never credited for your aid.
To be a woman is to work twice as hard
for half the reward.
It is to prove your worth
when men call your presence a “woke” appointment.
To be a woman is to be always vigilant.
It is to know that others don’t want you where you are.
 
What is it to be a woman?
To be a woman is to be strong.
It is to fight for your voice to heard
and to use your platform to lift other women.
To be a woman is to have a presence strong enough
to prevent a war.
It is to use those misconceptions about you
and fight for your country with them.
To be a woman is to be called a “feminist”
when all you’re doing is what your mother and grandmother taught you.
 
What is it to be a woman?
To be a woman is to be needed
in important spaces.
To be a woman is to push into those spaces.
To be a woman is to fight for a country
that doesn’t always fight for you.
To be a woman is to do it anyway,
knowing one day a woman will not need to do so much just to be.

a little much

there are times I walk into the laundromat
and instead of smiling that there are machines available,
finding a quiet corner to write that essay due tomorrow,
racing through my new book during the wait between washing and drying,
or even loosing myself in the soft melodies of a Sunday morning playlist,
all I want to do is rip every washing machine cord out of the wall.
a little much, I’m told.

but there’s something about the raging sound of those engines,
crackling in their old age,
their palpable rumbling,
clinging to the four hospital white walls around me,
playing punching bag with my sanity,
and making me feel claustrophobic in my own thoughts,
that make me want to just rip all the cords out of the wall.
a little much, I’m told.
but my mind tells me differently.

you see,
the dryer’s dust particles that float into my throat make me cough up more than just carbon,
but the bitterness I have toward my own mind.
that single sock on the floor in the corner,
poisoned by the grey water puddles that have surrounded it,
remind me that I too often feel alone.

stuck in a perpetual spinning cycle of my own damaging thoughts,
drowning me in a dependence on others to feel alive,
turning me a soiled shade of indifference to self-inflicted pain,
staining my optimism with the mark of “imposter syndrome,”
something that not even a bleach bucket full of sobbing phone calls home,
novel-long journal entries or meditation can even erase.

Sometimes, all I feel like I can do is pull the plug.
because I know I’m the poison.
I’m the one that presses “start”,
sits back,
and watches my self-destructive tendencies whip around my confidence,
until it’s been drained of any future use.
I’m the one forgetting that there is a limit to the amount of self-hate my laundry load can handle. and that if I keep restarting,
trying to remove every stain,
every mark,
every imperfection,
I will never have time to BREATHE.

My mind,
my laundry machine of a brain,
feels like it never stops.
and there are too many times when ripping the cords that connect my thoughts to my actions feel like the best solution.

So yes,
I know it’s a little much,
but it’s the truth.
And there are times
THAT feels like all I do have control over.

finding you

I’m drawn to the freedom the trees provide,
tempted to keep running,
follow the riverbed to a new, foreign world,
immerse myself in the newness of the wild.

I’m drawn to the forest bed,
covered in a blanket of leaves,
aglow in the moonlight.
my nose filled with the pungent aroma of pine cones,
painted dandelions,
possibilities of a life without restriction,

peace.

and yet I miss your touch,
your smell,
your tenderness,
which is more than the forest is giving.

how can that be?

I’m drawn to the mysteries of the wilderness,
mysteries your mundane life lacks.
I’m pulled towards the whispers that sing through the grasses beneath me,
comforted by the silence that your constant calls don’t bring.
I’m relieved by the promises the canopy provides,
to shield me from the storms above,

a promise you also made,
but by me being here,
and you being there,
you could not keep.

and yet, I forgive you.

as I tread over the leafy blanket,
(that’s looking more like a minefield of stubborn twigs and stabbing rocks)

I forgive you.
you’re desperation calls out in the distance,
I can’t make out the syllables,
but as your voice slowly fades,
suffocated by the black ahead of me and behind me,
I no longer feel free.
I am not drawn to the empty space you no longer fill beside me,
I am not drawn to the chills that you will never extinguish with your embrace,
I am not drawn to the nightmare that your secrets will find a home in the ears of someone else.

I am terrified now,
I want out of this false reality.

and yet,
I may not ever find you again.