on the floor.

small tiles
(octagons)
press up
on my cheek.
and this cold
- usually reserved for the soles of my feet -
feels foreign
to my face.
so my eyes begin
to water
leaving residue in their corners -
a reminder i'll have to take care of in the morning.
from my place on the
floor
i notice things like
a corner filled with hair that
last week
was attached to the cat.
and
a spot on the molding i missed
while whitewashing it
last spring.
my gaze grows wider
but not taller
just more
east
and west
if you can count those directions
from inside four walls.
and just as i begin to
settle in -
bones resting on
white marble -
my cheek
goes
numb.

a story. part 15.

he was starting to slip back into the fine art of escaping. on a wednesday morning when her alarm woke her up, she noticed he wasn't next to her. maybe he'd gone to the bathroom, she thought. but when she called out for him, there was no reply.
she rolled over to see that he'd left a note on his pillow. her life, she realized, was turning into a cliche.
she sat up, stunned yet astutely aware that her heart was pounding so hard it might break through the very wall of her chest.
it took her a full hour before she was able to open his letter.
and in his big, fat handwriting she read the words:
i know i am hurting you.

those 6 words were all it took to take her heart and twist it.
it was as if his hand reached in, grabbed it and just started pulling.
for the next month, every time she took a breath, she had to encourage herself to take another.

like fishing.

that moment
when
you're not moving
forward
or
backwards
is the moment you feel
sideways.
you imagine it's like
fishing.
standing on the banks
casting wide
lodging your hook
beneath
a glacier.
you pull
pry
try to reel
but the line is not strong enough
for your effort.
instead it just grows
taut.
and you grow
weary.
but you keep holding
the pole.
you stand -
clinched fist and
stunted
as the wind pulls
your hair into a mess
and the rain
starts to ruin
your shoes.
and when the night comes
when darkness hides
the trapping ice
you whisper
a prayer?
something.
to the sky, you tilt your face.
"look at my face."
you scream.
the night is long
and you are impatient.
as if everything you ever
wanted
was trapped just feet
in front of you.
as if the clouds were
growing thicker
denser
creating this barrier
between that ice
and the sun.

watch me work.

this is what it looks like when i write. my computer gets to see all my angst. and all of the fucking freckles that the sun keeps introducing to my skin.

i also have no idea where the scars on my hand came from. but i'm guessing daily digging into my black-hole-of-a-purse and delicate skin are two of the culprits.

wisdom, you.

if your eyes are
black
like nighttime coal
i will not
look away.

if your mouth is
small
and your voice
a booming ocean
i will say
"speak."

if your hands
are older
than mine.
if they've touched more
held more,
felt more -
i will grasp them.

i will hold them to my face
and place them over
my eyes.
i will veil my sparkle
in favor of truth
in favor of gravity
-
heavy
on my head
your hands.

i will ask you to press down
until i can't remember
what it felt like
before i asked.
before i lay flat
beneath the weight of you.
sinking deeper into
the earth -
this ground -
until i understood
what i did not
know
before.

a story: part 14

"there is nothing normal about this." he said to her when he finally opened his mouth.

she was stirring a big pot of something to last all week and he was standing behind her. moments before, her thoughts and insides had been on the downward slope of a mighty roller coaster. she looked like she was holding it all together, but her stomach knots were tied tightly.

but when he spoke, she turned around with the wooden spoon still in her hand and let him taste what she'd been making.

"what do you notice?" she asked.

"i think i'm detecting a hint of ginger," he said.

she slipped her hands around his waist and looked through his glasses into his eyes. the were the kindest eyes she knew. she told him she was having a hard time with his distance.
she even started to cry. but he pulled her closer. it was good to smell him again. his skin. his shirt.
she put the wooden spoon down and wrapped her entire body around his. she wondered if it was foolish to cling to him so tightly when he still had the capability to hurt her. she'd spent a good part of her life going to great lengths to avoid pain. but then, in that moment. in the kitchen. all wrapped up in him, her raw insides exposed, she wanted to say, "i have never been more vulnerable and you aren't being careful enough with my heart."
but instead, "i am incapable of letting you go" is what came out when she opened her mouth.