The Model

When I made funny faces
and the boys laughed
at me naturally

I thought
they were laughing
with me for so long

When I thought
to show off my ballet skills
to help them understand

my saute they laughed
but I wasn’t making a face

I wasn’t normal
my brain still doesn’t
process what IS
in time with the world

then they told me to move
off the couch
told me I wasn’t worthy

when i bit back
they called me out
as a dog

and then they labeled
me The Model
for not knowing my place
in the backround

i tried to get smaller
but my mouth wouldn’t
listen she was so pissed
but I wasn’t ready yet

words came without confedence
so the bigger
the louder my mouth
became the smaller I felt

honesty,
I’m still fighting this war
against my mouth
for talking before my body

and against my body
for thinking she should
be backround

and so
to breathe

Advertisements

On Funny

I am not funny
in the moment
when I try to be
I don’t write anything
my funny is accidental

I am too sensitive for funny
so I don’t hear my words
until they’re outside
my head

into your ears
laughter floats
into your mouth
bubbles of funny
pop out to surprise me

refections of your
laugh make me laugh
but
my funny is accidental

Bones to Cartilage 

Alone after her day
cradles her third glass
tagged by friends this time
she understands control

cut love from your head
it doesn’t belong there anyways
paste it to your heart even though
it hurts as much as they say

pick ideas like I pick my skin
it leaves scars where my worry lives
distorted close ups turn life left
in the mirror

limits on lower lips
grasped by spotted teeth
pierced drips of frustration
tinted memories turned vignette

melt into your couch
drink to accessorize you
deserve it after a long week
on your screen that’s made your
weak bones relax to cartilage 

his hand on her skin
where backs arch free
to park myself in your skin.

Don

In her sleeves drowned
bees drift in freeze dried hair
Someday fear will come
she will not die when it’s fair

When words fester 
chaos can be counted on
to show up dressed as grief
Curled into sleepless nights

under your sleeping bagged eyes
uncomfortably restricted thoughts
tossed dreams against your lashes

As she begins to absorb your passion
clarity and strength
emboldened in hilarity 
honoured to carry you
under her eyes
sleep well
wise friend.

Pot Bound

My outgrown tangled roots
are bound for a bigger pot
always

Tradition states my choice…
and it’s two sizes too small
as they say
so the moment I’d settled
my roots had already grown out
left most untidily tangled

To be frank, I’m tired
after two times too many plantings
my leaves droop as I fight for space
against myself, to be sure

but I’m frighted of a too big pot
one in which I might get lost
what if the edge is far away?
so I can’t find it
to sit decisive-like and say
“I’m clearly too big for this pot
I must make myself smaller”

Alice

My heart has a double beat
occasional and reckless
I call her Alice
She’s normal, they say
until she starts to sing

I’m not ready to listen
but she stays with me
until I cough her back to sleep
scared of what she’ll tell me

she’ll say;
what I know of truth isn’t
what i interpret in others isn’t
or what I believe of myself isn’t

real

Oh Alice