Monthly Archives: May 2011

Look At Me

Under the sharp gaze of a familiar stranger
I’m losing all sense of composure.
My coffee cup is shaking
in my clammy hands
and I’m questioning every inhale.
I’m worried it’s obvious how I’m desperately trying
not to meet this gaze.
These nerves are a wool blanket
on a hot summer night.
If interrogated on the stand
I’d surely be indicted, despite my innocence.
There’s no reason for such anxiety
but I can’t reason with
my neurons, my atria, or my ventricles.

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we are young and have hearts

Cruising
down the wide
dirt road we
let the
wind ruffle
our long hair
and play music
all too loud.
We don’t
dance as much
as we should.
We’ve been
confined too long.

The sun’s
going down and we
don’t have
much time
before the cool
air replaces this
heat, so we
move our bodies
to the rhythm of the music
and forget that
people will watch.
Embarrassment
is for fools.

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If I am Distant

Don’t be surprised if I seem distant,
I’ve been crawling over landscapes while you sleep.
I come back foreign-tongued
wishing for less of you.
Your eyes of expectations
follow my casual body
as I slip through your arms and the window.

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Darker, It’s Getting

There are spaces between us
waiting to be filled by the light of us
the dark of us
darker, it’s getting
only the whites
of your frightened eyes can barely glimmer
and you look at me like I’m disappearing
I am disappearing
I can’t see a face in front of my hand
and I don’t see you anywhere.

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I Think You’re Brilliant

Your drugs make you squirm,
make you feel like your skin does not
belong to you.
And you pull at your t-shirt, and your hair
just trying to stop wondering
if you’re dreaming. I can’t
guarantee you that this is real life.

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You’re Sorry

You say you’re sorry
and I try to forget that you’ve apologized
in the past.
It’s not alright or okay
but I don’t have a speech prepared
or even another word in my head.
So I swallow.
And the tiniest of explosions
bursts in my interior.

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Westbound Train

Out of the driving rain and down four flights of stairs
I trudged towards the westbound train
and heard the hackneyed announcer explain
that the trains were slow due to (endless) repairs
and sat on a yellow chair next to the track.
I didn’t exactly have somewhere to be
but I was hoping to go with some friends to tea
and wondered when I’d get back.
The weatherman had predicted snow
for this dark December night
and I wondered if old London town
would slow its bustling flow
when covered in white
or entirely break down.

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The Picnic

We shared
a picnic on a water-warped
table without really sharing
anything.

Conversation was
stilted
and the distance
was too evident.

The chatter of
other picnic-goers
mocked our stagnancy.
I wished for
their sense of
ease.

You
ate chicken salad slowly,
seemingly avoiding
table talk.
Leaving me with
the swarm of
words in my
head but no sound.

Using kid
gloves we
treated each other
like thin
glass.

***This is an interpretation of Elena Carter’s “The Picnic”

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