I wasn't joking when I said "I got this"

My hands were building a house when you came along.
You asked if you could lend your back for support
And I instantly resigned my bleeding hands and sticky tears.
With stars in our eyes,
Our feet found their place in the grass.
Silence warmed our bodies as we laid unsheltered
By my abandoned project.
When it came time,
We were careless in our laughter;
That's the best kind of smile.
We paid special attention to our hands, though
And the placement of our breath-
Bring careful not to collide
Or entangle ourselves.
We did run into each other's shadows on occasion
And we didn't let that stop us.
Before we knew it,
We forgot about the sound of silence
And could only remember the sound of our breath
Bumping into one another.
Our eyes were closed
So the stars settled for falling on my calloused knuckles
And your unwrinkled brow.
Their weight made us sink and we became tired-
Our mouths gaped for air to keep our minds focused
As we shivered while we laid unsheltered
In the grass by my abandoned project

Twisted Parallelograms

A half smile to the left which reveals your true cool confidence
A flick of hair to show that you’re the boss
I don’t share your fixated blue eyes
I don’t flaunt your layered, complex figure lines
You stole the simple, tasteful, carefree outlines of lips
And left me with grey on white, unanswering, and transcendent focal points on my face

And sadly
These lips are what I am most proud of.
My calves and thighs do not scream “I hope you don’t find I’m teasing”, “It‘s not really you that I‘m craving” as yours do
But they whisper “if you ever wanted me, I would never let you break”.
Your cheeks are sunsets while mine are strawberries.
I know your hands seek flesh and cash while they have been molded by shopping bags and colorful pens.
Mine reach out for the door knob of a place I can call home and the cheek of the one who loves me back;
They have been shaped by sweat and dirt and catching myself when I fall.

Yet you always seem to have your seat in the throne
Except when we follow the coastlines of your body to New York and Oregon,
Stopping at your shoulders, not quite reaching your head:
The rounded, flowing lines of our collarbones project beneath the fabric of our polos.
Something simple yet dangerously resilient and graceful.
Separating themselves from the rest of the body, jutting forward, in an act of defiance to the saying “we are but the sum of all our parts”.

We’ve always said we’re opposites
And I don’t have the heart to tell you about our shared wonder that you always look over.
So go on being daring:
Take your dear lilac graces and face the world with the sun in your eyes
And I’ll stand here and wait with the door left open,
My broken, yet steady hands are ready to guide you once you lose your sight.

Younger Sister, I'm No Savior

I've smiled before
I have held a cup to my lips while holding a boy's hand
I've spent the night halfway outside and halfway in
And I've been a little here and a little not at all
But I've always come back
Resignation,
Even those times when I wasn't there,
Was never an option
So I'm not saying I'm better than you
Baby
I love that laugh but I hate when it's accompanied by a cough
If your hair ever straightened
Or your pearls ever scuffed
I'm not sure I would be able to remember how to hold hands.

Things I write when I'm falling asleep in class

Sociology of War and Peace:
-Dear giver, my hands are bound to places I have forgotten the paths to.
-Hush child, you're pretty obnoxious.
-You just can't be her silverware. You can't be her carpet or her fish bowl or her fingerprint. It's not because you're not beautiful or gracious or amber enough, because you are, are you're more lifted than anyone she knows. But you can't be her table top because she is no one to be had. So stop closing your eyes and pick up your feet.
-It's like I've known your fingerprint all along.
-Hold your horses, because these are the times when we have nothing to spare.
-For once, I'm too tall to enjoy the surprise.
-Lose the shoes because there's no need to run. I'm seeking redemption, and you've solved it all.
-Carelessness out in the open. I still cannot be your apology.
-If you forgot how to speak, I'd let you read my smile.

Social Statistics:
-Your hips were not meant to bend like you have asked them to do. No wonder it's your mind against your body. Maybe try singing instead of yelling. I know your natural rhythm, but you just can't seem to keep the beat in your paradoxical mind. I'll buy you a metronome for your birthday if you're nice.
-Sometimes, I wonder if I touched the window on those below freezing days, would your window get foggy?
-You've got the cure, but, baby, I haven't even been diagnosed yet.
-I wish I could smile like a division symbol.
-There better be room left for this made up laughter.
-If you're so equal, why are you always tripping over your own shoe laces?
-You're full of red and green, you little gift giver you. Too bad she did your tattoos in black and white, though.
-It was my hand. Sorry I shocked you, but I was pretty shocked myself.
-Yea, I know I look like a movie star, but I just wish there was some genre other than horror.
-It's almost as if my hands began to crack even before I met you.

-Attention crisis= you've held my hand for too long. Not that I'm complaining, I just don't think this is an appropriate relationship for co-workers.
-If you could have grown up to be anything, you probably would have been a boat. And you would have been a good one too, since you always avoid stormy seas. You would have definitely been seized by pirates, though. It would have been too much of a shame to let you go.
-It never grew very big, that plant at the end of my bed. It did mature, though, and become a fighter for liberal ideals. I just really wish it would keep the rallies a bit quieter. You'd be surprised how loud a jungle in your room can be.
-Yes, I'm lethargic, but, honey, you're dead.
-Like a vetern on the ice, waltzing past children on new legs and people with no direction, it glides across the board. A love affair with the dry erase marker. Hating what it has to say but pleading for it to speak. Because your graces come so naturally, it's easy to slip up. Watch your aiming now. We wouldn't want you to kill your score.

"I fell in Paul's pumpkin, and I don't even care"

If it doesn't happen soon, I'm going to do it myself.

The attempt at waiting is causing almost more grief than the act itself. Sad thing is, I don't think I'm eligible for that shot of redemption everyone keeps talking about. I've never bowed my head at the dinner table.

Maybe I can write them a letter explaining my word usage. But even then, I doubt they would understand. I've been attempting to express my words with their words for years now, but they've never seemed to get it.

I bet if I could dance, they would understand, but I threw out my equilibrium a couple miles back in order to drop a few pounds.

Assignment

No Comparisons-
Green, unnatural walls curve inward for two feet. Topped with a fabric I don’t understand, this testament to coming of age stands tall even in the St. Mary’s air. It stands for everything the rebellious adolescent dreams of gaining when the law predicts that the mind can comprehend. Eye pleasing coordinations hide it’s natural beauty. I wish it wasn’t forced to conceal itself. Lyrics to the song of those who have already walked on don’t reflect the truth it pleads to tell. But still, it never wavers from it’s duty. An unsteady base causes the relic to dance in an angry fashion, and I can’t help but follow. I’m glad that someone has clothed it, though. Now it doesn’t seem so unruly.

Comparisons-
Your reflection is unlike that of your siblings, but that doesn’t make me love you less. While we find them behind doors unopenable, you stand proud by the welcoming bell. Your body is unlike that of shark skin, but follows the lines of a seal’s edges. What a shame it is that you have been betrayed by someone unknown. I still find your grace overwhelming. A crack to the side like a whole in the heart, but you’re not one to wear it on your sleeve. Your lengths are tattooed with words that mean little to me and even less to you, but you never let them slip. If you could dream, or if your dreams could be heard, I bet they would be filled with trumpets and ribbon for you would be the sort of dreamer who would smile and crave the laughter of others.

It's as if we had our wings clipped from the start. Or maybe we've always had the possibility of flight under our wings, but we've never believed it. Either way, your words have never been stuck to the ground. You've made sure that they catch the wind and tuck their landing gear. Luckily we think the same; my words can do nothing but lazily roll along to places they don't belong.

I could only hope that one day you'll face me and allow your words to float instead of fly for once. And maybe I'll tell you that your wings are beautiful and unscathed and you'll tell me that you like the feeling of concrete under your toes.

I slid a note under your door to mention my gratitude.

I told you not to cry. I whispered it to you in the least lethal voice I could muster, but maybe that was still too rusty for you. It's not that big of a deal. I'll just remember to talk with my hands next time.

- - -

Her name wasn't a boy's name. "Tyler" was a boy's name, and although she was named Tyler, her name was not a boy's name. People didn't seem to comprehend this, which is why she removed them from the world.

The positions and offices held were still there, though. The mayor, a stick branch, occasionally called together his strength to address the locals. Police officer bees were constantly on the lookout for trouble brewing, but were easily sidetracked by the songs of legacies.

It wasn't lonely in her world without cynicism. She fell in love with herself. A love affair of finger on finger and ankles to wrists. She could embrace herself and lose her circumstances in the way her heart beat against her palms.

She lived free from terms like "climate" and "critique" and "phosphorus", but she was not without enemy. An exotic dance with the the water's edge brought her jealous reflection out. Oceans and lakes are so insecure that they allow those who are not them to seek refuge in the waves. Tyler had only herself for she feared nothing but for others. The tides grew tired of a girl's curved, snowy radiance and eventually kept her reflection for itself.

But Tyler didn't care. Her name was not a boy's name and her face was not her entity. Nothing much mattered as long as she could continue to trace the lines of her calves with the backs of her hands.

Dana

"Leslie"
Artichoke
Mittens
Lukewarm
"Traditional"
Peppermint sticks
The animated instructions in plane seat pockets
Binoculars
Canvas
Rubbermaid containers
Breathing masks
"California"

20776

You bring the sky down to us who cannot reach. I heard you first in a nursery rhyme and imagined you only in the pages of the books on my shelf. But I've heard that angels only appear in the midst of devastation. I don't know what was more of a miracle- the fact that I was able to get back up, or that it was you who told me to apply ice. Either way, after I warmed my hands, I knew I was never leaving this home.

I was lucky enough to have you forgive my mistakes. I made a lot of them, and even when the concrete statues of home followed the wind to other places, you made sure there was a key under the mat. And you always made sure it worked first. You've always looked out for me. You've always looked out for everyone.

There were times when I thought you had chosen others over me, but you were simply teaching me to want myself. At least, that's what I imagined it's come down to. I've caused you to lower your voice upon times, but no bricks could have ever hit harder. You do serve candied apples with your razors, though, and maybe that's what saves us all. Or maybe it's the fact that, when I have dreams about falling, I'm always hoping I land at your place.

Or maybe, even still, it's that the gravel driveway is the softest bed I've ever known and the wind carries the sent of imaginary pineapples instead of chaos. You can't control the weather, but you do the best to control our futures. Thank goodness someone is trying, because it's obvious that we aren't. But, believe me, you make it aware that we can't keep this up forever.

It's a happy place we're in now. I feel like my smiles fit me and our silences are result of contemplation, not lack of words. Though I guess you and I never found ourselves short of voice. Whatever we've found that has brought us here, whatever our titles are in textbooks- I'm glad you wrote me down directions.

And I've always known that you were smiling whenever you walked away from us.

Morning Rider

There are bubbles on your toes: they keep you afloat in the most hazardous of situations. Sometimes they burst, but one can only hope they still save your back from fighting with the ground. That cheeky smile you wear, full of grit and broken wind. You rock it for the ride. A face who has seen too much, with skin like the sand at the shoreline; it greets the day break with each rising. What amazing courage it takes to jump on three each time with a 'Thank you'.

We wear no new shoes. That just wouldn't be fitting. Nothing about us is juvenile or inadequate or varnished or clumsy. We may not be glistening, but we're sure not damaged. We're elegant in only a way tired eyes can be. I'm a bit dusty and you're a tad smudged.

But man, I love the way you want me.

Seven Year Old Prophet

Three O'clock in the morning and my eyelids are fluttering again. Light from the T.V. dances on my eyelashes and makes my eyes water from time to time. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, my skin begins to crawl from simple contact of the couch. Lucky, because then I know it's not a dream. At least, I hope it's not a dream again.

I would rather wake up alone for the rest of forever than to be awakened by that touch again. Maybe that's why I won't let you close the door all the way. At least, that's what all the therapists have said. I'll admit, I don't know myself, so I can't really say they're wrong.

Oh god, but his breath. I've never felt anything more like acid. When he said my name, I vomited a little. I couldn't help it. Remind me to grow up a bit more, and take those personalized letters off the wall. I'd rather just forget I've even been identified.

I'm shy. I think I've always been that way. Thinking that I chose my demeanor rather than it being the reaction to "trauma" seems to settle my stomach. But I'm not scared to admit that I am scared. I shrink away at your touch, and I probably always will. I lock the doors at irrational times and avoid the closet for reasons I'm not ready to say.

And it will probably always be like this. And either we'll learn to deal with it and things will be OK, or you will grow tired of having to save my name from drowning and writing your name on your fingertips. You'll walk out the door, but reassure me that you're locking it behind you. I'll find myself watching Law and Order: SVU without another and fixing a smoothie for one. And that's OK. I just hope that it doesn't come to a day in which I'm longing for his touch again.