The more I love, the more I risk

Within the girl you know

     is a thousand more you don’t,

             each one carrying layers

       of love, though you might not see it.

   For it comes out as fear. Fear of:

         Rejection,

                    Losing you,

                                 You, not enough,

                 It not working,

                                Me, not enough,

    Death, 

        Moving,

              Falling apart—

                         Again, again.

      Failure,

              Success,

                   Stagnation.

              

      & Silence,

          &  Talking too much.

  Or not speaking up.

         Saying the wrong things,

                       Saying the right things,

             The truth,

           And the lies,

    Yelling,                   crying,

       Even fearing a laugh,

                                 being too happy—

What if the end is near?

                               What if it never started?

My Friends

These four women who may know of
each other but don't know each other, only me,
whom I hold close, like spokes to a wheel, rolling
down hills, valleys, and rough patches.
These four women, of whom only two have wombs—
I never mourned the loss but wondered where the ashes went
after the hospital discharge while they celebrated.
These four women who may know of each other
but don’t know each other, see pieces of each other
as I speak, for I am just bits of them,
strung together, and a single guitar pluck
could tear me apart.

how life flows

I am bleeding, lying on the couch.
But not onto the couch—
I’m petting a cat, whose claws once drew my blood,
now dried and scabbed.
I bleed now because it’s how my body was built—
a rhythm as natural as my breath.

You don't know me. I burned all the snakeskin.

Marriage gave me the indescribable feeling of a new name,
a new house, a new job, a new hairstyle, a new wardrobe—
and the chance that, when I walk through a crowd,
no one I’ve known will recognize me.
But moving to a new state brought a different kind of feeling,
the indescribable certainty that out here,
no one could recognize me, even if they tried.

here for whatever

Head on arm

—No pillow.

Sleep so good

And know

—I will never take more than you are willing to give

nor give more than you are willing to take.

felt cute....might delete later

What if God is movement—
of body, of mind, of emotion—
and God is a showgirl's wink,
when she teases, "Come and get me, boys,"
or an azure bird,
pecking at cat food
left out for a stray,
where God also lives.

But maybe God is in the way
I respond to you,
so quick, so eager,
while you reply so slowly—
I know you’ve built a curio shelf
of friends, a curated collection,
and I’m just another dusty knick-knack
sitting among them.

But for me, you sit
on a throne beside my altar,
where I've burned incense
for years—
you would know this
if you paid attention
for it is written in the speed of my reply,
anxious to never let the connection go cold.

what we say when we are hurting

You say it’s like being married to a three-year-old—

Trailing behind, cleaning up after them.

I think I could say the same, but I don’t.

So if I whisper, "I’m sorry,"

Or even yell it, for that matter,

You say, "Sorry doesn’t cut it."

So I turn on myself,

And mutter, "I’m the worst."

It’s a tactic from my younger years—

A child’s way of surviving.

Maybe now, we’re in agreement,

No longer fighting.

Instead, you’re mad I’d say such a thing

About the woman you love. I’m sorry again,

But sorry doesn’t cut it. There’s no winning

In a marital fight—just hurt. It’s kinda stupid,

Ya know, hurling our worst at our better half?