I must have known
the cold face of the sun

have you always been there -
yes, you have, I know

and now you are leaving
for better things to come for you -

I should have said good luck,
goodbye -
I was too ashamed

because

I never said hello to you
in the first place

listen -
to your voice;
many run through your head
but don't you know how impenetrable you are?

i am living the days a prisoner lives where every moment feels the same and nothing is exciting.
i am locked up in a pretty scape of land
my dreams are made of sand
and castles crumble
and my own hands are numb
the brand of illusion.

dystopian

Oliver danced
Olivia glanced
reflections were found
on the ground
by chance.
then again, today,
I heard Oliver say
"She was ever so kind -"
To be stuck in a mind...

he stole her away,
that's what the stories say -
because women with voice
hardly ever got a choice
and even now
they doubt.

i lived in the valley of butterflies
and it is now winter

the emerald pines breathe
through the cold, forbidden prayer
of Winter's old mass.

the ancient, forest steeple

Slippery, as a fish.
You were born to the sea,
and breathe only by moving.

when you're a star, watching a planet collapse in on itself … into dust, into nothing.

embraces and we feel more distant
as the night ends
and the curtains close

you are so pathetic;

you cannot see your entrapment unless it is your predator's very teeth bared onto your skin

that is what she said to me as I kissed the flower's of my prisoned paradise.

Wasps buzzing in figs,
a sharp sting for the sweetness
that gods claim to own.

I am from
the old brick house at the bottom of a hill;
from a small, sunny backyard;
that twilight taste of cigarette smoke from my neighbour.

I am from midnight walks through the park,
snow angels in the snow,
a house among the trees and hide-and-go-seek on rooftops.

I am from lots of bed time stories,
another one, mommy. Please?
Sitting on the staircase, contemplating whether I should ask to sleep with them because the monster scared me away.

I am from cousins and sleepovers in the summer-shed;
swinging for hours in their living room;
playing minecraft way longer than we should have;
from tag in the woods and more hide and seek down by the creek.

I am from waiting in my room 'till midnight just to make sure he got home safe and sound.
I am from watching the smoke from chimneys in the night,
from thinking that the park was on fire.

Going to twenty different places,
seeing oceans and mountains and adventures,
missing them.

From my first ballet class (and hating it),
from all those competitions and ribbons and costumes,
promising it was my last year every time and finally regretting it when it really was.

I am from going to Grandpa's house everyday after school.
I remember him in his rocking chair, with the cat in his lap, treats waiting our arrival.
He doesn't sit there any longer.

I am from wishing and watching and waiting for nothing.
I am from piles of paper and journals hidden in the corners of my room, scattered with words and memories.

I am from my sister. My mother. My father.

I am from flowers and forget me nots and daisies and lupins.
From the books on my shelves, half of them unread.

I am from staring at my ceiling fan, asking God what was wrong with me.
I am from my Black Book, where those heavy feelings linger.

From those first two weeks of quarantine, reading so much I actually couldn't see properly. And not regretting it at all.

I am from denial, denial, denial was the truth.
But hey, Grace, it's sitting right there in front of you.
Might as well embrace it.

I am from being the sentimental one.
Keeping those shoes that don't fit because I wore them on my trip.
I am from almost diving in too deep.

Sigh

I am from letting go. From love. From memories.
But where I'm from, is letting go.

the most dangerous feeling
is invincibility

my dearest darling,
ce qui est à moi est à toi
and smell a flower and taste its sweetness and know that the world holds you in its belonging caress so that you are symbiotic and chaotic and live free and happily and loved.

my hands shake when sunlight hits their stony surface
my heart picks up as if I ran away
away into the dust which settles
on these rusted empty kettles,
kettles that once brewed water
to garden a flower, called
you.

the wind is a song
that bends those velvet petals
for the lips of bees

there is no purgatory in regret
only to drink from the Lethe and forget

I am lost between
the senses infused; linger,
letting them last long

so sweet
so shy
we both let months go by

holy light
on my skin
cool air
patience thin

asylum walls
brick and stone
windowless,
so alone

The mirror's dark other half looks back at me in the dark of the morning

the whole street's asleep still, moonlight wavering and waxing to its peak

the lake is still frozen beyond the harbour, two islands joined by an ice corridor

the sound of the guitar a part of the darkness, a piece of the morning, a song before the birds wake.

how do people speak so much about nothings

girls in dresses
flowers in their hair
nails painted blue
naive and unaware

that boys in suits
watch them from afar
wishing they were brave enough
to get out of the car

doves send messages
and in the halls
you do not
look at
me

fingers shake, skin tears
higher up the mountainside:
the climber's vision

I think myself tall
compared to all below me.
I've never looked up.

wings beat fast a song
in the undertones of wind,
be mine forever?

All of us are born.
Some live; others just exist.
We all die; some are.

come into me, like a snowflake on the pine
and I'll infuse my sappy kisses on your eyelids, love
and you'll become an emerald song in the wind

or crash into me like an icy wave in mid-November
and run your fingers between the spaces of rock on the breakwater,
chilling the birds.

Tumble into the fabric of my arms. Embroider your love into my skin.

stop 3 seconds
wait your turn
signal left
hit the petal

spin the wheel
look both ways
yield to on comers
delicate metal

follow the limit
slow and speed
this gasoline
is human greed

gold and yellow yolk leaks
as the shells, brown fragments of armour
tumble into the clear lake

so it must be morning
though the sun sets as we confess resurfacing memories
that break in front of us
like eggs at breakfast

tongues tumble things together until there is a stream,
sewn like a river,
so fluid it rushes in movements,
nonlinear, random waves, curving 'round bends and bays.

gizaagi'igoo - all of us love you

that was probably the string of sounds that stuck with me most.

I've spent
years of tears
and now I'm broke.
But, my darling,
it's not worth so much
if it cost you all that anyway.

why is it
that inspiration only befriends me
when happiness has not?

what does the utterer give to the prayer?