Did you lose your song?

Where did you lose your song little bird?
I never hear you anymore.
The sun rises quiet and alone.

Was it in writhing flesh
lost in strange bodies,
cold touch and whiskey breath?

Where did you lose your long little bird?
I thought I heard you this morning,
but it was the wind chilling my bones.

Was it in cutting words
reflected in the mirror,
violent hunger and sweat?

Don’t you know?
The mountains have nothing to echo,
they are just carbon and voiceless stories.

Don’t you know?
The moon has stopped chasing the sun.
There is no melody to bring the morning.

Butterflies Again

I’m feeling butterflies again
I was sure that winter had frozen them all –
stopped every last wing from fluttering.

Maybe his eyes thawed them.
“What! What could you possibly see here?”
But I couldn’t make him look away.

Or maybe it was the way he didn’t touch me, at least not at first.
He leaned in (inhale) and pulled back (exhale) with my breath –
And reached for my scars instead of my display.

He shared space with me.
On mountaintops and the edges of black seas.
Tangled on couches and rental car back seats.

And maybe I wasn’t ready.
And maybe I was broken.
But the butterflies have awoken –
there is a wildfire burning in my veins
consuming my past and turning her to ash.

Holding Hands in Holland

Hands that lead me,

   spin me and heal me;

       I feel lost and found and swept away.

Eyes that hold their gaze,

   tearing through the shame,

      seeing the softness I thought was lost.

Lips that graze my skin,

   raw and vulnerable,

      Breaking through my rusted armor.

I feel myself splitting open at your touch;

Torn between what was lost.

Trapped in this disguise.

I am desperate to escape you

   before you feel my brokenness. 

But then you pull me close:

"You don't need to run away anymore."

I am home.

I can love.

I can be loved.

Falling

I am in love with him. Desperately at times. Madly. Completely, I can feel my body melt and give at every touch. His breath on my skin sets me on fire.

And the way he looks at me… It’s as if not a single person in this world has ever actually seen me before. Like I have only seen shadows and distorted fun-house reflections mirrored off of other’s eyes. But his eyes are the truth.

And they swallow me up. And I forget my name. I forget the stories of who I used to be and who I thought I had to be after everything got smashed to pieces. 

All I see now is the raw, wild, writhing thing. This eternal being pressing up against the edges of her skin. A girl who dove into darkness. A girl who fought her way to the surface. Who is harder now, but finding her softness in his hands.

He has taken my broken, ugly pieces and examined each one. Turning them in his hands until, slowly, the edges lost their sharpness. He has patched my cracks with gold. 

Is this what love feels like?

I want to inhale you.
Feel your breath travel through me,
hot and wet in my mouth
burning my throat like whiskey.
Filling me up; all passion and desperation

I want to settle in your bones.
Wrap you around me like an old blanket,
soft and warm; your skin feels like home.
Your arms and legs tangled around me
so I forget where my own body still aches.

I want to fall inside your eyes;
they are wells of honey and fire that swallow me up.
Penetrating my deepest wounds.
Staring straight into the ugly dark spaces
I still have light. I still have softness.

Armor and Alchemy and Yellow

It's so hard to feel softness now. This armor is real, and hard, and so heavy sometimes. I can recognize and see the unhealthy beliefs. That romantic love is a myth. That I can reclaim power and control in my life by giving up what is intimate, and delicate, and raw in crude and sloppy ways. Much better to throw it out before someone tries to take it first. That I can disconnect from what is light and begging to feel inside of me. That the only way to feel alive is to degrade what is sacred and innocent inside of me before someone else can again. That none of the pain counts or touches me if I somehow make it all my fault.

If I throw myself at what is ugly and dirty and dark -- rub the mud on my face -- the world will know how dirty and broken I am.

But there is also hope. This tiny ember deep in my stomach that I am going to be ok. This won't last forever. I am a fucking alchemist and will turn this tarnished armor into gold. That I am not alone. That everyone is broken and ugly sometimes, but there is something clear and wanting inside of us. Begging to be released. Something the mud can never touch.

Yellow:
Never has it felt so harsh,
Distorting the night --
False.

Yellow:
Cigarette stained teeth,
Fading bruises --
Marked.

Yellow:
Hot shame burning my skin,
Sharp and rough --
Pain.

Yellow:
Where is my canary now?
Where is your song?
Betrayed.

Let's Sketch!

I forgot how therapeutic it can be to just sketch. I used to draw incessantly. Art class was my favorite in middle school and high school until I moved to a smaller school and couldn't take any more classes since they only had two available. At some point I convinced myself that I wasn't good enough to make art. Like I wasn't worthy of creating something just for the sake of creating and expressing beauty in my world.

In an attempt to get back to my roots and just release all of my pent up energy the last couple of months, I started sketching again. I don't care if they are better or worse than anyone else's art; the process has made me happy, and relaxed, and peaceful. So I wanted to share some because why the hell not?