Summer is warm days and nights

Sun beating down

Making cicadas buzz

And your soda sweat

Summer is good food

Barbecue smoke and checkered picnic blankets

Ice cream dripping stickiness down your chin

And lemonade pitchers with clicking ice

Summer is different places

Road trips down highways that go on forever

Burn-your-feet sand on beaches

And tents in the green woods

Summer is being with family

In the back yard playing ball

Marco-Polo in the ice cold pool

And taking a long hike with the dog

Summer is making memories

Tanning brown by the water

Gooey s'mores by the fire pit

And sweating buckets as soon as you step outside.

Go where you wanna go

And do what you wanna do.

It's not about them, no it's not about them

But you, about you, about you

Don't let others keep hold of your life

Take back the reigns because they have their own.

Those who lead their lives, as history's shown,

Those are the game-changers, ground-shakers, dream-makers.

Words of others aren't poison in your veins-

The antidote's your spirit; the vaccine is your brain.

Societal lies will leave you to die-

Let your conscience speak up; let the real truth guide,

Because you are not words and you are not stats

Like skin is not clear and stomachs aren't flat,

So if you dare believe that you are less than enough,

I will shout reality; reality is tough.

You are watched by God and you are made from stars,

The universe is here for you; the sky holds no bars,

Do not stop breathing and beating and beating,

For you seas are churning! 

For you worlds are turning!

So don't waste your monumental soul when it's yearning

To fight for its right to walk in the light!

For clouds are not there for you to sit in and stare,

But for you to wake out of, break out of, take out of

Every hardship a new kind of truth,

For this is the point of, the point of your youth!

Not the point of your youth but the point of your life:

To make every day better than the one dead at night.

When you're in the ground with a headstone above,

Your birthdate and deathdate will not bear your love.

The dash in between is what matters alone,

With sights you admired and kindnesses shown.

So what will it be? Will you waste your days?

By then you'll be free from the cultural gaze.

You can die with the tide or find freedom to ride

And find favor in the future of history's eyes.

Or at the very least, you'll enjoy that dash,

And hear every second of life's clamorous clash.

I am distracted, sitting in the library,

by the smell of a girl 

on my fingers. If I went to the bathroom

and opened my pants I would

smell her there as well. 

We will never see each other again,

we never even exchanged numbers,

but I cannot do anything 

in that moment but smell her on

me and remember the way our

bodies collided, our hips cracked,

our parched mouths met, our sweat

mingled on a mattress on the floor

in the sunlight, our hairs matted.

She is not the girl I will wake up 

beside for years, that I will

race across town in the dead of night

in the rain to find an 24-hour

pharmacy for because she got

food poisoning at her cousin's 

wedding and spent hours throwing up, 

that I will end up sewing with needle

and thread the gash in her knee from

when she tripped running up the stairs

to tell me she had been transferred

to Portland, that I moved to Portland

with because the idea of not being 

in the same bed, in the same shower, 

eating off the same dishes, our dirty

laundry not swirling around like

cotton candy was a thought akin to

letting cancer win. Eventually, of course,

it did, and the chemicals and hope

we poured into a finite bowl of ourselves

proved insufficient, and I went back

to the library, and sat in the same chair

and held my hand to my face and inhaled

deeply, a different scent filling my head,

making my vision swim, the smell of

rhododendrons in the arboretum

in Portland, where I took her for her

birthday, and where I looked out and her

in the green fields surrounded by pink,

white, purple blossoms, each one vulgar and

tawdry beside her, each one a crumpled tissue

on a stem, and the sunlight coming down

and the birds singing, and every little thing

in this miserable unheaven was perfect

and thought, So this is love.

Where should I begin?

No one wants a world tour where you see all the ugly parts

So this won't be much of a tour.

But let's pretend that in this world -

Me -

There is no ugly.

We will just call it all beauty instead.

So Look.

Look at me.

I am afraid, I will not lie.

I fear being fully seen.

I am constantly reeling

And feeling

And stealing from my wells of confidence

And pouring out the water

Until they are all run dry

And then I wonder why

I cannot look others in the eye

Without thinking "wow I

am so much less than they are."

But this is a lie.

I will not eat the tainted food I give myself

Because I am more

I am more

I am more

Than the roses left on the stage after the show

And the breath of air before a scream

And the glass shards from a broken figurine.

So it's time

for me

to begin.

Where shall I start?

I will start with the reflection in the mirror

With her little nose and soulful eyes

With her perfect hips and perfect thighs

And stomach that should not be labelled as fat

Because remember, I'm a woman, and we are made like that.

My hands are made for creating

For elating and relating.

My lips are made for loving

and telling and welling

with words of truth

And this is why

I will not lie

About me to myself.

My surface has scratches and scars -

the results of a natural disaster.

Every world has those, right?

Those matter but

they are not everything.

Just as clouds are not the sky -

Stars are.

I am painted with stars

And oceans in my veins

Roots of life grow through my brain.

A wise man once said:

"I don't know who I am but I know who I'm not."

And I'd say I have to agree.

I am not clean-cut perfection

but I know that I am me

And that is a different sort of perfect

Less clean

Less clear

Less cosmetology

My etymology is derived from

The way the wind feels filling your lungs

And the sound of songbirds

And the breathy hum of a record player

And the woodsmoke smell in hair

I am all these things

Constant perfection

Fear of rejection

Continuous projection of

Evidence of living and trying and breathing and needing

Because that is what it is to be me.

I am beautiful; this is true.

I think I look an awful lot like you.

I write dirty broken clean and a lot of poetry about fucking, but the rules don't say poetry about fucking.

So here I am, essays and mini prose, a bit crude and sweary, while everyone else remains trying to impress, dress clothes and dress manners, hiding the stains and smiling. It's that fake smile where the eyes don't smile, because the focus is on the impression being made. 

You'll have to excuse me. I'm the girl that will not only tell you the direct honest unwanted truth in a nice way, but I'll show you the bruises under my skirt and exactly how they came to be.

Captain Mustard in the bedroom with some wooden spoons and a raging hard on. 

I digress. On to the main event. I'm content being the little circus sideshow. I'm over here, in the dark corner, waiting.

☆☆

Little Wild Girl

There once was a wild little girl who could spit fire and tame dragons. She spent most of her Itty bitty years in the company of all adults. Adults who didn't know how to be real boys, only puppets at the whims of others. Puppets don't make very good protectors and wild girl became prey to pederasty and pain. Puppets don't know how to take care of hurt little wild girls but you bet your ass hurt little wild girls know the art of self preservation.

Wild little girls are forced to go to school, to learn in the stepford kitchen rather than the hearth of baba yaga where their wild is encouraged. This wild little girl found words and nuance and expression. Her stepford world became the jungle she needed, in part and for the moment. Circumstances prevented the puppets from having any knowledge which wild girl craved with ferocity. A wild girl on her own was forced to read dictionaries to fill her head with words to describe things she knew but couldn't say. Puppets don't talk much and when they do, they parrot dumb ideas because their brains are sawdust.

The words opened her soul and her mind, gave her flight where she was earthbound, courage where she had frozen into flight. Fight became her mantra. Wild little girl had crossed over. But wild little girl found herself away from the puppets, alone barely in school. Foster they called it. Predation she called it. Ignorance and religious push she called it. Wild little girl learned to read and scan, predators who like to eat little wild girls not for food but for their fear and fright. Long nights spent, clutching covers, masking fear, being shown parts on sleeping daddies that wild little girl wanted to bite. She watched and learned to sleep light, with a scream in her throat.

They returned her to puppets, but she had already been in the jungle with the predators and scavengers. She had run with other wild girls, away from predation and away from sharp teeth. They taught her the signs and they taught her the dance to attract, and the spells to keep away. Wild little girl had returned to the puppets but she knew she wasn't one of them. She had always known her heart ran free and her soul bayed at the moon every fucking chance it got. She learned to trust other wild little girls and spot those who could spit fire and tame dragons, because those were her tribe. Not that they couldn't soothe babies and mend clothes, not that they couldn't sweep floors and make crafts, but because their wild couldn't be tamed and that was a gift to keep.

☆☆

Answer My kik, You Dik

Kik is my bitch. I fucking love it. Self deleting posts, quick easy way to send pics and group conversations, and don't even get me started on video chat. heart eyes

However, there are some major differences to kik with girls and kik with boys, barring da fucking stuff.

Women will multiple text, 4 in a row, and end that bitch up with a gif.

Men will reply lol. To a six paragraph story. If it's really really funny, all caps may be used.

LOL

ROFL

That little reply is there. But we don't always read it that way. We're used to extrapolating. Expanding upon. Communicating.

I'm working on a Hemingway thing right now. He wrote sparsely, believed in taking out the "very's." Breaking it down to basics.

Men seem to do this on the whole more than women, and it's redirected me when I speak to men. I see that response as a response, not just a mandatory response.

It's an ingrained thing, I think. It's something I don't get. But I'm trying to get it, so be patient.

Maybe this contributes to further discussion about inbox messaging. There's a philosophy that suggests we not consider the smooth, articulate one as so much better than one who has the iniative and not the communication akills.

Nervous men are invested a little. They care about the results.

Don't get me wrong though, I still love a smooth motherfucker.

OH AND NO ONE TOLD ME THAT AIRPLANE MODE STEALTH READING SHIT DOESN'T WORK ON ANDROID!!

☆☆

Newports 

I used to smoke. Maybe a pack a day. I'd quit a few times, always surprising, I guess, for the trailer trash I was. Broke and young and smoking menthols.

I quit for a long time but just as I was coming off a 7 year denial stretch, which I change all the time. Sometimes it's 6 or sometimes it's 7. 5, 8, and 9 year stretches possible also. It's like a bad dream. When you've walled yourself off enough thst that part of you is literally absent consciously.

But subconsciously it's always there. Just under the surface.lying in wait, camouflaged by your own mind. So when I started smoking again, near the end of that no smoking stretch, I'd fantasize about putting a cigarette out on my tongue.

To this day, i still inhale deeply even write that. I taught myself how to do it. The first time, I held the lit cigarette out, just a tiny butt, still lit, the smoke curled around my fingers. My eyes closed and I swallowed, hard. That breath one takes right before they undertakes something?

And I slowly let my hand down. The taste didn't come in til later but I felt the heat, the warm. I hate burns. The sizzle, the deep insistence thst stays long after, unlike impact.

I couldn't stop.

The warm ash hits my tongue and it's a tiny pssssss. I start to smile an fudge my words as I type because that's my tele, when my words a snd my punctuation s d goes.

I come back by opening my eyes. Eyes closed is sweet, but eyes open is fully grasping it. Like answering questions must be powerful and difficult while being so stimulated and yet remaining fully present? That's tapping into a well of brain chemistry right there.

I learned how to not hesitate, swift and sure. Grinding it into my tongue. Enjoying the ash in my miuth. And then I'd cum. I'd make myself cum. Repeatedly. Over and fucking over.

But I digress. I don't smoke. But I like the taste.

☆☆

WIP, public mantling

Salt in her pocket

steel in her step

jawbone of an ass hidden,

to the crossroads

She went to seek,

trade, and bargain.

Years of sin eating

finally added enough dark mass

to offset sins of omission

and negligent acts of kindness

Weighed down that soul so that

damned scale wouldn't betray

I. She tendered her request to brimstone's flunkie, first level djinn trainee. He accepted.

Over the course of a year, it happened. She knew things wouldn't move fast because she strongly suspected Hell was a bureacracy.

The first? She died of cancer. Alone. Her intro to goodly bad fun.

The second? Of a broken heart, while waiting for his 3rd kidney transplant. He ignored her requests and now she knew that he knew his limits. What he wanted from her was what she wouldn't ever give.

The third? Didn't die. He, master of the lie and dodge, was claiming homeless, jobless, and broken hearted. But when he told her, it was still all woe-is-me.

Threes. It's all in threes and monkey's paw logic. She had used her recon shot on exes, because there was no one she liked enough to spare. Win win, she thought.

II. pending.....

☆☆

The tree, the shed, and the India boy

She was a keeper of stories, blank palette, willing ears. She could blank out her eyes, make them drained of all but compassion and interest, and ever since she was small, people have been telling her their stories. She liked to talk and have the kind of conversations when you whisper and furtive glances abound

People never tell their good stories quite like their dark and deep, but not the really dark stiff stuff. That's saved for poorly lit bedrooms and basements. This is their socially acceptable but still deviant if I enjoy telling it because I should really be shamed kind of shame.

_

'So there's this boy in India whose belly button burst. They can't fit. So the blood just keeps coming out. Like in the movies, when it looks like a hose? That's what it's doing. And it's flooding where he lives. Like his house, his yard but he's poor so they don't really have a yard."

High cheekbone high bred native American living mobile home midwest. Another one that climbed under the covers to see what she could do. Stay still stay silent and let my brother. Maybe my cousin. But he wasn't as bad as the other.

He had held her smaller hand in his as he led to the shed, a small dank place where he made her do the things that made her a bad girl and not him a bad boy. He said he'd tell her mom, too prescribed and busy to care, and her dad, too angry and too gone.

She doesn't remember much of the shed. Except the back door opened up to it and rarely would one of the too two look for her. They were content to leave her, content to think she, square root of twenty-five, would be safe with the prime number.

The division became clear when she would make snowmen a la Calvin and Hobbes, using all of too prescribed's red food coloring. Too prescribed was too tired to bake much anyway.

Two weeks later, funny how cheekbones ended up in a tree. Funny how someone told her she should jump. Funny how the girl who make smowmen tragedies with food coloring should be the voice of reason when you're two stories up.

_

Too prescribed was still tired when she took all of her brother's anti seizure, too tired herself to seize anymore. Because that's when too prescribed told she that prime number had been arrested. That's when she told too prescribed.

☆☆

Real Tears

He told her he was mean

He said he was bad.

Warned her over and over and over.

She knew he had bad tastes, bad thoughts, and wanted him to show her just how bad he could be. She ached for it, yearned for it, burned passionately, tossed and turned, bit both her lips and her nails.

He pulled the choke chain tightly around her neck, like he said he would.

He forced her to her knees, like he sad he would. He did all the bad wonderful brutal violating things he said he would. Then...

Open your eyes, girl. I want to take you out. Put these on.

He made her cry, just like he said he would.

It was the crocs and blue eyeshadow that sent her over the edge though.

Dusty window panes of time

     touching the quarter moon

     feeling subtle sigh of the breezes

     sparring with years past

     filling life with counted stars

Dusty window panes of time

     hiding souls that time forgot

     falling in unstaunched rain

     nights threatening no tomorrow

     life sailing by, waving goodbye

Dusty window panes of time

     eras hiding behind cover of clouds

     witnessing loss in lingering time

     vacillating shifting of wind

     until days seal weary eyes.

Dusty window panes of time

     holding tightly hands of destiny

     life carved on a tree forever

     words written on parchment

     will survive for all time.

Twisted him in pretzels

around neck – what the heck!

It slipped to his middle,

deflected his spleen

because of tight jeans -

wonderful vessel

to tremble and wrestle,

attempt not successful -

it sprang back in shape.

He couldn’t undrape

damage I wrought.

I tried to reshape

but all was for naught.

Rich dough of pretzel

coiled up in soft shell

wafting yeast smell -

never ends, never dispels.

I need to discard

what’s left of the pretzel

in my backyard -

it’s not my fault

that he still resides

in the pretzels’ insides.

Really just means nothing good

Which is infuriating 

Hits this internal trigger

Makes me want to 

Stomp my feet and throw

A goddamn tantrum

Force you to stop me

Make me force your hand

To force my hand 

A show of force

That forces me to admit

And I type even now

Wet as hell

Biting my lip

I fucking hate it 

The way it makes me want it

Just like the other phrase

XXxX xxxx

Some poems

Are made out of

Sunshines

How for a second brief

Through the meadow it peeks,

The warmth it gives off

Melting cold hearts

Some are made

Out of drizzles

Its reverberating sound

As it first touches

This cold grey land

Where, in each others' arms

This biting chill, we melted

But this verse

Which I made out

Of thread and needles

A stitch to the heart

Out to unforgotten memoirs

Of a sullen past

—a closed wound, opened

All over again.