in the silence

music is
felt

in the
silence

words are
digested

in the breaths
after
line
breaks

we search
for
what is
missing

that is how
we listen

that is where
we find 

our place to
connect

running parallel

we are running parallel
paths never crossing
no destination listed
longing looks are all we get
between us regrets worn
by 2ams where
time is abstract
but the only thing that matters

we are running parallel
faster and faster, trying to
find a side road to bridge the gap
trees may hide you,
but I could find you blind
rocks sharp under my soles
our souls, aching
our skin, starved

we are running parallel
if we intersected
would we only be
destined to drift apart?

we are running parallel
paths never crossing
at least I know you are close

bravery means vulnerability

it is not defined by boldness
nor by refusing to listen
(that isn't bravery)

they called me brave
(but left out the
parts of my story
that made it true)
they said that i was brave
"because i survived"

but i didn't get to decide
how my surgeries went or
how my body
healed itself

i got to decide how to
stitch myself up
in another way
from the inside out, into
standing position.
i got to try to put my pieces
back together
ones that didn't fit anymore
however i chose to
(in the end,
i figured out that i had
to create new ones)

courage is found in the most
vulnerable parts of a person's soul

for me, that means
telling my story
and admitting to any
shame over my past

it means
revealing that all
of those ugly things i
was told (the words pressed
against me until i
couldn't breathe)
still haunt me

these brave things
(the vulnerability) hurts

so much of me is
tangled up identity,
but i am learning that i
can redefine myself
(as many times as i choose)

being honest
with who i am
who i was
and who i want to be-
that is vulnerability
and that is bravery.

.

it will take your breath away

just how much you can

see when you stop staring at the

sky like you know all the answers

                                                          -  just listen

words are falling out of my pockets

words are falling out of my pockets
overflowing, i can't get it all down
in time to catch them from their
fall, their tumble out of existence,
out of sight, out of mind
i need more pockets
more bags
more boxes
to hold these-
words that come to me, i need them
to hold on tighter, until i have a pen

words are falling out of my pockets

and this is an apology 

to the ones i couldn't catch

this is what healing looks like

it's easy to get hurt- it takes seconds
healing takes time- it ain't pretty
for me,
the hard work has just begun

healing started with

blood and bandages,
tears and getting sick of pancakes;
I forgot not to look in the mirror,
it only made me feel worse
at least, on the bad days

that is what healing looks like
it can be quiet, deep aches
that tear you apart from the inside
the kind that people can't see
that is not forever

so, in the mist
of this experience you
would probably throw away
if you could

thank your body anyway
for the effort it's put in
for you and your happiness
the words will feel weird on your tongue
but, thank your body
for surviving
thank your body
for giving you strength

you can't rush loving yourself
have patience, my dear
it all comes with time

to heal a wound,
you have to stop touching it
scars are tougher than skin
and, oh darling,
the sun will rise again

having taken inventory (terza rima)

One day, not so long ago,
I told my story.
But, there was so much I didn't know.

Now, as I take my inventory,
as you must do, now and again,
if only an exploratory

act; I wrote it all down with my quill pen
the power I was relinquishing
but just another mess and then,

I found something quite distinguishing;
a darkness inside me I had thought I'd abandoned.
All confidence of mine now extinguishing.

My wounds bandaged,
I scooped up my grief
and, well, managed

to quell disbelief
and remember to blink, just twice,
to experience some relief.

I took all the advice,
but it all fell flat.
It wasn’t worth the asking price.

I put on my hard hat,
placed my fears aside, at last,
and prepared for combat.

I almost wished I hadn't asked-
oh dear, I almost cried-
realizing that it all wouldn't be fixed so fast,

nor will it break, even if tried.
So, straight on I looked at my darkness,
"Fine, let's talk," I clarified.

Emily Dickinson

I stay up late to read Emily Dickinson's poems again and again
because nobody did when she was still here.*
I speak of her, it is the very least that she deserves;
hers was a common name in gossip for becoming a "spinster," but that
was her key to independence. Plus, it's so awkward when you are so gay.
The memory of her still burns strong.
She left an important mark before she was gone.
I'm saying all this, in this funny way,
to hold your attention, if I may.

Emily Dickinson was a woman ahead of her time,
they say that so sadly, but she knew it to be true,
and so she lived her life the way she wanted to.
She never stopped writing, even when they begged her to
"No," she said simply, and I'm paraphrasing here,
"I'm a woman and I belong here."
Because she did.
And, I bet she took up every room.

what is it about children

what is it about children
that when they’re cheery
you so want to keep them that way

that when they feel their first
painful losses,
when you know there are more to come, when
a friend ignores them,
they break a bone,
they see just a sliver of
the ugliness of our world
you want to cry for them,
to take it away

have you ever felt a moment
where a great life lesson
is yet to be said, do you wonder
if you should say it?

go off on how, don’t worry,
we’re really quite insignificant,
in the scheme of things, but still
have to try because, well,
it’s so much more fun that way

What They Tell Us

They tell us that we become women
when we learn the pain of menstruation,
never teaching about the beauty of our bodies.

They comment on our eyes and our thighs,
we soon understand that it's not a compliment;
making sure we know that our physical characteristics
are always being judged, always the first factor.

They say it's inevitable, that we will find a boyfriend,
but plan to punish us when we do.
If we refuse or dare insult the opposite sex,
we get made fun of and at times
flames of something far scarier hide behind the laughter.

They tell us to give men a chance
but also warn against contact,
using our fear as bait
to guide the preachings against sin
deep into our subconscious
so that we can't close our eyes
without being horrified at who we find
staring back.

They remind us every day that
our bodies will never be good enough
then, are surprised to discover that we hate ourselves.

They tell us what "real women" look like
but somehow do not understand
why we cry when we don't fit the bill.

We are not vain,
we are tearing out stitches from years of self-depreciation
that once bound us up, tight, and held us back,
only now learning about our own bodies.

We are taking a stand
with raised voices and raised signs
with self-love and paintbrushes
hoping to keep younger generations
from knowing our pain.

They try to tell us who we are to be,
To that, we say, "No more."