TeleVision

I stand.
All eyes
fixated
on every
word falling
out my mouth.
My hands
shaking,
I hold
my heart
above my head,
colors dripping
onto my face,
marking my skin
like the sky
after a storm,
but no one ever saw
the storm.
No one will acknowledge
the colors.

In minds pictures form,
not of me,
not including me,
just pictures,
void of color.
Suddenly,
I am not the
person of interest,
but a mere
extra in their
reality tv show on
black and white televisions,
all colors
pushed back
into the grey,
into the blur,
into the background,
forced down and
I cannot make myself smaller anymore.

I step forward.
Their world cannot
handle these
pixels that have
never combined
like this before.
Another step
and new
colors surround them.
Colors never
seen before,
but now
everyone is buying
new tvs.

hallucination (Haiku #18)

pictures in motion
realistic on their own,
but no one else sees.

I Need You

I can hear your heartbeat across the miles that separate
your hospital room from my classroom. It’s straining under
the weight of years of life. I am sitting here
thinking back to every time I’ve cried in your living room,
every time I hid in your bathroom to get a second
alone, every time I ran around the kitchen table
or played basketball in your driveway. I sit here with water
swelling my eyes thinking that it might be over soon. I’m
not ready for this to be over. I’m not ready to
let go of your voice when you complain about the three
papers on the table that must be cleaned because the house
is a wreck. I am not ready to walk through the door and
not get bombarded with questions and accusations
about what I must have been doing while I was away.
I sit here crying. I cry and I just want to run to
your house because it’s the only way I know how to keep
my heart in my chest and my brain standing still. You are my
safe place, my playground, my sunrise. You are my smile after
a week of struggling. But you grasp your chest and gasp for air
and the clouds I created to block the future from my
view are lifted a little more.
I don’t want to see this.
I don’t want to lose you.
I can’t let you go yet.
I can’t loosen my grip.

I’m Not Sorry Anymore

She remains, muttering the same two words
Bruises cover her delicate framework
Blood stained, on her scraped knees looking upward
How did she fall for his every small quirk?

Now she spends her useless time dressing wounds
Thinking back to the times before her love hurt
Her tears form lakes, depression all around
His hands always return to squeeze her heart

Electricity fills her crippled bones
Tension rises with the shake of her hands
She pleads, he screams without a change of tone
The air escapes her lungs with his commands

Her courage heightens for a mere moment
Left her life behind with one last movement

Generation Gap

They look down at me spitting words like
lazy,
dependent,
internet-crazed,
I wasn’t like that when I was a kid,
adding to
boulders already on my
shoulders.
This is
not
my
fault.

I am from the generation of hand shaking nausea and beds that haven’t seen sleep in years.

The generation of counting a piece of gum as a meal and
ripping open our wrists in hopes of feeling
better or feeling
something or
nothing or
maybe we’re just really good at
destroying ourselves.

The generation of quiet
tears at 3AM, holding our breath and
sinking our teeth into our blankets
terrified of waking our alcoholic father or abused mother.

The generation of helpless children
clawing at locked doors. We didn’t ask to be put in this
goddamn room and half of us are
stuck wishing our parents had a better understanding of
birth control. Maybe then everyone’s
lives would be easier.

The generation so painfully aware of the
mistakes of our ancestors, this mess
hanging above our heads like the
chandeliers we only see in movies.

The generation of struggling to remain breathing.

Of brightly colored hair and
stretched earlobes and
“how do you expect to get a job looking like that?”

Of falling short of expectations,
but when we were playing with dirt and rocks in the backyard,
we never would have expected to grow into
this.

The generation of desire.
Of wanting.
Needing.
More than what we have in front of us. Maybe that makes us
greedy but we are
not satisfied jumping from therapist to therapist,
staring at bookshelves of journals at midnight when
no one is willing to listen.

The generation of loneliness.

I am from the generation of trying.

We are trying.

I am trying.