// i dragged you straight into muddy ground //

 it is always in the naked, vulnerable moments right before sleep sweeps through my bones. 

Do you think

if we just stopped for a second

i could gather all that is near to me, my emotions and this mess that is in me, 

and lay it out on the floor, piece by piece (like i do when packing for one of my road-trips). Let’s assess, let’s collect, let me stand with one hand on my chin and my eyes filled with memories i can’t unsee.

I want to wear sea-foam colored soft sweaters and never brush my hair. I want to collect my artifacts and my books, walk up the side of these lone foothills, 

sit by myself and marinate in my sadness. 

Remember wen i used to wear those shoes?  Long before they got buried in the chaos of my closet.  Remember when i wore the old lady jeans and the same striped shirt i still have, the same purse i have been using again-

many colors,  lots of textures.

I am often lost to myself.

But here, under the wind of grace, 

like when she taught me to dive into waves //

(but then that's another thing)- the ceaseless, unresting, unrelenting force of waves, 

the ocean, over and over and over again. 

I want to erase it.  I want to gather my shame and bury it under a pile of rocks so high and wide they have to build a bridge just to see around it.  I want to rest in the arms of something I barely know.

I’m feeling dangerous and overlooked, ignored and frustrated. 

I remember my first collection of plants.  So small, they fit on a plate, on a stool, in front of the piano.

I have

An uncontrollable unfathomably deep drop of sadness.  I drown, i hide my face in my coat sleeve, 

I am within myself. I squeeze my eyes shut in pain. 

(two years ago) the winter wheat

is beginning to show it’s color, some growth. 

march is always a strange month for me. aching and groaning against the bonds of stubborn chill and frost. 

once, many months ago, the girls drove in to visit. i wore overalls, the sun was warm, it was windy. i wasn’t bored. 

my car is very quiet. it’s unusual for it to be this calm, not windy, 

(just the breath of a breeze testing the long prairie grasses still burnt with golden death from late fall).

and i wonder if that house can see me like i see it. 

I wonder if it knows I sit here and watch, hidden in these hills,

like i watch you, from hidden in my heart. 

She said I should be proud 

that they don't understand how 

being called that-

hurts my sensitive soul. 

and to be proud of the ways in which I feel my way through the world // almost as if every single blade of grass I see with my eyes also touches my fingertips. 

I, however, 

made a list of things i want to do in this season that will begin this week. I want to feel like the clouds are not pressing down on me.

it's funny, however.

 

It felt as if all of heaven and earth came crashing down and sitting up all around me 

As I lay on the ground 

Back to the earth and arms outstretched with palms up. 

I am scared.

So this is who I am now. 

Ice. On weekend nights. Stumbling after the sundown. 

I remember an evening in late October, a song floating around a white garage, still touched by summers clinging vines of familiarity. I didn’t want to move on. Complacency, an unexpected knife to my throat. 

It was both rare and not so rare. I forced my sister into posing for a film portrait, sitting in the backyard, I fancy myself more than I am. A body that is bigger and made of stars and thunderheads boiling along the edge of green prairie. 

And here I am again. Fading. 

Your gaze. It made me feel like I was worth looking at. 

Is it so wrong to be all tied up like this? Or am I just telling myself that because somehow- that night and that hope but also the distance in an October almost three years ago, it all ties into now. The faces and the feelings. A tenderness, a newness, but also, the strongest penchant for leaving ever felt. Again and again and again. 

I look back into the colors and see my life peppered with the twisting of my leaving, again and again and again. Freedom, I say. I like being free. 

(But is it maybe fear I'm not trying to address here?)

Why? Are some days made so easily for leaving but other days I am all tied up. 

Because except for the soft moments when falling asleep or waking, that’s what you feel like. 

Tied up. 

Staying and leaving. Tugging, pulling, sitting. 

My heart in my hands. It belongs to me, fully. 

Normally tucked away where few have seen (but it does belong to me),

 It’s funny

however

don’t know why I keep showing it to you. 

 

that's the thing

and then sometimes I find myself f a l l i n g down around myself.

how strange- 

how strange indeed.

roll the dice, melt the fire,

burn the ice. 

I'm not sure if things are getting easier or if I'm just getting better at ignoring things.

but that's the thing 

//about laying on my bed

//about taking a deep breath

//about remembering His presence

//about this weird thing and these pieces we hold in our hands

of each other.

where were you when I was still kind

(november 1)

I will avoid saying the things that come to mind

In effort to drum up some miniscule portion of creativity.

I am afraid of love.

I willingly capture it so eagerly with my weaker left palm

But my stronger right arm londs it closer but will not grasp.

Do you know what it’s like to sit on the edge

And hate it

And not be able to move

where were you when I was softer

like spring leaves on tender branches

dreaming of the day someone would be able to understand my thoughts and forced poetic predispositions.

now there is space for healing (and that is good)

but with the spaces comes miles and miles of distance from the inner workings of my brain 

which is continually filled by the hum of other human bodies around mine in close proximity 

(but not too close, we are still in a pandemic, after all)

now I eat salted lime tortilla chips on my bed and wish that I had had bought fruit instead. 

oh, think of me often, loosen my coffin

before the end of the month of march

when we all fell into a deep but frenzied sleep-

there were dreams of tomorrow.

(now, just some dreams)

there is a feeling that is like a hunger,

it is like running towards and running away, all at once.

(how do the pages make something so difficult in my mind, look so easy)

I used to sketch the outlines of trees

and sip warm lattes out of ceramic mugs 

at our favorite table.

now caution tape surrounds those things

like the unspoken words wrapped around the circumference of my thoughts.

(there shouldn't be a boundary)

but this,

like many other things-

which should be allowed to roam free-

are now teathered.

(full of love and loathing)

grapefruit spoons

there is a spot at the base of my ribs

where bones connect.

there is a section in the top drawer,

spoons with edges sharp like teeth.

I know these spoons from a long and bitter winter. bright grapefruit cut in half, sparkling with sprinkled sugar like the snow that never fell. 

I feel hollowed out, my insides 

scraped raw with teeth shaped edges, jagged.

no knives for me-

the blades too sharp, too clean.

it's a 

grapefruit spoon.

scraping, digging

at the spot under the base of my ribs.

(sour is my mind)

if I killed someone for you

If i killed someone for you-

I’d ride out of town on a blaze of glory, one hand on the steering wheel, never to be seen again.  I’d change my name and live out of my car. If they were every to find me, they would find a desert drifter, among the rocks for weeks on end and rarely showering, a sunburn always glossing my nose. 

I’d forget the textures of my old life; hand cream, trendy sweaters, houseplants and the way my dresser drawers always become frustratingly stuck.  Each night, I would carve out a space to lay down among piles of books in my trunk, the only sound of distant birdsongs, the quiet of wilderness.  I’d listen to cassette tapes and use pay-phones like it was yesterday, keep a journal of the times i forgot to pray, think myself tainted.

If i killed someone for you-

I’d hold emotions lighter and toss walls higher.  I’d write him letters that would never be sent, thankful to have a reason to disappear. I'd feel comfortable with the chance at living apart, given the courage to cut off what I was never strong enough to on my own, a chance at something better for each of the faces imprinted across the eyes of my mind.

If i killed someone for you-

At least I'd know you were safe.  

At least there would finally be an explanation 
to why these ribs barely breathe, this body doesn't laugh or to cry. 

I guess what I'm saying is,

I would gladly kill someone for you

if only to finally have the reasons

to live life on the run.

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