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)

chasing (? or running?)

my heart is made of paper,

thin and blackened
singed at the edges.
it was in flames
at one time.
now it's crisp
brittle.
hard to see, hard to tell
if there's any unburned paper left in the center
for it's covered
by ashes and dust.