just

to burn like this
at a self-driven stake,
in the filtered light
of raindrops on the windshield

to gasp for breath,
struggle to remain existent
between the lines, tripping
though I was the one to draw them.

and I can't for the space between my bones
remember why;

it's just
always been this way.




--
Title is prompt. I'm trying new meds, and I think weaning off the old ones is wreaking havoc on my moods. Hormones don't help either.

winter comes

winter comes to burn the light I brought
searing through the snow of swirling thought.
find the words to turn the sunset back
as the ridges bruise an inky black.

winter comes to glorify the dark
space between the days which took my mark--
scrabbling for the crumbs I scattered, spring
holds the answer tied in tidy strings.

winter comes, and I am unafraid
chilled beneath stained sheets--the bed I made.
rest befitting wealth, this crown of thorns
pierces through the cross that I have borne.

winter came and left behind a dream;
I have not yet slept enough to see.

--
Thoughts about the coming cold, and how I'm struggling with NaNoWriMo this year.

it was illusion (bonus poem)

it was illusion that I let show
as a sparkle in my eye,
because there was nothing I wanted more
than to try and make this
work

but that's just what it became:
a struggle, a pain, an annoyance;
a weight dragging me down,
into what could be the perfect future,
but not for me

and suddenly words didn't work anymore
and I wasn't myself without them.


there's nothing I'd like more
than for it to have been true
otherwise
I never would have done that
to you.


but I am not her.
and I never was.
And there's nothing I want more now
than my certain slanted sun, my secret garden,
a glass coffin to rot in, sleeping
until the world has forgotten
what we very briefly dreamed of.


but my words do not work
when said from lips I wish were smiling,
and I am a coward; so these are my words.
I'm sorry,

but no.

lacking a vase (bonus poem)

lacking a vase, I put them in a peanut jar.

as one who used to live with clay under my fingernails,
this fact was somewhat bemusing,
and slightly depressing--these deserve a better fate,
but the clear plastic lets me better see
the lovely magenta
that the stems have turned the water
(and my hands)

I always said I would dye my hair that colour
when a chemistry concoction mixed up like that.
it was a crazy thing to say, but so natural,
commonplace
the three times I actually did.

distractions.



This doesn't change anything.
I can't do this anymore.

the suffocation of trying so hard to change myself
does nothing but hurt
and make me blame you for that pain.
And no amount of wishing
has ever given me wings; why should I have expected it to work
    this time.

        Because I wanted it more?


but then again,
this arrangement of spring reminds me
that I've been painting you the wrong colour in my mind.

you are more like these bright flowers,
but caught in carefully molded clay;
unfired, still working out your form,
and waiting for someone to see through, to turn your sides
clear plastic and reveal your hidden heart.

because as much as it kills me,
all of this has been dizzy perfection
meant for some lucky girl
who isn't me.




    I think I liked pretending too much.
for both of our sakes.