Sometimes I think we're all just broken bottles

Sitting at the bottom of the sea floor,

Silt washing over us with each breath of the waves

A thing we call tide, slipping between our teeth,

A liquid air to us aquatic folk.

But can we not still drown?

We were once meant to carry

But we have been carried away

By the waves we once held captive,

Smashed and dashed of purpose--

We are merely broken things now,

Things of little use-- who will use a broken bottle?

We mourn the loss of our function,

Though we chose not our former form either. 

The rock settle into our silicone bones

And we are made out to be dead. 

Sometimes I think we're all just broken bottles

Sitting at the bottom of the sea floor 

Steely cold fingers crawling over us

Day after day, hoping to be the one to smooth us down

But maybe they haven't realised that to smooth us

Is to break us down on a micro scale,

To steal bits of what makes us us, and carry it far away

Perhaps our missing fragments are what resonate

Draw us in to our passions and push us to pursue

Though I cannot say for certain

Maybe being smoothed is our new purpose,

To be moulded into something worth holding,

Something that won't sting to the touch

Or slice upon unsuspecting feet

Something infinitely small and in many bits,

From the sand we were born, and thence shall we return?

Sometimes I think we're all just broken bottles

Sitting at the bottom of the floor 

Until I look over and see you all shining,

You must be stars, no the sun herself

In all her brilliance at the break of dawn

A gem core beneath all the grit

I cough up with each grating breath. 

You all have never been beneath the waves,

Looking up from the bottom in the same way I have.

You all shine too bright, too untouched 

To exist on the form I find myself in.

I will never reach the sky you've settled into,

For I am shattered glass sinking into the sands 

And you will never understand why it's here I remain,

For you are all a different kind of being.

You are not broken bottles,

Nor do you sit at the bottom of the sea floor

But maybe that's ok. 

dying hydrangeas, dying hope  

today I noticed the hydrangeas blooming beneath my window and 

a snake of guilt coiled in my gut because

their color had already rotted away and

their fragile heart-shaped petals were patchy,

thinned by the breeze,

and they hung their heads,

turned away from the sun,

turned away from my eyes,

as if they knew they'd been forgotten,

and I started to wonder how much longer do I have?

before my pink cheeks and bright eyes rot away,

before my curls thin,

before my eyes become fixed to my shoes?

how much longer can I face the sun,

stare into your eyes,

before time drags me away?

will you finally see me then?

will it finally be too late?

I picked a dying hydrangea,

thought it deserved a pretty vase and

a spot on the kitchen table, perhaps,

but it only crumbled in my fingers,

my first touch its final straw. 

summer proclamations and promises 

this summer I will fall in love with my reflection in the mirror and your reflection in my eyes. this summer I will wake up early to run before the birds go quiet. this summer your name will stop haunting my head and start living on my tongue. this summer I will keep my window open for the crickets' songs to slip through and I will stay up late to see the stars and I will let myself forget why I hate this time of year. this summer I will hold your hand. this summer I will clean my closet. this summer my pinky will link with yours and this summer

I promise you I'll be hopeful again. 

People who have

explored and charted

the vast and treacherous

lands of self identity

are either

fools or gods 

peace is (not)/in pieces

close your eyes, feel the humming of/fireflies

taste the silent ocean/not tears, (for once?)

fall through the atmosphere and smile; freedom/is a dan/delion

made of wishes, not cards--sturdy architecture for the castles in the sky

be blanketed in the cool breeze of awe

-full

for empty is a synonym for ‘yet to be filled,’

keep living/dreaming/wondering/being, you are safe here

cup this moment in your/palm and then set it free, the golden glow is hope

a sunrise/of possibility

and remember this: you are loved

There is a room in my grandfather's house,

A room facing the well-work barn,

That remains stuck in time. 

The rest of the house isa flurry of constant change, but

That rooms remains

As if echoing a tribute to the daughter he gave up.

Every afternoon the room is coated in honeyed light

Streaming through the lace curtains;

There are poetry contest awards, a gold tassel without its hat,

Unicrn figurines and music boxes

Books on all subjects obscure and fantastical

And jewelry boxes full of earring. 

When I was young I loved to slip out of the choas

And into the warm silence and magic of that room.

Every time we move

I get to go through my mother's room,

Uncover treasures hidden for the rest of the year:

Animal-shaped lamps, 2-dollar bills

Binders of historical photoes and old technology packing the shelves,

There are felted creations and painted frames, sculptures from her teenage days

Art supplies as old as me and paintbrushes in differing states of usability.

It's fantastical in a way.

My sister has her own room now

For the first time in her life.

She unabashedly wears mismatched socks that are not her own

A fragment of a memory of someone now gone

Someone who used to live in this very room with her

Meanwhile I carry cough drops in my pocket

Cherry flavoured

In remembrance of someone

As a reminder of my own fragility

But also a monument to my weaknesses---I cannot let go

Even when it's crusted over like a scab, sticky in my hands

And bleeding in my pocket.

I hold on---it's all I have left.