existential

I am a girl
of sand and fire.
I am a voodoo doll
held together by my
pins. I am a sentient collection
of ants. I am a girl-shaped
form made out of ashes;
pour me through
a sieve and watch me
disappear. I am a gingerbread
woman; bite my head off
to put me out of my misery. I am
the Wicked Witch
of the West, melting in the rain.

I am a ghost, a breath
of hot air from your mouth;
I am steam, condensing into
being and then dispersing
as fast as I appeared.
I’m the last dying ember
of a dead star. I’m a whirlwind
of sand inside a sirocco.

I’m only real
as long as your eyes
can see me.

the women in white

four women in white
just appeared outside the bar
like mirages from some other world,
some sci-fi universe where
females swathe themselves
in moonlight, even their heads
in white draperies and turbans.
they are so mystical I
am almost afraid of them.
what strange magic will they wreak,
what ghosts are summoned
by their very presence? I’ve
never seen their like. white
witches, cult members,
maybe one day I’ll learn
your mysterious secrets.

the one you like

That girl you like
is outside your favorite bar
breaking up with some dude,
who’s not very happy about it.

That girl you like
has a thousand yard stare
and may be somewhat worse off
for her alcohol intake.

That girl you like
seems like she has problems
that neither you nor any other man
can fix. That girl you like
is such a low talker
that I couldn’t hear a single word
of her side of the conversation,
no matter how hard
I strained my ears.

That girl you like
just went inside to continue her
drinking, with or without
companions. you know the girl,
and that sounds like something
she would do. you know,
the one you like.

lifeline

I’m sorry. I saw the drowning
look in your eyes – the one
I know so well from
the inside out, the one that says
everyone thinks everything
is fine but it’s not okay, I’m
not okay
– and didn’t throw
you a lifeline. I know
how it feels to be the only one
in the room who’s holding
on to a grudge because it’s
been with you so long it feels
like a part of you, so that to
let it go would mean losing
something of your identity,
even though everyone else thinks
you’re punishing the person
for old dead deeds and why
can’t you just get over it
already. you can’t. you’re
not ready. you might not
ever be ready. and he doesn’t
deserve your forgiveness.

you warm yourself
by the fire of your hatred.
I know.

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.