You’re an unusual little bird
With mottled brown and black plumage,
Flying in through the kitchen window
Three times now this week.
You’ve created quite a stir this Christmas Eve;
That’s the broom my mom is grabbing for,
Mistaking the tufts of feathers on your head for horns.
You, with the round, yellow chromatic eyes,
Festooning the Christmas tree, are unmistakably
The best happy holiday card ever sent to me.
Here! Spread your wings and fly.
You start a typhoon as you fly about
Before finally passing through the open door,
My mother coming into the room,
i first saw her silhouette behind the curtain,
in front of the fire escape, she stood, i'm certain,
her halo rippled like the moon's reflection,
on evening waters, and i looked in her direction,
the way I would later look at broken glass
after drinking to the bottom's impasse,
she asked me, "who are you?"
"Ashley, what about you?"
"oh sweetie," she replied, "you're not Ashley,"
and at my confusion, "you're Alli.G."
she took my hand and intertwined her fingers,
ever since then, until now, for forever she lingers,
when I sleep, she preps my pillow and watches me,
i smell the fire on her fingertips, an effluvious potpourri,
Of sulpher, of mountain-laurel and hemlock,
when I wake up in a sweat, I know her clock
is ringing between my ears until i can shake it off,
my throat dries up, i begin to cough
behind the curtain, she offers me water
beckons me to her like an only daughter,
i drink from her hands, lips to palms, head down,
i plead for mercy when she's around,
on the nights she falls to slumber first, i watch her sleep,
her long hair at my feet, where I steep
and churn thoughts of strangling her with the hair
i had shaved off, but she still could wear,
then I cry because all i could do is kiss her cheek and thank
her for keeping me safe in walls of white,in blank,
i've tried to kill her, yes i have, but i am not a murderer,
she cannot be killed, she is a sorcerer,
although she screams when i wish for quiet,
although, by my worries, she is excited,
i know that in her arms I will always lie,
her voice, the last i hear befor i die
Reflections of Red
my scars are beautiful
they are scabs that i have picked on
again and again because i have dared enough
to know who i am and who i am
is the biggest scar i have
i bleed to know
how i feel
they have bled until the
surrounding veins the surrounding
capillaries have restricted and healed underneath
my skin and my skin has greatly formed into
markings and my markings
have become reminders
of a world too big
i have scars from hunger
scars from living a life as a young
arriviste and conniving my way to becoming
self-satisfied happy and radiant in the
glory of my pain till my bones have
cracked and my frame was forged
into steel but I have smiled in the
face of transformation
my scars are beautiful
and they make me smile at craters
and slits that have gathered dirt i have shaken
off letting infections to manifest into bulbous abscesses
i have looked at myself in the mirror
and I have seen myself slowly
disfiguring into someone
i didn't recognize
but you wouldn't know because
all you would see are smiles my wide-toothed
grin reminding you that anger becomes selfishness becomes an act
of arrogant self-indulgence and as my skin wrinkles
from the insides trying to fall out onto the
floor as my face contorts into tears
from scars that take lifetimes
to heal i remember my
scars are beautiful
because i have dared to know who i am
no lesion no wound no scab can change that
and as i scream at the rupturings of my being
you will hear how i carry the world in tune
in melodies akin to instrumental silence
The Company of Paper
My heart ticks and tocks.
The flutters in my stomach begin
To form rocks in the essence
Of my narrowed gut
And I breathe in an airless breath
As the scented candle in my room
Mitigates the effluvium of loneliness.
I lift my fingers to the bookends that hold
My life together with paper, pens, and
Words I repeat again in realisation.
That's right my lovely dearies, how can
I ever forget Roethke's gasping turtle,
Wishing to cross through rubble,
Or Burns' meadow mouse stampeding
By itself to make a nest for winter?
What to make of the road that Gibson had tread?
Or Wordsworth's cloud upon seeing daffodils?
I forget to remember that I write in solitude.
Where there is quiet, there are thoughts heavier than
Metal, louder than music, carried by soundless tune
And I remember to always forget that we, as people,
Die from bitter loneliness.
I love too much. My emotions do not understand the word "heel." My heart...can be cleaved into many parts, burrowing itself into different soils at my feet or fifty miles away. There is no middle ground, only extremes and to me, it's my protection against indifference and the comatose state of my hyperactive, awaiting mind. I love too much so I do not understand logic the way I should according to my family, I am the walking embodiment of unconditional trust. I begin to cherish people when I meet them, see their wold through lenses painted a pastel blue, wish to share their burdens, wish to raise them above skyscrapes, and because I love people too much, I never ask them to stay.
Don’t Judge Me...Too Harshly
I will label myself as long as it doesn't define me,
Will speak words others have said as long as you know
My lips are not loose; they're as tight as they get in
English pronunciation classes. (How do I know? Cause,
I'm a teacher) and that's my first label: teacher.
Now, I don't mean to sound too arrogant, and again,
I remind you, words from another's lips, well, I
guess I can jumble them with my own. Who's the author
And am I the painting? Well, I guess, we'll never know.
(Kidding, of course I'm the author of my story!)
I'm the butterfly that comes into your life and flies away
Just as quick; that pleasant little thing to make your
Day better; Dare I say the other person? (Nice to meet you, I'm pansexual.)
I learned from a young age that people are blessings;
I'm the gregarious woman who loves to love people just a little too much,
But who also has anxiety (she's my roomie for life!) so that's always fun.
Always people watching and talking, and even people helping until it's clear
I'm being used, but let's be honest, I'll never notice.
You use me, I use you, I'm a user and I use you all,
For your affection (cause, I'll starve without it) and your company.
Now, I call myself a pretty, pacifist, paranoid, pure-hearted person, but honestly,
I'm a fierce ticking time bomb of emotions just waiting to explode again.
it's quiet over the cemetary
there's snow on the porcelain angel wings
on the solemn gravestone with no markings
i see people footprints making small trails
crossing eachother like railroad tracks
leading the winter wanderers home
the trees are bare of their leaves
how does it feel to lose that
which you've grown by dozens at
a time with the simple breath
of a breeze and to lose dozens more at the
howling of the wind
i wrap my arms around my shoulders
and make believe the layers of
clothing is protecting me from
spilling my insides onto the
blanket of white and burning over
i wonder who has use of a frozen heart
who would think frozen water could burn
from something other than joy on
a chirstmas evening and that fire can burn
from something other than cold like the snow
i am touching i wonder why beauty burns
like fire in a fireplace or like ice to the touch
or like sleep when it's freezing
I Don’t Lie
You see, I will come to you whispering tales
Of the exact things you want to hear.
You will watch as I force myself through
Memories again and again like a puppeteer
Trapped in her own web of silk threads.
They are the shiny strands that surround the clouds,
The ones people always tell you to look for
While everything else rises to enshroud
Your very sanity in a knot of tumbleweeds.
I will come to you and give you the gift of beauty,
Creating sweet conversations spoken through lips
That were too scared to open, too parched to kiss,
But with the help of a pen, were made to eclipse
From the same day their eyes did, met in
Tribute to the scarred, yet haughty auspices.
Your eyes will read the way it should have been
And it all will be remembered without hostages
Of the past nor insomniacs of the future.
I will come to you embellishing truths,
Painting an imaginary middle no one will dare
To ever cross without having a reality of their own,
For those who stand for nothing cannot prepare
For the story I write with the soft hands I've
Used to touch your very core.