i took all my books out of the way

i made a path for you to walk into

but you send me cryptic messages

i can’t understand. i’m not that smart

i think in beats, rainbow schemes,

i want to finish writing this poem

before he gets here and breaks my

silence into too many questions

i avoid answering. i removed my

poems for you, made you walk

straight into my heart and pull

it apart with my own weakness.

i never should have trusted you

with that one secret, you haunt

me with it, pass it around my

air like a ball. you’re playing

with my vulnerability. i tell

you to fuck off instead of good

night and in the morning you

wonder why i left for work

so early and we don’t talk again

until the following day

where we start over and forget

the past. it’s what we call

staying married these days.

The hues of light around the anger

Every day is a blur of the one before

and the one before that

and the one happening now.

I am changing the date on my journal

to keep track. For a while there,

I stopped.

I felt darkness around the

days of the week and months.

I feel this abyss will never end.

I don’t know what will save me from

the days. Nothing really. My coffee is warm.

The longer I stare out my window

at my lilac tree, the colder it gets.

You wake up and want my attention

you make me coffee. You know how

I get weak when you speak my

language of love. It’s still a cloud

in my heart. It could be grey one

day, blue another, white, moving

silently and then you crack the mirror.

I’m out of my skin, I’m shedding

a new layer of your anger.

so I have to drag myself out of the earth

and walk on planks.

You want me

to love you and I do. In the way

I should not. I know better by now

but the clouds never leave, they hover

and expect me to be my best self.

I’m writing and spinning out of control

over hatred, you’re making me tired.

Let’s stay naked in bed

create our own clouds

dissipate the anger with our skin.

Even fantasy has holes

we refuse to mend.

Hard

The hardest part of living is accepting your defeats

recognizing your accomplishments, taking care of a plant.

I am bad at all of the easy things and good at the hard shit.

I can take so much pain, you would think I was a punching bag.

I am made up of being a woman.

I am pure femininity. I know no other way to be

or live than by these thoughts and words.

It is  not easy to step into the beauty and continuously fight off

the weeds that try to break through the soil.

I try to make it work. Sometimes I am the only one left

at three a.m looking around for the earth I was born in.

Every day changes me. Every love kills me. I loved you

with thirty years of need. I admit that I need you

and I am not that fine with driving on a highway for thirty minutes straight.

I say I’m sorry so often you’d think I made a thousand mistakes a day.

I am so weak and vulnerable at human frailty.

It seems that vulnerability is a weakness now

but it’s how I live

with the words under my blouse

bra, panties.

And my mom calls me and I stop everything

to pick up the phone

because I worry that one day

the phone will stop ringing.

What am I cooking? Where am I?

How did I sleep?

It’s hard to live with death

constantly on your mind,

it’s easy to write it

and frame it

sell it to the highest bidder.

I stopped waiting for people to apologize

pointless to be waiting on a full moon

when you know it passed.

My heart keeps cracking, freezing

warming up

pounding

it follows the arms of the clock

incessantly

listening to philosophers

free in its spirit

because no matter what faces me

I never give up on the ones I love.

 

 

 

 

wandering by the port

you wandered inside my mind

and got lost. you asked me

why do you write? because

i feel the words the way

you feel the sunshine on

your skin. because i want

to tear apart the demons.

because the words i hide

are the ones that come back

like a magician’s tricks.

because i told you, i have

no fucking choice. he woke me

up at midnight with violent

blue eyes and soft gently hands

only to thunder my soul with want.

i don’t want to read your poems.

i love everything about you and nothing

to do with what you write.

you know half of me.

you know all of me.

you know you can’t escape

yourself, baby.

he makes me crazy

with wanting and i tell him

everything. truth serum is

my vodka at scarlet

restaurants with

mobsters ordering

salmon tartare as if

they know everything about

fine cuisine, but nouveau

riche stay under the radar

no matter how their lambos

look in valet parking. try harder.

want less. the trick is to

keep breathing in tiny

made up gardens looking

for truth in empty champagne bottles.

it’s bullshit and Old Montreal is

holding my memories the way it

held my heart. we walked into

the pub and once again

I was the barmaid and you were

my man. nothing much changes,

just rust is added, some wrinkles,

some new buildings, old joints

still around to draw me closer

to you. i can’t escape anything

about your manic attraction.

i don’t know who i’m trying

to fool.