Spiraling
                down
                          a pit
                                  of anxiety.

                     When suddenly


                          A

                          f

    ­                      r

                          e

           ­               e

                          f

                  ­        a

                          l

                         ­ l

                    headfirst
                    short
                    sharp
            ­        burst.

                          And then

P     r     o     c     r   a    s    tination
spilled         un   e   ve       nly

           on a tiled bathroom floor.

You start a baby doll,
a small doll,
a good doll.
You are raised
a smart doll,
a big doll
that takes care of herself
from the earliest age.

You know how not to ask for much,
since your parents argue quite a lot,
and your father is a bit afraid,
as if you are about to break,
and your mother seems a little sad,
and maybe just a bit too sharp.

And no one seems to know
what they should do,
so, you, the big doll,
decide,
it’s up to you.

You learn to be the perfect doll.
At three you speak like an adult,
polite and poise,
you never scream,
you rarely ask for anything,
you curtsey and you learn to sing,
you lie about well…
everything.
You never mind
where you will go,
you never stomp
and whine a ‘no’.

Whenever should you want a thing,
a lump of guilt will make it sting.
Whenever you will want to cry,
you’ll learn to keep it deep inside,
because good dolls never cry.

And for your efforts,
you’ll get rewards,
they will give you golden clothes,
they will crown you as the best
and never check if you’re distressed.
In diamond shoes they’ll make you dance,
and as you prance you’ll start to bleed,
and it will be your secret thing.

They will shake your parents’ hands
and happily they’ll nod their heads.
They will lift you from the ground,
hold you,
tell you, they are proud.
And that is true,  
though it does not reverse the hurt.

You will be the perfect doll,
perfect figure, pose and all,
and should you fail,
even once,
even just a ‘C’ in class,
your back will break,
you’ll be exposed,
that you have never been a decent doll.
They’ll discard you,
throw you out,
because no one loves a fraud.

Should you keep your perfect look,
you will catch someone on your hook,
and you will never know what you should say,
for you have thrown your tongue away.
You will lie, to you and him,
about every
single
feeling.
You will never say,
that you never loved them anyway.
Perfect dolls don’t act that way.

You will never get what you want,
because you’ll never say it all up front,
you will chip and finally break,
and there is no other way.

Us, perfect dolls,
we’re built this way.

Autumn came quickly this year.
The skies tinted themselves gray.
The children were suddenly
under three layers of clothing.
I noticed I drank hot tea
instead of iced coffee.
My summer dresses
were replaced by my favorite
grubby sweaters.
Scarves flew in formation
to guard my neck from the cold air.
My music playlist went
from rock and roll
to acoustic.
I promised this autumn,
sadness will not strike.
I promised to leave
summer paralysis
back on the beach.
I was not to fall off
like the yellow leaves
from the oak outside my dorm.
You met me on my way to lecture.
You were cowarding
under three layers of clothing,
eyes tinted gray.
You were giving off
the scent of exhaustion.
You said I looked as if I were out to conquer the world.
You said I was armed with my algebra textbook.
I said you looked in harmony with the weather.
You laughed.
I believe you meant to stab me with that laugh.
To remind me how in August
your blue eyes did not want me.
But it's October.
And I'm detached from the thirst for you.
Autumn came so quickly this year
it made you irrelevant.
October turned your blue eyes
a negligible splash of gray,
made you fall off
like a yellow leaf
from the oak outside my dorm,
blurred you with the backdrop.
Autumn came so quickly,
October painted my green summer eyes
a fiesty, burning yellow,
a flame in contrast to the tinted sky,
made my footsteps soothing
like an acoustic guitar,
made my lips taste like hot tea in my own mouth.

I would like to put my palms before me.
Spread the fingers far apart
and watch daphne trees sprout between them.
Raise the trunks way up in the sky
until they reach mystic Titan
and its sirens at the bottom of the lake.
I would like for the tops to stop the winds
and hurricanes coming my way.
****** away the worries and anxieties.
Hide at the roots in calm silence.
I would like for my skin
to turn transparent
and then dissolve into gray and blue smoke.
If I could I would let my muscles melt
into crimson jelly
and let it drip through my nostrils.
Let the blood feed the soil at my feet
so that yellow and red tulips
grow up to my knees.
Crush my bones into a fine white powder
and let it drift away.
Vanish me into the air
and let me mix with all that is beautiful.

The best lesson
I've ever had
was from a Maths teacher aged 33.

He said

The key to not being prejudiced
is loving yourself unconditionally.
If you can love yourself
if you can imagine loving yourself
no matter what you've become
no matter how you end up
you tap into a new source of empathy.

Ecstasy wasn't found
in the bottom of the bottle.
It was subtle yet sudden
folded into the wings of the napkin.
You smuggled it breathlessly
under the bridge of your tongue.
I cupped it in the soft chalice
of my curled lips
behind the bars of my clinking teeth.
It crawled its way to my spine
and evaporated up your nose.
A minute or two.
And I remember opening my eyes
drugged by the way I had forgotten
what it had felt like to be wanted.
And the colors around me burst into laughter.
And we laughed and laughed along
until the steam of ecstasy was all around us.

A glass of milk
in the dorm
with you
tastes like being nine
at the seaside
in my aunt's house
after a long 7 pm sea swim
in the yard
making waffles,
one with chocolate
second one with uncle's peach jam
third one with cherry jam
topped off with a glass of milk
I had to hold with both of my small palms.
A glass of milk
with you
tastes like nostalgia.

Forget
         me
             not
                 flowers.
I arrange them everywhere.
On my bed,
       in my pillow case,
                               in vases,
                                    on windowsills.
I'm trying to remember
the girl I was before.
I'm not sure
           who I was
                                   when I was three,
or eight,
                                                  or twelve,
or sixteen.
                     Disappointing
                               my
parents,
                                                  friends
and teachers
                          is easy.
I'm more afraid that little me
would squint her eyes in disgust
at the sight of what I have become.
But I cannot seem to remember
who I was before.
My thoughts.
My skin.
My hair.
They're gone.
I struggle to collect the things I am
in a tidy bundle.
                 Forget-me-nots
                 cover my hands.
Yet I cannot remember.
                  I practice forgiveness
only
                                               in theory.
But could they forgive me?
I'd like to think they can.
But
           I am
                       unsure.
Yet does it matter?
Would it matter
             if     they    didn't?
Or would it be better
             if    they   didn't?
Forget
        me
           nots.
Forgive
          me
              nots.
Forgive
          me
             please.

Skin a salmon shade when she laughs.
The curly strands that frame her face
are the color of the red apple.
Her contact lenses are a bright fuchsia.
Her lips are brick red.
Her stories are tinted carmine.
Her grief is bordeaux.
She blushes in violet
and smiles in rosy pink as she
stretches her hand for a shake
and says her name is Ruby.

I like me
when I'm around you.
I like my body
when it's with yours.
I like your body
when it's with mine.
I like me and you.
And I like you and me.
I like me & you when we are in proximity.
I like you&me as close as we can be.
I like meyou conjoined.
I like you when you fuse with me.
And I like it when it's we.

Milly laid out
brown paper bags from the delli
opened wide on her doorstep.
Ivy put plastic containers
with the lids off
on her windowsill.
Milly told me she was catching
the last rays of sunshine.
Ivy said she was collecting rainwater

As his limbs stroked along the bottom
with all the power he held, in slow motion,
there was a case to be made
for the existence of the magical and the occult.
Kaleidoscope webs covered his back
in what looked like infinite rainbow nets
each brushing against a bone or muscle
unseen in the plain light before.
His hair was softened by the absence of air,
each strand fainting at a different angle
begging to be touched
right before being pulled in one direction
of precise yet strenuous motion.
All neglected now was illuminated.
Rarely things burn their way into memory
the way a face can be filtered through transparency,
distorted by liquid out of proportion
yet still so charmingly calm and surreal
all you can do is look away
and then stare again.
And what bottomless greed it is indeed
to wish to posses a moment like this for eternity.

The blue iris melts its petals
like the teary wax
on the musky walls of the lavender candle.

The butterfly crunches its yellow,
crisp thin wings like translucent scales
followed by the crashing echo in the mirror walls of the corridor.

The heat in the air blares in turquoise
somersaulting between the
invisible layers of humidity and oxygen
sticking to the skin like midday sunrays.

Your eyes are illuminating my skies,
twisting their whimsical shimmers,
ricochets of burning golden sparks,
simmering down in graphite ponds,
holding the green water lily leaves.

Your laugh rings in my ears indefinitely,
a deafening gong of sanctity
scaring the birds off the bare branches
and it feels like a ritual.

My hands warm in your pockets,
loving you is being drunk on strawberry wine,
eyes shinning from their sockets,
oh how your eyes illuminate my skies!

Little lady,
let me remind you,
that you needn't compare
your swamp green scars
to anyone else's,
needn't compare
your copper abilities to
the platinum ones
of those marble gods you admire,
in order to measure
a worth which needn't be measured
on the golden scales of
self criticism and loathing.
There is space under the sun
for all of us.

The skin on your lips
is the type
of magical MacGuffin
that makes you believe
in enchanted forests
at midnight.
They swim
in the reddish blue, velvet mist.
And after all
isn't magic getting something for nothing?

I told you I dreamt
of plum colored butterfly wings.
You bared your teeth
in a warlock grin and leaned in
to kiss my fingertips.
You drew mystic symbols
on my bare shoulders
and you whispered spells in my ears,
softly.
I vaguely remember
the purple steam around us
before I was way up in the air.
And you said you wanted nothing
but to leave the mauve
lovebite on my hip in return.

She dries her hands with the kitchen towel.
And apologizes for the mess
that isn't there.
She puts an apron
on top of her evening black dress.
She cooks eggs
and smiles with lipstick stained teeth.
I sit on the small kitchen stool
and read out loud
from a Terry Pratchett novel
laying open on my lap.
She giggles
and her laugh fills the small apartment.
She says she's so happy
and anxious
to have me in her home.
And I stare
at her back
and her messy braids.
They're falling apart.
I can't find the words
to tell her
that a late theater play
and fried eggs for dinner
in an flat the size of a cup holder
translate to salvation in my language.
I don't have enough vocabulary
to explain
how her friendship tastes
like chamomile tea when you're ill.
And how talking about boys with her
clears the cigarette smoke from my lungs.
Because she feels like starting over,
she feels like trust,
she feels like the new friend
you read about in novels
where everything clicks.
And so I'm left
with a butterfly heart.
And the only thing I can do
is thank her time and time again.

Ihaveliquifiedintoanicecreampuddle
leftonconcreteinthesun
Iamtran­quilandI'mhappy.

Summer,
I love it when you melt me.

It was exactly her 54th birthday
when she told me she had superpowers.

She was  sitting cross legged
doing her make-up.

Her bleached hair was in a ponytail
and eyeshadow dust was falling on her tracksuit.

She smacked her lips and
looked me dead in the eye.

She said she was Reality Woman
because she could mold reality.

She said once she found out
she practiced everyday.

She would yell everyday in the mirror
ever since she was 14.

She would yell she was wonderful
in the morning and evening.

And after it became reality and people told her so too
she would continue.

You have to see Titan
(though there are no sirens)
from where I am standing.
(Vonnegut lied.)

When stars up here burst,
they don't just combust,
the shrapnel gets tangled
in your hair.

If you stretch down your feet
it's a pine's top you'll hit.
All the trees are so tall,
and ever so green.

I like the view from up here,
where everything's clear.
Where the days are so long
and nights are so warm.

Should you wish to visit,
forget about physics,
hop on a bumble bee,
and fly over to me.

I could swear I felt the sting,
as you injected yourself in my bloodstream.
In my defence,
I was high for the most of it.
I was drunk on all of that
your sparkly wings offered back.
And your melancholic gaze
I've only seen in fiction since.
I'll admit to my arrogance
to assume parasites were mostly worms,
when I know there are still songs
about pretty, magic, folk.
And I can feel myself both host and feast,
and all you see is just a treat.
And if I had soul, it's now ablaze,
and now all I do is waste my days.
And at this point in space and time,
your words occupy my mind.

T all grapevines entwine with the
O verhead wires and lead to
U nwilling leaves now home to a
G iant green guest with the
H olographic horrifying eyes.

T roubled dreams the bug is dreaming.
I mpossible luck keeps it away from
N earby spider webs and
Y ellow giant villains.

T angled in untangled thoughts of
H orrid dreams of hope
I t sits on its green leaf and is
N ow watching flowers bloom.
G ratefullness swells its tiny heart.

Snowflakes                                
                                             daintily

                             floa t

     s    p    a    c        e       d         o     u   t

        in  the cold
                           bone - biting  air.
Little dots
            .       .       .       .       .       .
                        drifting     eerily
               to the steamy pavement.





Don't you wish you could melt?

Oh, Winter!
You came just in time.
I was just picking up the leftovers from my afternoon tea with Autumn.
I have just collected the leaves
and glued them to the crunchy paper
of a notebook.
I have finishied
labeling them meticulously
with a black
thin
ball point pen.
And the notebook is placed
on a shelf of comfort and laughter.
And I have begun
referring to it as a closed chapter.
Now, tell me...
What will it be?
I see you've brought
delicate, silver snowflakes.
Shall I melt them into the hot cocoa
or shall I bring out the silver tupperware so we can dissect them?
Shall we be dining next to the fireplace?
Or shall we be dining out in the blizzard?
Please do tell me all the stories you carry for this season!

Time to the storks
moved as a wheel moves -
it was going in a circle but moving in its track.

They were on time this year- as they were on time every year.
They gracefully landed in the high above places
where they nested every year.

The oldest was Mr. Stork who lived on top
of the townhouse's chimney that was last seen puffing
back in Febuary 2001.


Somewhere in his wings he remembers
distant memories of a missing family
but that was oh so long ago.



The first few weeks were proper with the darling sun,
the children shouting and pointing, the spring soil wet,
the snowdrops, the tulips and whatnot things moving.




But then the snow came back.
From nowhere.
And it scared everything away.




It scared the people, the flowers, the sun and the food,
the warmth in his feathers, the red in his  beak
and he was now dipped in a sickly purple.





And the air was white from the ice, and he
who was mostly silent,was forced to call out
as his nest was coming undone.






And the wheel fell off its track.
And his calls remained unanswered..

Our submarine floats
  according to plan.
    We have a map,
      we have a plan.
.
.
.
.
                       And THEN!

FEAR HAS INFILTRATED THE SHIP
.
Why? What happened? How did we get here?
.
.
.
We don't seem to know, sir.
.
.
.
Quick, I need you to play dead!
.
Lie down.
.
On the floor.
.
Yes, just like that.
.
I  m  m  o  b  i  l  e.
D  o  n  't   m  o  v  e.
S l o w  E V E R Y T H I N G d o w n.
L i e  a s  f l a t  a s  a  l i n e.
A n d l i s t e n t o m e.
.
.
.
.
.
.
We
will
be
just
fine.

Give me the melancholy
of clear skies
in moody March,
and the joy
of scorching sun
in mid October.
Give me the elixir
of blooming trees
in festive May
to put me into
somber slumber.
Give me earthy,
muddy leaves,
woven into soft rugs,
to walk on with
gloomy November.
I want to be fitted into a calendar,
into comfortable routine
so that I roll my way backwards
in near perfect opposition.
I want to rewind the seasons so as to match my mood.
Maybe then I'll be in sync with time.

You were small - the town was big.
Your small hands - the big building.
Your small body - the familliar spaces.
Your small step - the close distances.
Time moves slow - stuck at a standstill.
Nowhere to go - somewhere to be.
The people you know - the whole community.
Being welcomed - near complete isolation.
Accepted - you stay.
Rejected - get out before you're unable to.

Your victorous return - a negligible event.
The people you knew - the people you've never seen.
The person you've become - the people who never left.
Big streets - shrunk.
Short distances - longer than ever.
Things you have seen - engraved with nostalgia.
Things that were unseen - beautiful jewels.
Time is unmoving- now you have space to thing
Nowhere to go - nowhere to be.

Quite the weirdest sensation it is.
Ordering a table for one.
Sitting alone.
Not talking about anything.
Just reading a book.
Hearing the woman from the opposite table
say to her friend
that it requires a lot of courage
to eat alone in a restaurant.
Why thank you!
I practice my courage everyday.

At the top of the hill
two thieves stood in the midday sun
with their faces lifted upwards.
Down there,
in the fear-ridden town
the only lights they had
was of reading lamps, screens, street and car lights,
and an occasional candle in the dead of night.

Bottles were fished out of pockets,
corks were unscrewed,
bottoms were lifted,
laughter was heard,
spells were whispered,
sunrays were enchanted with song,
so enchanted they stopped dead in their step,
bows were held up,
arrows were shot,
grass was searched,
light was conserved in bottles.
Flickers in pockets for the darkest days.

I wish there was a substance
to the stories I tell.
But there's not much to be contained
within the walls of my cardigan,
ceramic rings
circling the joints and bones
of a hand too fragile
to hold solid concepts.
There is but an empty balloon
nestled in a stomach
craving appetites and fullness.
Words hollowed out
to hold scribbled strings
of disjointed thoughts
pulling and shape and meaning.
A ghost that's stuck
between wet cold rocks.