On This Day II

this time
last year, I sat crying
in a prison of my own making,
unable to see that the door
was already open
and it had been
all along. this time
last year, I was too busy
chasing after someone
who didn’t want me
to see that there were,
in fact, other fish in the sea,
and that one in particular
was giving me
the eye. this time last
year, I was a fool. a sad,
silly, oblivious fool; a bud
curled so tightly
into my misery that
I didn’t know it was
time to open.

now I can look back
on that girl and be glad
that she finally took
that first little step
towards something

that girl II

really I’m the worst. so busy
being spiteful, so jealous because
a pretty girl made me feel
ugly, a skinny girl made
me feel fat, a popular girl
made me feel left out, lesser than,
that I didn’t get it: she may be
all of those things, but only I
can make myself small
in spirit. I may not be
shaped like her but
only I can make myself
ugly. who among us hasn’t
tried to fit in? tried to be
what we think everyone wants?
I was just enraged because
I thought her being the way
she was took something
away from me.

that girl

she’s all right. I mean
not my cup of tea, and
I really don’t get
all the hype, but okay.
whatever. I’m
probably just
jealous. I just think
that one should have
to work a little bit harder
to get all the accolades.
it seems there is such
a thing as a free lunch.
if you’re cute enough
and can play your instrument
even remotely competently,
they will rave. duly
noted. the next time
I’m born I’ll try
harder to be hotter.

the moon’s lament

her heart is a dusty tome
waiting for you
to read it. her thoughts
are the tone poem
in the background
of your dreams.

her shadow contains
multitudes, strange sentences
in a foreign language
that you’ve never heard before,
whispering secrets
too soft to hear.

her silence speaks
with the susurrations
of the surf and the tides.

her darkness
calls to yours.
do you hear it?

hate the art, like the artist

it’s not you, it’s me. I really
can’t stand your art. I’m sorry
because you seem fine
enough, when you talk
you turn into a real person;
still almost insufferably cute
and cutesy, but you appear
to be a human being
with thoughts and feelings.

when you sing you become
a China doll, an automaton
who never reaches
below the surface. you sing like
you’ve never screamed,
you’ve never ugly cried,
you’ve never been eaten your weight
in Doritos.

I’m just saying
your art would be so much better
if you were willing to let yourself
be real.

cold and grey

it’s too cold. the sky is
crying. all is damp
and hopeless.
I’m sick of this
bullshit. when will it
get warm enough
to stop the aching
in my bones? when
will this empty void
in my soul be filled?

the tiny voice
inside my head
that’s used to
dealing with this
whinging sounds like
a Magic 8-ball. it says only,
“try again

the glare

I can’t tell you
why I glared at you
that time in the midst
of the crowd. I
hope to take that secret
to my grave.

all I can say
is that your crime
was not at all
the one you thought it was,
and in fact was no crime
at all. and yet
it made me
truly furious.

chalk it up to the mystery
of the human heart,
file it under women,
inexplicable behavior
thereof, just don’t
ask me to explicate
my pitiful, pointless rage.

it’s all I have left.

the size of it

telling your companion
to leave space for me
on the bench was
(in theory) a nice gesture.
telling her to be sure
to leave extra room
because I am big
was unnecessary,
and furthermore
quite rude, dude.

a couple of things
to consider: first,
had you not mentioned
my sex, there would have been
no need to mention
my size. I am not bigger
than your average man.

secondly, since you said it
in front of my boyfriend,
you must have known
this would get back to me
by the end of the night.
so your later attempt to kiss
my ass – the very one
the size of which you seemingly
felt compelled to mock –
was an ill-fated and
ill-conceived maneuver.
I innocently accepted
your flattery at the time,
but upon learning
of your treachery, am
now twice as mad.

thirdly, if you think
that I am not already
very much aware
of how much space I
occupy, you’ve got
another think coming.
I ride the subway
and also exist as a
woman on this planet.
it was unkind and unnecessary
to remind me
that I should be smaller
to be acceptable
to you and yours.

for all your preaching
about social justice, perhaps
you need to practice
a little more.

at night

my demons walk
over my body. purring
monsters press themselves
against my sides. my legs ache
from running away
from my problems. I want
to eat everything
in the house, write
a hundred poems and smoke
fifty-nine cigarettes: damn
the consequences, curse
the day, I’ll sink deeper
into my dreaming life.

behind my closed
eyelids, a black triangle sweeps
in a circular path
like a doppler radar
display. it’s showing me
how far I am
from sleep. is there nothing
that can reconcile me
to living like
a normal human?