I did my best
It was 3:17 AM and infomercials were on. You cried in your sleep and your face was bloody from the needles you poked into it a few hours ago.
You’d been locked in the bathroom for hours, telling me in a cheery, childlike voice “It’s ok, I’m getting bad stuff out!” I cursed God and cried with my back against the door and my head in my hands.
God wasn’t there, and neither were you. You were so high and I was so, so tired.
I bribed you to bed around 3:05 AM by promising to pat your back until you fell asleep.
The morning was bound to be a disaster. I knew you’d wake disoriented and afraid. I knew you’d beg me not to leave.
And I would leave anyway. We needed my job and I had already been late twice that week. And so I left.
After a Fight
It was something small.
It felt like you weren't listening,
That you didn't understand.
So I got angry,
I call you stupid,
Say you don't understand,
Because I don't have the words to explain.
You get angry,
And stop listening,
Just shouting about
How I have to respect you,
How you are in charge,
So what I want, say, think
Doesn't matter.
So I storm away.
But as soon
As the door closes between us,
I burst into tears.
Because I'm so stupid,
Everything is my fault
Because I mess everything up.
And I know I should apologize
So I go back out.
But I'm afraid
You're still mad,
So I hang in doorways,
Watching for some small sign
That you are not mad,
That it's okay,
And you still love me.
But you walk right by me
Without looking,
When I call your name
You ignore me.
So I go back into my room and cry,
Because I know
That I've ruined everything
And you don't care.
dancing is like writing.
if i had my way, i'd be dancing now--
writing out my thoughts
as if my feet are the pen,
my arms are spellcheck,
and my hips shake in time to the clicking of the space bar.
just like in all my writings,
you're there too,
flickering at the edges,
adding decoration to my pages
but still managing
to change
the story completely.
play the music.
clear the desk.
clear your mind.
dip your pen in ink,
and don't forget
to sign your work
with a personal
flourish.
Almost
He reached
in his pocket
and pulled out
the ring
glittering and
new
The waitress
smiled
filled his coffee cup
Is that for me?
her shiny red lipstick
teased
He smiled
but his eyes didn't
It's not for
anyone
I just like the idea
he said
He drank the coffee
black and bitter
and cold
like the arms of
winter dark
that scraped against
the glass windows
left all the money
in his wallet
for a tip
She came out
to gather his dishes
and when
she blinked
a pretty white star
blinked back
from the bottom
of a coffee cup
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
It's so strange for a child to meet an adult.
"What school do you go to?"
Boring answer.
"How old are you?"
Boring answer.
"What do you like to do?"
A little more interesting, but still boring.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
Ah! I love the looks on their faces when I don't say that I want to be a doctor, lawyer, model, singer, things like that.
"I want to be a writer."
"Oh..."
And the conversation is over. They leave because they're surprised at what I said.
And that's why I want to be a writer. So when they see my name on the cover of a bestseller, they'll point out to their friends that they met that little girl when she was in school, talked to her.
They'll laugh at themselves because they walked away all those years ago, and regret it.