value

my spine
an abacus
his fingers walk
calculating
each vertebrae
a bead
weighing out
each plot point
each plotted point
each pointless plot
all the things
I will do
all the things
she won't

do deca

Same, same, same him
Twelve years
TWELVE.
Years.
And nothing to compare it to
Twelve years ago I was a child
Maybe
Maybe this is it
Better than anything anyone ever had
Better than nothing
Maybe
Maybe not
The thing that comforts me
The thing that torments me
Is that it doesn't matter
It is worth mentioning:
he has not punched me in my smart mouth
and I have not smothered him mid-snore.
Not once
In TWELVE years
So, maybe.

A Perfect Day for a Bell Jar

open a window
get closer
to the weather
lean in
to yourself
the only reality
find peace
in the fact
that you will never
know anything
for sure
and strength
in the freedom
of not needing to
it's all real
it's all a lie
it's all spin
it's all truth
he loves you
he loves you not
it's all the same
when the cycle
sinks
into a spiral
and breaks
the free-fall
is mostly
about the free

green

Devastatingly beautiful. That's what she was. Fit together in a disjointed way that never seemed awkward, she was full where men wanted her to be and thin in the places that made women stare with envy. Her beauty was in her bones. It would not be denied. It pushed through and spilled out and got all over everything nearby. Devastating. She was beautiful in a way that made me think about the words one should use to describe her, instead of thinking of myself at all. I must have known, even then, that if I had stacked myself up against her I would lose in an instant. Devastating. She would speak and I would be the only one who heard it. Everyone else was enchanted. Mesmerised. I was devastated. When she spoke she showed everything. Her insecurities, her weakness, her utter ignorance. But it all remained a secret, hidden behind striking red hair and lips that looked like you could curl up on them and take a nap. No one would ever know the truth until she had bagged some rich husband and had a couple of decades invested. Someday she would start to lose her looks and only then would the poor bastard finally hear her and realize she had nothing else to offer. It would be too late then. For all of us. I couldn't be angry or indignant; to be honest, I wanted her too. I melted into the wall behind me; dissolved away, not wanting to distract anyone during their time of worship. Before I had begun to fight I knew that I would lose. So I observed. I saw them as subjects in a sociological experiment. Animals. I was a scientist. And she was beautiful. Head-to-toe, every-time-you-see-her, it-doesn't-even-matter-that-god-made-her-stupid, devastatingly beautiful.

the historian

a wise woman

adds value

passes her heirlooms

to a child

who as yet cannot

appreciate

these things or this action

in this manner also

she loves

this thing with bravery

there is a peace of mind,
a satisfaction that only comes
when the person you expected
to break you
finally does
and despite every cliche you've heard on the subject
this feeling is preferable
to the fear known only to those
who wait and wonder each new time
if this one
will be the one
to prove you wrong

#1 Defender

We join or heroine as
she clinches innocence by the throat
in a final, failing attempt
to convince an audience of one
her motives are noble

confronted with the truth of who she is
confessing to the only one she can
that she has not changed all that much
she is, in fact, our villain
and so begins the battle