at the crowded table of my thoughts.

make a note. make a folder. a note pad. a notebook. full of words. words. the taste of them. the variety. sparkling like flavors to a tongue. feelings. the black sheep. the kindred spirits. spill them. take them in a white knuckled grip and toss all the manyfistfuls of them (words and feelings alike) onto pages and keys, buttons and screens. it will serve you better (that and listening) than opening up to any one person for the rest of your days. 

i wish i could be a bird and soar and fly like the song makes me feel. i wish every inch of my bones and rib cage and finger joints didn’t ache with grief (over what, i do not know). somewhere in the folds and notes of a melody is the bitter taste reminiscent of a winter and spring. too many orange bags and a stale mouth and the bitter cold that drained out some of my being whenever my feet made contact with the old cold ground. goofy green winter coat. frosty breath. it’s never enough. is it ever enough? i am rough. short of words. short of breath. but the gold cat slipped behind the bush instead of finding it's way under my tires, and the sun decided to show it's face for the first time in six days. I-don't think I'll ever forget that, you see. but I do know, that it is time to move forward.

seeing color

and we ran
(both of us)
away from something so dark, we seemed to stumble upon the best and hardest blessing I never asked for.
I am learning something that I have always known in my mind (but living it can be more difficult).
sometimes the blessings I am most thankful for do not look much like blessings at all- and they sure don't feel like a blessing either.
but waking up this morning
and yesterday
and the day before
I felt that familiar patter in my chest.
and strain.
and weight.
of good things that feel unknown right now,
and of freedom.

catch me at 8:54AM googling "how to let go of the feeling of pain when it has because part of one's soul" while in the middle of my morning shift.
how does one tell themselves that 'it will all be okay' when they know that, it's just NOT going to be.  because this is life, and there's always something woven into my heart and there's always a trace of dirt under my fingernails and there will always be calluses

golden.

mornings in Colorado call to me. I feel it all again like the sunburn on my cheekbones, warm with remembrance, blossoming freckles. 

(still changing, growing.)

my close friend and I shared a space in the spare room of another friend and rose to the sound of voices upstairs praying, sometimes singing. when I awoke (almost two months later) this would be what I remember the most. 

today the wheat is no longer dark green, lush and short. it is taller now, lighter, brighter.  it reflects the sun with its tiny shiny faces and little arms reaching up in the wind, on the cusp of turning golden.

we are on the cusp of turning golden. we are on the edge of days filled with parades and poolsides, tailgate picnics on the hill and wildflower pollen staining the hems of our shirts and chigger bite welts on bare thighs. can you feel it?

when he told me 'honey, it's alright' through my headphones and the rain, part of me knew it would be wise to believe it instantly.  so I did.

I don't know how to explain this; somewhere in the middle of Kansas,  I'm burning up a tank of gas and listening to an audiobook while driving the interstate at dusk, keeping an eye on distant lighting. I am content.  

there is a line and a story connected to each one of those things, but there's no time for that now.  what I want you to do is to pack up your sorrows, unplug your hard drive and do not be afraid to ride your bike off the curb. stop riding in circles looking for an easy way down. 

daily we are tasting mercy undeserved. (dawn is breaking now)

little wings of gold

years have passed now,

is this the land of the living? I cannot tell. because all we do is sit in our own homes weeping between the yellow and turn a distracted eye to watch the window boxes grow.

don't look.  I'm tired of trying to accept something that should not be given to me.

take time, make time.

it has stopped raining and I miss it, albeit the danger it brought

(the floods),

but it was a soothing balm to my roughened heart.

the sky is lighter but mine feels darker. 

been thinking a lot about disappearing, like a few summers ago.

been thinking about the song line "no less God within the shadows, no less faithful when the night leads me astray" (wow).

been thinking that this summer has already started, and it is full of light and hopeful promises. 

been thinking that moving on h u r t s. but oh, does the hurt cause healing. 

I am craving that. (the healing)

 

I cursed and I cried, but now I know

I remember you, we ate so many grapefruits during winter break.  It was sunny.

I remember standing outside my favorite chinese place after dark and taking a picture of the neon open sign 

(it’s on my vsco now, out there, but hidden from where too many eyes can see it)

I remember you

before it all frayed apart at the edges like the jeans i cut into shorts last summer.

I remember you and how it was new but also familiar in the most unexpectedly warm ways.  I remember that FEELING.

did i fray it? with my thoughts?  or do we happen to have the same sense of humor, the both of us, careening to the dark.

the both of us, headed down a dirt pathway in the cold moonlight towards a house lit up and glowing with warmth. but somehow the path splits off and i wandered away from the glow and down into to trees to a house that is cold and empty in the darkest way. 

and the thing is, you didn’t notice (but neither did i)  at least, not until it was too late.

this is where i live now.  I’m not bitter, i’m not scared anymore. but i have to keep reminding myself to go out and use that little bit of moonlight (when present) to try and find the way back to warmth or even just the path back to the road, before i lost myself.

I am grateful, you know.

But sometimes when you text me to see how i am or what i’m up to (even though you’re busier now) you say all the right things and usually have the right words.

but darling how can feel the right thing when the timing itself is just. wrong. i’ve counted and counted over and over again and the number is one but the feeling is zero.

thursday.

my lips feel soft.  I finally scraped all the dead skin off with my teeth. 
my jaw is swollen, on my right fist is a burn mark and the black dog always barks low when someone rounds the corner.

somewhere in the stirring and rushing world, among the yucca in the sand and the skyscrapers along the river, like the muddy pools in the ditches between the interstate, or the quiet face of a rock where i sat, looking out at it all...
I would like to think there are places for me.  
It is wide and complex, and possibly always non existent to a degree.  however, in the midst of my broken bones and frantic mind and dizzy equilibrium, things want to be as simple as the dream of driving around a mountain at sundown, or a caramel and chocolate colored dog running in a windstorm, chasing raindrops. 

But here i am, on a Thursday afternoon, waiting for the sun to show it’s face between white puffs and grace my bare arm.  
Here i am, curled up in my mother’s recliner and spying on neighbor’s comings and goings between sips of lukewarm cherry cola.  
Here i am, thinking about how i keep forgetting to water my plants and the clock on the wall keeps steady competition with the one by the door and the only other sound is a lone fly accidentally running into the picture window. 

Do you know that sound? That quiet tap? Of accidents and miscalculation. 

I think that i would very much like to move, or just move on.  But the answer, or rather the question, is not as simple as that.

the girl with trembling hands

Maybe someday.  Maybe someday.
There are good and kind people. I know it.
I have touched my palm to the face of that deep pond,
full of beautiful minds and souls and caring hearts.  
I have held it over the water as the water gently moves and touches my palm in it’s unassuming way, shooting straight to my heart. 
I have longed to plunge my hand in and feel it’s warmth surround but;
It's depth. 
It's depth scares me and what may lurk beneath, and also what lurks inside of me.

I have also stuck my whole arm into the deep muddy hole, moving it back and forth, 
searching for something, grasping for good.  I almost enjoy the feeling of mud between my fingers, but quickly grow dark in mind and heart. 
I hear their voices and their stories, how they treat people and how they are treated (the little mind games)
and i begin to wonder if it is normal.  That we are all like this. That maybe there is no climbing out. 

Or does the girl with the trembling hands turn her back acknowledge the wrong, turn her back and walk forward to what is good and kind.

(trembling hands
but a heart growing stronger)