CROWS FIGHT

Crows fight over pieces of owned objects - they don't hide this fact.

I almost fell there last night . Wanting to think smaller, make myself smaller to see if if made me understand you better

Painful pockets come forth on my skin - something unsaid

It's that if I could turn my insides into tiny fragile glass pieces and carefully maneveur them for 70 hours in the hot wet summer, slowing shaping them to be something that resembles beauty, I would.

I would do all of this just to lift her up and throw her across the room in a fit of rage and shatter her into a million pieces

I would if I could

No one likes a hurt place. No one wants to fuck a hurt place with a flat ass and smokers lung. No one wants to love a thing that doesn't know how to love herself.

Who made this?

The experience of living feels as though I have inherited a machine. A tender, tired, complicated and mood machine. There is no instruction manual. I just listen to her weep in the night feeling around for the switch or a three digit code to input in the system. I try various combinations of reflecting words back to her, hand and smoke signals. Loud screams. Quite whispers. Maybe this will work. Sometimes when I have found no solutions I simply plead with her, pray to her, try to kiss her feet and make her my deity

sIX SWORDS

I used to feel bored with a sense of calm - an uneasy itch just behind my frontal lobe, like the need to count my foot steps in between sidewalk cracks - sometimes 2, sometimes 3, and never 1.

Today a stranger dug thumb deep into my rigor mortis - with hand over heart

As above so below

First breath that day, and I felt wet on my face

I said it feels good to be touched with care, thumb to back, searching for a way out for good this time - letting go - it's still in there

I used to find discomfort in safe places, wanting myself so desperately that I had to lose myself completely

But - on the beach that day I thought for the first time in my life that I might want to stay here.

In the soft rock of summer days watching the rain come in, spewing fuck and shit, and praying to the gods to answer at least one of our physical prayers, replicating the way we wish they had done it, but dancing anyways

But they have answered at least one of my prayers.

With these precious ones - the holding space ones - the not talking about anything ones - but always saying exactly what's needed ones - the cry when you cry ones - the "you're perfect never change" ones

I'll nest in my new home here

Digging deep in my rigor mortis and taking notes on this day forever.

she came with prayer

You haven’t mastered the state of rest.

You do not know how to discern, slow down or think before you speak.

You get lost at every turn.

Down Michigan streets, New Jersey turnpikes and Long Island railways.

But you always limp tattered edges to the tops of mountains and scream at the top of your lungs at every chance you get.

Again and again and again.

And for this we will not forget you.

For this, I will not forget.

On love

At which point she suggested: you feel unworthy and she feels inadequate.

Inadequate as in not able.

Cut from the same cloth reflecting opposite ends of the same

Ah - I said

I said yes - I said yes, I see

At which point, I lost grip and I slipped and fell for 1 entire day.

I have missed you since March 25th of 2020 when you left my front step, looking back you waved at me.

We said we wouldn't leave each other

I stopped missing you very briefly for 2.5 hours on April 26th of 2020 - the last time.

At which point my heart ricocheted outside of it's cavity and I collapsed and gasped for air for another 2 months time

I asked you to hold me then - you did

You wouldn't take your things away

And my pillow smelled like you for 1 week

On May 20th of 2020 I learned you leaned into another, finding a sweet and secret place there.

At which point my grief sounds broke wide open piercing my eardrums and spilling hot coffee.

I cracked down the middle , at which point, all of them came in.

I did not sleep for 3 days and then I fell asleep for many more.

I hated you.

Build heavy lead dresses to squeeze my insides into and tried to stay calm.

Then on June 23rd of 2020 she reached down and plucked me from the earth.

She said - you are not chaos.

Not good enough

It's okay. I understand. I'm sorry it hurts.

Ah I said - yes I said.

I said I knew - I knew you would get it too - my Michigan

baby - you and I - still believes in Santa - harmonica surprise - karaoke daydream - not a good enough word - girl.

At that time I slid my soft boney fingers through prison cell beam and found the courageous grieving heart and I vowed to stay her.

At which point looking back with shaking vocal cord, I whispered for the last time

My love

My big love

I wish you chose me.

I wish you chose me, my big love.

The Cracking

I think about all the times

The times you would roll up your lovers body for hot summer kiss

You got tight and spun out running from that same lover

You ached for days - misaligned

You’re doing too much they said

You’re doing too too much

But they do not know your grit

The walking to Elise in tender dream times

The backscratch at midnight

The holding - the deep holding

Hold on now, keep holding on please

The whispers when they would plead to you - please don’t go - please stay

The sweet rocking mother’s milk pat on the back burp

Then cracking back into reality

Wet tears crunch down

I work so hard and you never listen

The loving touch turned to the edge of snap

I almost lost you all those times

The ‘I love you’s’ , ‘ I miss you’s’, and the ‘this won’t work’

The loss - the loss we didn’t chose

The chaos we chose instead

The tender entrance where you let all of them in

The sacred trust

The chattaronga soothing after throwing yourself over wastebaskets

Not eating for days and forcing pain out - squeezing and squeezing and squeezing

Then the ‘ I’m sorry’s’ and ‘what have I done’s?’

But they do not know

They do not know your grit

They do not know our grit.