Humans are incredibly strange.

I don’t think there are many other creatures who get off on the growth or death of other living beings solely for entertainment or fulfillment.

Other creatures act with a motivation for survival. They enjoy things like sun, rain, mud and water bodies for fulfillment. Sometimes one another, but regardless...

What is this love people have for houseplants? They don’t eat anything except light, nor do they drink anything but water (and the occasional drunken piss, I suppose) and they don’t provide conversation, if you’re sane.

It always makes me sad. My mom used to keep a couple of potted plants at the bay window facing our backyard with its lush lawn and swingset. I noticed it looked just slightly lopsided and asked my mom how you can make a plant compeltely symmetrical.

“You can’t,” she said. “Things aren’t like in cartoons. They actually all grow a little bit differently. Like snowflakes.”

I was too young to gag on the cliche, but there was far too much truth in that to even scoff at in adulthood.

She tenderly turned the plant so the slightly less developed side could face the light. I personified it in my head, imagined a little voice squealing with happiness as it reached for the sun.

“Plants grow toward the light,” said Mom. “Their roots go deep down to reach the water and their leaves catch sunshine. They’re like little solar panels.”

Weird that I knew what solar panels were, but the idea of plants - the original solar panels - was so foreign to me.

Here’s the thing. You don’t nurture a solar panel. You set it up to face the light and you hook it up to something that you need or want powered. It is advantageous to you. It provided some people with the power to heat water and some even more pious and foward-thinking individuals who probably drink from metal straws and use resuable bags and let-the-yellow-mellow in the toilet...probably use to cover half to all of their electric needs.

No one considers this selfish.

The little plant reached for the sun. Slowly enough, of course, that I couldn’t see it as I stared at it for an obscene amount of time. As children we learn from what we see and we believe what we are told. She could have told me babies come from trees and I would probably have run outside with a basket, hoping to catch a baby brother. Unfortunately...or fortunately for my generation and others...plants do not provide such a delivery. Instead, they sit there and they grow toward the light.

What’s the point?

I watched her look with satisfaction on her little plant that had started as a tiny little seedling-looking-thing. (I don’t have a green thumb. Can you tell?) For how closely I looked at it, I cannot seem to remember what kind of plant it would be. She told me that once it was strong enough, it would go outside and sit in the garden and continue to grow. I hated it...yet I didn’t want it to die. It made me sad it was going to sit out in the rain by itself...maybe wondering why my mom no longer had it in a cute little pot and turned it to face the light when it needed help.

It’s odd. I don’t remember resenting the tomato plants. Maybe it’s because I took everything from it. I pruned them once in awhile, but mostly, I picked the tomatoes and felt a sense of satisfaction.

What was it about the way she turned the little pot and carefully sprinkled water over the potting soil that made me so angry?

Any adult can probably guess the answer. Honestly, I would have buried myself in a tiny pot if I thought it would make her protect me from the elements and gently look at me the way she looked at the plant. There was no admonishing of the plant when the plant grew slowly...even more slowly than anything in the garden that season. It was planted away from the other plants that would overtake it.

Having never been a plant, I feel it is odd that we are gardeners. So attuned to what we perceive their needs to be. Dogs bark and howl, chickens squawk, bunnies thump. Humans...well, humans are a whole lot of complicated.

That’s what I hated.

I think all through life I have been reaching for the son, groping through the dirt for water at the roots...never understanding the parts of me that connect the vital nutrients to the legitimate or perceived health inside.

Is this the only reason we grow? Do we look up at the gardener and wish they understood us? Do we bear fruit only to have it plucked away and enjoyed? What about the end of the season?

We grow or we die?

Break my heart and run,

Break it and leave it broken,

So I can’t forget.

Break my heart and stay,

Deliver me from regret,

Let me get away.

Break my heart or change,

Don’t let me fall back in love,

Lest I never leave.

I'm wrong

WHEN

I think

I

am.

I'm right when

don't want to be.

So I

DOUBT

I choose it

because

I

hate to face.

The light.

BELIEVE

others before

myself. It is the

hissing of snakes

that deafens me.

So I choose

YOU.

The light doesn't

scare me. It is what

it reveals to me about

YOU.

My life is about

YOU

I will never hatch.

Because I have let

YOU

place me in this

shell.

Your hands

place the

blindfold.

I let

YOU.

I love you

I hate you

I need you

I want you

I crave you

I doubt you

I beg you

I hold you

You love me

You hate me

You resent me

You stunt me

You build me

You break me

You hold me

You shake me

I try to hold on, I try not to change,

You think growth is distance,

That it's something strange.

In your firm grip,

This thing you call trust,

I try not to breathe,

But grow, we all must.

Underwater, I hold my breath,

My body relinquished,

Collapsed, nothing left.

Through ripples I see you,

Look you in the eye,

Beginning or end,

We grow or we die.

When we are young, we run barefoot.

We dance in Mom or Dad's shoes.

We dream of being grown up and seeing the world.

We begin our lives swaddled, held, warm.

We grow older and we seek freedom.

To us, freedom is independence.

To us, freedom is the number of years we count...

...blowing out birthday candles...

...finishing years of school...

...growing out of clothes...

...saying hellos...

...saying goodbyes...

We don't realize it, but like the grass that rises through concrete under the sun, we are older. Sometimes wiser. Sometimes not.

We find ourselves seeking companionship again.

We bind ourselves, heart and soul.

Sometimes young, sometimes old.

We grow.

...sometimes, not at the same time...

...sometimes, not at the same rate...

...sometimes, we grow together...

...sometimes, we grow apart...

When our hearts are bound and our souls collide, we see the paths we could have taken. The risks we wouldn't face, the chances we wouldn't take. We see the things we could have done, but didn't do, for fear of losing love. For fear of losing money. For fear of losing ourselves.

We look down at our feet.

Some are weathered and beaten.

Some are soft, pressed into velvet cushions of caution.

Some are blistered from focused toil.

Some are shriveled, muscle atrophied from disuse.

When we grow, we choose a direction.

We leave behind our heart that felt we could do anything, everything.

When we grow, we age and become the person we never thought we could be -

For better or for worse.

We reach a point somewhere between sunset and sunrise where we wonder,

Is this the beginning or the end?

And yet, here I am, some think I'm still young.

A leader I may be, even if I don't want to be.

An adult carrying the weight,

Waiting for someone bigger...

To pick me up...

To say, "Don't worry,"

To hold my faith.

And again, here I am,

Dancing barefoot,

Remembering little feet,

Wishing I could fit into those now tiny shoes.

Your parents lit you with a match,

One wick, one candle,

Flame to catch,

And though you didn't know it yet,

Joy sparked before the sun would set.

They guided you through darkness bleak,

Shielded you when flame was weak,

When wind brought flickers to your glow,

Never did your breathing slow,

For hands burned and blocked you from the storm,

And faces left cold to keep you warm.

You had no voice in early days,

Only blacks and whites but never grays.

Now you see the shadows dance,

Independence, take your chance.

No hands lay now to shield you,

No darkness now will yield to you,

Except this small, yellow orb of light,

Held to the radius of your sight.

But winds they come to put you out,

You struggle, flicker, pray and doubt.

Your legs are melted, waning wax,

The cracked stand you inhabit,

You fill in the cracks.

You want to believe,

But your shaking knees,

Give way to your heat,

Your wavering heartbeat.

You never knew the source of your pain,

You only knew the darkness, the shame,

To stand alone and play this game,

Your struggles were never a claim to fame,

Rather a cold and heavy chain,

Binding your heart, stifling your flame,

Your love, your light, your troubles lain,

Upon this cold and waxy hearth,

Stand to know that now it's free,

No longer a slave to misery.

For warmth was not the hands that held you,

But rather the wick that caught the spark,

And kept your alive, when all was dark,

The hope comes not from hands that hold,

Rather the strength of will so bold.

Hope was not the love of your kin,

Hope was the fire that was struck within.

There's a man who's hanging from a tree,

Just below my balcony,

Cross stitches where his eyes once were,

Swaying body, leaves that stir.

Is this what this man deserves?

Now that decay is all he serves?

I cannot tell if it's relief,

Or just the face of agony.

In time now I acquiesce

This weathered, beaten countenance.

And while I look into my mirror,

Death, it whispers, comes yet nearer,

It ends, it ends, it all will end,

The angel's kiss, she waits to send.

I cannot look him in the eye,

And yet I trust that I must try.

The harder and harder that I look,

I feel the breaths he never took.

Although I feel some gaze in awe,

I'm not so sure of what they saw.

And though the leaves are turning brown,

I'll never, ever cut him down.

My heart is frozen in this place. It is shattered but will not fall apart. It cannot be broken enough to melt and evaporate. Instead, I am suspended. I am a ballerina in a display case. I am old when there are many new things in your life. I am at the back of the cabinet. I am dusty, overshadowed by cobwebs and the other figures in your life.

I still love you. That's the problem. I stay more because of you than I do for me. It would hurt me to leave, but I know I could fly higher.

Feathers protrude from my spine and back. My skin tingles and goosebumps form. My hair stands on end and fades into something terrifying. The excruciating pain of their emergence prickles all my senses. I open my mouth to scream, but only a hollow echo sounds. It serves only to deepen a hunger within that you cannot fill until you can see me. This change, this metamorphosis, blossoming, it means death within.

I know you love me. You love me, so you put me in this case. But you've forgotten me. You've forgotten that though I never meant to be here, I chose to stay for so many reasons that have everything to do with you, and little to do with me.

My wings push away from my body. With every muscle in my core and shoulders, I hold them to my body. My fingers web yet closer together. The join to form my wingtips as my heart begins to swell. I lose my grip. My wings are spreading, the other figures in this case begin to stir.

I'm afraid. It's as though I don't want to be free. To be free means to allow my heart to break. Maybe even to break yours, if you cannot come with me. I've never been the person to walk away. I would do anything for you, but I'm losing my grip. I'm losing my sight. My vision is changing, and you are beginning to blur.

Porcelain shatters and the fine glass trembles. The flutter of these new wings has upset the balance of my ever-enduring self-control. The dischord cracks every other figure in this case. You reach inside. You glue me back together. Only I don't want to be whole anymore. My sprouting feathers prick your fingers. You draw back. I didn't mean to hurt you. If I could make them stop growing, I would. If I could. So you close the case.

Thunder strikes within me and I feel a pain in my hollow chest. It is the beating of a heart that so long has been captive to a love I never believed I deserved. Now, it births a life that is both amazing and terrifying. Help me.

You can't.

You are afraid. The more you fear, the less you look my way. The glass will not hold for long. These feathers were meant to stir in the wind, these wings to spread against the colors of the sky. I want to take you with me, but you cannot see me anymore. You see the feathers and the distance of the horizon. You see all the ways I can be taken away. But to you, it isn't real.

This is how you lost me. I didn't want to leave...and though I'm in this case, a part of me has already flown away.

You first love isn’t your first boyfriend. It isn’t the man who kisses you and drops you off by ten. It isn’t the boy you hope will take you to prom. It isn’t even the one who waits at the end of the aisle in a little white church.

When you’re a girl, you first love is your father. The man who waits for you, hoping and praying for your two eyes, one beating heart, your ten fingers and your ten toes. The man who watches and cheers for your first steps, teaches you how to ride a bike, and holds you when you cry. You’re born with these needs, but never the expectations. From the moment he holds you in his arms, you’re his. You don’t remember that first light and you don’t remember the first time he held you, but you carry that with you forever…if it indeed happened that way.

I fell in love for the first time – or so I thought –when I was fourteen. He was two years older and that was awesome to me. He kissed me and held my hand, drove me places and we went to movies and looked at stars. Everything you might have hoped for. We stayed in love at an arm’s length. In the four years we were together, we laughed, cried, worked and studied. Not once did he step foot in my house, nor I in his. He never met my mom, we never went to family dinners. We set our eyes on the future and, after fighting tooth and nail, were finally facing it on the vast expanse of open road.

Eighteen years old, and I’m ready for anything – I know how to cook, clean, sew and write. I also know CPR, how to get an overdosed woman to the hospital and how to cook heroin. Not for me, though.

I could see everything set out before me – a happy marriage, college, a job at a shitty diner, and getting home to my shitty apartment with him. Troy was my rock and I would do whatever it took to stick with him and support his career. He is on track to become a pilot – hopefully with one of the big airlines. From there we will travel the world together and all those days and nights I dreamed, seemingly in vain of my future will be in the past. Those dreams would be my present. He is so determined, intelligent and wise beyond his years.

I was not. Maybe that’s why I didn’t see it coming when he left for good. A trip to Europe without a buddy pass left me at home neurotically cleaning the apartment (which wasn’t as shitty as my dreams.) and watching the clock. I baked a cake and made dinner. I waited. I nibbled on the cake and picked at dinner. I waited. I wrapped dinner up. I paced the kitchen. I paced the living room. I lay in bed. I tossed and turned. I fell asleep.

I woke to the sound of a key in the lock. I sprang up and there was Troy, tall, tan and sober, sauntering in and dropping his bags in the living room. I jumped up and kissed him and was met by tight lips and stiff arms. I didn’t care. Everything in that moment was perfect to me. I dragged him to bed and stripped off all his clothes. He was a fleshy robot as he made love to me, barely making eye contact and kissing me even less. By the time it was over, I felt little relief or satisfaction. Rather, a hollowness. I held his hand and traced the lines on his palm with my fingertips.

“How was Europe?” I whispered, oddly in suspense, for some unknown reason.

“Temporary,” he said.

“Temporary?”

He leaned over the bed to retrieve something from his pants on the floor. A lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and I froze. He had never smoked a day in his life.

“Everything is,” he said, puffing smoke into the air.

Something about this act broke my heart. He saw my eyes grow misty. I waited for him to cup my face and hold me to his chest. Instead, he took another drag off the cigarette and put it out directly on the nightstand. My concern must have been pretty obvious by then, as he deliberately turned away from me and lay on his side.

“Goodnight?” I questioned. It truly was a question. It was met by silence.

I slowly wrapped my arms around his waist and he stiffened at my touch. He did not move away, but his hands rested in front of him awkwardly. Despite all uneasiness, we drifted into separate dream worlds.

The next few weeks, we were merely a shadow of what we once were. There was an absence of words, a hollowness to our kisses and a dishonesty to our touch. It was a cycle of silent meals, study, work and sex. The sex began robotically but evolved into a new kind of passion, though not the sort I had hoped. It became a need that could not be filled. It transformed from a lack of desire to a desperation for the right kind of intimacy. Finding none, we faded quickly. Gone were the days of certainty, replaced by an empty shell that housed us both – the apartment we had dreamed of became the chains that held us together…until finally, he found the key.

He packed his bags and set off to become the man he couldn’t be with me. Free. Selfish. Uncaring. I can’t say he didn’t deserve it. No, he had given of himself all the time we had planned to elope and spend our lives together. Everyone deserves to be free. What hurt was knowing I was his prison. So I let him go.

I cried, I screamed and I begged for the pain in my heart to cease – but not on the day he left. When he walked out the door I stood, somber and still as he stepped out of my life.

A shitty diner here, a coffee shop there. I got by. It was modestly happy, but like most things we achieve, meant little alone. I strove to purge him from my mind. I thought a lot about first loves. I thought a lot about what other people did to fulfill themselves. People who weren’t running from what was inside them. People who lived in the present, moving toward the future, without looking paranoidly over their shoulders at the past. I was bound together, strung along with my past, present, and future.

I packed my present into the car and drove away from the apartment, hoping that was all from my past. My car was pointed toward what I thought would be my future. Little did I know how small the world truly is, and that it doesn’t take long to end up right back where you started.

My mouth is full of poison,

My breathing now, it slows,

The stench of toxins follows me,

No matter where I go.

You ask me to explain it,

That leaves two options, then,

To spit it out into your face,

Or swallow it again.

My mouth is full of poison,

I can't breathe through my nose,

Any way I look around,

I'm haunted by his ghost.

He left his mark inside of me,

The ones no one can see,

An after-storm disaster,

A tornado of debris.

My mouth is full of poison,

I'm running out of air,

The stinging bile chokes me,

But I'm too tired, this despair.

My mouth is full of poison,

Your eyes are cast astray,

I sit here burning, agony,

And watch you walk away.