my muse cries pearls. she giggles with the moon about lovers she's never had. she grooms her owl wings with a silver brush and her long grey hair with a golden comb. she dances in swamps, putting anyone who sees her in a trance. she covers the blood on her hands with black gloves. she leaves rotting flowers in her hair, puts bangles of gold, silver, and bronze on her wrist. her voice is somewhere between aphrodite in a canyon and a trucker smoking her fifth cigarette. she winks at strangers in bars by the ocean. she trades stories with vampires and witches. she's clunk to a piano across the ocean and played hide and go seek on saturn.

my muse, i must've found her somewhere, but i find it hard to believe she wasn't always with me. that she wasn't in the forests, the birds all calling her name. that she wasn't in the chlorine of the local pool. that her eyes didn't watch from the mountains of blue and from the stained glass in the chapel.

i call for her, every day, every morn, every night. my pen and my mind make their way through the woods, the ground covered in mushrooms and the trees dressed in moss. every day, a little closer, to whatever golden cottage or hippy van she inhabits. muse, oh muse, help me turn it into gold.

b ur pretty silly grl

what else could u need

ice cube time to melt

away in ur great coffee

take me out to thrifffft

br8k me on the linoleum

died 4 u, cried 4 u

u forget that idrk

lie ill lie til i

lie in my bed

til i ,,,

lie lie lie

in to a

lie to lye, to live

Hi! I don't have a flipping clue

what the hell to say to you!

I'm supposed to know but

I lost my instincts in a rut!

Do I like you because you're kind

or since you like bands of a similar mind?

I don't feel like debating this

I just want you to lose your wits

& f a l l f o r m e

But you won't of course, it's a pity

Because when I see an opportunity

I'd rather roll down a hill

then use my force of will

I know for a fact/ you want me to detract

    have me add: 

        “but not all cops”

or  “but not all ancestors”

        just like my whole life you’ve been telling me/to stop yelling and add “but not all men”

i see the flags i always see/ and i wanna scream right back

    draw a picture, add a flame

    let go of any tame,

    shout his name 

but add 

an expletive

            (he who should not be named/thank god i never liked harry potter that much anyway

    i know what you wished i’d add here:

    a cherry rosebud honey smile

    and a lavender milk soft, soft voice

    something comfy you can slip into.

                    Do You Think The Sidewalk Was Soft?

                    (the one he asked for his mom from,

                    the one she fell asleep on,

                    the one he walked home on)

But even bed’s aren’t safe, so I guess/ there’s your right to ask me to soften my words, make them less

    (breonna taylor, breonna taylor, breonna taylor, i mourn for you/ 

every single morning i get to wake up safe. 

Arrest them, someone, anyone, please.)

when i go to protests, the things they yell from the street/ a lot of them need to be BEEPED out 

    they say “but he deserved it”, they say “ALL LIVES MATTER”,

    they say “tr*mp, tr*mp, tr*mp.

                    tell me what that could possibly mean

                    other then he exists in direct contradiction

                    to black people. 

actually don’t. I’ll do you a favor and not hide insults as:

 questions

    “morals” 

        friendly debates

                & all those other things i’ve heard.

the night he got elected,

            i cried and cried. 

                    i was a worried young white girl, stupid and afraid

that we’d get bombed or pushed back to the good old days (that i knew in my heart weren’t good)

    i made signs for the woman’s march crying because i had just started to realize quite how cruel

    all of this was, why i got strange looks when i drew all sorts of people in my coloring books

    “wow, it’s so creative you draw black people--and look, there’s a chubby character, too!”

i started listening to punk rock that year                         no it’s not a phase Granny. sometimes your ears ache but at least you’re not the only one screaming.

i grew up in a big old Tr*mp Town, there are signs and bumper stickers and flags and flags on trucks

& confederate flags that i wish i could tear down and make illegal in a flash of a match

    & sometimes there are people who have fire in their throats too

            & that’s (one of) the only reasons i still like this town.

good happens so slowly; this guitar solo is too freaking long/ 

please someone let me skip ahead passed this time when every Right is wrong.

here’s my song that’ll leave Bikini Kill blushing:

        ABOLISH THE POLICE

        TEAR DOWN THE RACIST STATUES

        & BAN THE REBEL FLAG

        IMPEACH THE PRESIDENT

        (HE’S A SYMBOL TOO)

        and the bridge:

    fund social services/

care for people who aren’t you/

how hard is it to say “Black Lives Matter”

ating salads

 at all events

and i do like 

salads, don't 

get me wrong. 

but it was 

just a way to 

prove that im 

healthy,

happy,

 even as a...

 a bigger girl

but not 

FAT. 

never that. 

when i look in

the mirror, i

rarely ever mind. 

straight laced

bodied have never 

been things

of jealousy

for their looks. 

i guess I

just hate to

be judged

and ive never

trusted the

world not to

judge me. 

here's something

ive kept to 

myself: for a 

long

time. for

a while,

i wouldn't

eat snacks

around other

people. my 

siblings would,

but id wait 

til the kitchen

was empty. 

when i workout:

the world must

know. look! 

i may be 

a klutz

a plus sized

clumsy girl

but look, see

girl run! girl

runs. run, run

girl! yogi rose. 

biker rose. 

pretty desirable

more than the 

number on

the scale rose. 

wears pretty dresses

because they'll 

notice that and

not the fat

rose. 

it was never 

big things

(ha) nobody's

ever called me

a fat b***h

(though i'm sure

they've thought it)

but a boy

called me fat

and my young

brother just 

laughed & 

a nurse once 

told me to 

eat grapes

instead of cookies

& my "friend"

once said "but

boys won't like

you if you 

aren't skinny"

and in some 

ways i guess

ive felt

that other people

won't let me

be pretty

***

***

Maybe it was Dumplin or Leah on the Offbeat / maybe it was Shrill/ or maybe it was rage/or maybe it was Lizzo/ or my mom/ or maybe it was just looking in the mirror and thinking "I'm pretty"/ or maybe it was making art, seeing art that looked so beautiful in it's curves and swirls and rolls/ but I don't avoid anything but salad in public anymore.  (I still like salads, of course but just because they're fresh and true to goodness itself). I snack with my siblings. I swirl in the mirror and wink at myself. I exercise when I exercise just to feel the blood pump through my veins. I live in a satisfaction that if someone really were to say I was the ugliest thing alive, I could simply know they were wrong. Fat is one of my favorite words nowadays, though chubby is pretty good. 

There is no cool wind here

The sun beats stars to your sweat

I'm a fool in your arms

The heat is too much for me

Nobody wants me

But I've always loved an Odysseus

Without his Penelope

Flowers corrupt my lungs

The rain is seltzer water

The dress doesn't fit

My eyes are all you have to gain

And Nobody wants me

But I've always loved an Odysseus

Without his Persephone

Everything I want is in the stars

You're a compromise

I require sacrifice

I didn't ask for a spar

Nobody wants me

But I've always loved an Odysseus

Without his Penelope

Footnotes

after the wind sweeping the water from my hair; after crying many-anight to the moon: after three months of swearing I will and failing 180 times; after writing in blood-red ink and then burning in it all in a fire; after making a million excuses; after staying in four gross motels in a variety of gross places; after listening to “This Time” from Cabaret on four different occasions; after making three playlists, twenty mantras, and more than a few diary entries; after rewriting a hundred romances of old with just my imagination; after doodling lovely faces, arms, and smiles all over my notes; after failing three more heart-stabbing conversations; after living another spin around the sun; after wondering mind and pondering heart; after justifying and justifying again, framing another gold-leaved frame; after changing an outfit again; after talking so much, my mouth burns; after a heart beating so fast it almost overheats; after creating too many Pinterest boards: after checking too many horoscopes; after breathing in a deep, deep fear of regret; after seeing too many sands on the other side; after too many shoulder-shaking moments; after quite a few friends saying calm down: after all this, I will.

On the East Coast of the United States, you might think there would be snow in December. There hasn't been since I was little--since I belted out “Let It Go” with a flourish and confidence I haven’t matched since then. Maybe this lack of snow is because of global warming or maybe it's just how it's always been and those younger years were an accident or maybe it’s because I gave up trying to use my magical Elsa-esque snow abilities.  

I have lived here, by the bay, since then, before then, and until I am old enough to leave.It’s not that I hate it here. It just feels like my life has never really begun, at risk of, once again, sounding like Elsa or some other Disney princess--I don’t know why I keep mentioning Elsa.  

Here, the first week of December is taken over by rehearsal. Why? Since, for some reason, the local community theatre insists that as soon as the turkey leftovers are put in the fridge, the Christmas show needs to be ready to bottle the joyful tears of critics. As if a single local newspaper actually puts critical analysis into their reviews. As if any of the people coming actually care if it's good or bad; as if they just don’t just want to see their kids on the stage--a stage that's actually just a gym with some risers because of money issues. During this first week of December, the teenagers wear pajamas to tech week rehearsals and are tired from finals. This is the first year I've been tired too, after starting community college and all. I still don’t wear pajamas to rehearsal, though. Mostly because I hate to not be all dressed up. Also because the other teenagers at the theatre don’t care if I do not join them in their ancient tradition. I’ve been acting in the cruddy little community theatre since I can remember, but the other teenagers are simply fine with me being there. They don’t care if they’re friends with me, or if I’m a part of the group. No pressure, but also no friendship.  

Also included within these December days, community college is strange. I've been homeschooled all my life and now I'm dual-enrolled there. Even though the freshmen class is the smallest it’s ever been, the students there spread the full spectrum of oddness. One man in English who looks more like a boy always wears a suit to class. Hockey Mom is, you guessed it, always asking for deadline extensions and asking questions on everything because she is a hockey coach and a mother and she does not have time for this and you better know it. Then there’s Criminal Justice Dude who seems to think he's the professor of sociology.  

 I march in the small parade in this small town--almost 6,000 people. I’ve been marching in this parade since I started doing theatre which is as long as I remember. I’ve been walking down this boardwalk even before that. What’s really changed since that first walk? A better music taste, a better fashion taste, higher expectations that still cannot be met.  

My family cheers for me as I walk by, just to embarrass the easily embarrassed me. My family is as much as a mess as always. We have to divide up who gets who a present into names in hats because if everyone got everyone a present… well, it just wouldn’t be possible. There’s so many of us, so close--metaphorically and literally--so maybe it makes sense it’s always chaos. Maybe that’s why sometimes I feel stuck here, other than general teenager angst/ artist wanderlust reasons. My family is so loud--one of my brothers as confident and loved as a lost Kennedy, my mom an almost famous photographer, five cousins, and four siblings to worry about--sometimes I feel drowned out.  

A couple of days ago, my baby sister came home from her cousins with Christmas cookies.  My mom has holiday-itis. She doesn't like baking so there across town my sister went. Other than company and entertainment, that is one of the best things about having local aunts: holday-itis preventive treatment. However, that is almost countered by the fact that since we're going to Florida for Christmas and nobody wants the house to burn down, we don't have a tree this year at my cottage by the cliffs. 

Our house has a tin roof. When the rain drums against it, I feel most at home. At the beach right down the hill, I feel most at home. My favorite Christmas tradition is simple. My mom gets each of her kids--and any other kid she can find because she really loves to do it--an ornament each year for Christmas. It reflects personalities and interests at the time. I have ballerina shoes and paintbrushes and a Disco ball and a mermaid--maybe two. I’ve always been very interested in not being a human--and a New York City taxi and a cheesy Sena's First Christmas 2005 she would've never gotten now. I complained about how she kept getting me birds, I don't like birds, I have no special connection to birds, yes I understand they are pretty, no I do not like birds, so she has stopped, but I do have two or three years worth bird ornaments. Of course, I won’t see them this Christmas because of the lack of a tree, but never mind that. 

Right here and right now, December is like an eighties indie movie. It is taking its time, embracing the cold winter lights that are so thin on the walls mixed against the fairy Christmas lights shaped all around our town (maybe it’s all the light pollution that creates the lack of snow. Because that’s how science works.) This month follows no pattern and no time, reminding you of the upcoming year and all the years before

i guess i

hoped i

had

done something

right for once

but now

kids joke the

world’s gonna

end so i

guess that 

didn’t

work, then, huh

netflix shows, i

never watch

them, but now

there’s

some level of

comfort in them,

90s settings, 

before this all

upset everything,

human contact,

big lives,

not just ghosts

i always feel

like a ghost

lately, but

this is a 

new

level.

everything else

fades except for

the reds

of 

the tv. 

memory is 

blue, and 

i am 

missing 

things i swore

i’d never miss

anymore.

something about

this has 

to relate to

me, right?

but it doesnt,

though every

single

human

probably feels 

like it has 

something to

do with them.

for me? a

cruel cosmic joke.

you finally 

finally

like your life?

let’s ruin

it

i practice my 

guitar. i practice

it again. i 

dream of 

large

gatherings i could

play it at.

i’ve always joked

i want to 

be a hermit, 

that i

hate

humans. 

turns out,

i really like

humans.

i draw another

person. i try to

make

cookies. i mess

them up. i cant 

do anything 

right

im young, wreckless,

and beatuiful

but the only

thing

i 

have to mess

up are

cookies.

what if

this is 

my ruin?

what if everything

gets cancelled

and im just

always here?

what if i

missed

my chance?

should

i have

done something else?

the sun is so much brighter. i look outside and smile. i call my friends, we laugh, we sing. maybe this is fuel for a generation who’ll write great books and keep the sky clean.