THOSE spaces

The world outside is still
Not quiet, but still
Still
A little bit stuck, perhaps
In a thin space
A still space
A stuck space.

And so I am still
Not quiet, but still
Still
And a little bit stuck
A lot stuck
Still.

My head goes to Poe and Plath
And the meaning of life and death
And then I hate myself a bit for being
One of THOSE
Writers who sits around and ponders death.
Then, doubly so, I hate myself
For being
One of THOSE
Writers who sits around and hates themselves.

I can't decide
What life or death mean
Or if it's right, to hate yourself
For being still
Stuck.

Quiet

I remember being a teenager and thinking that I was the only one screaming on the inside.
Why is no one afraid?
Why does no one else see?
Why is the darkness apparent to me?
I silenced my screams to seem brave.

Now that I am older, I realize I'm not the only one.
Some are screaming out loud.
Some are screaming on the inside, too.
And those with the inside screams, like me, are just as good at acting brave
When we should be screaming out loud.

And so we scream alone.

Sworn

Some weeks, it's a record of days

Of getting into my car and crying

We drown the fear in caffeine, a

Respectable substance of choice

Hoping it's not real

Praying it's not real

Counting breaths and minutes and wondering when

The chapter ends

Racing ahead, page by page

And I've always been a fast reader.

Catching Lilies

(The story that inspired the novel Georgia, 2008)

White sash, keeping close the
Secrets tucked into your waist
Thin as grass, swaying tall
Graceful even motionless;
Sandy dust on an eastern shore
Brushes your feet, your train
Shallow prints in changing grooves
Memories forever intact in film.

You're smiling
Smiling so wide, like you
Used to back when things were good--
Whole, beautiful, right.
Back when things made sense.
Never thought I would
See that again.

I miss you, missing you
Keeps me sane sometimes
Gives me something to cling to
(Purpose, if you will)
You're that unattainable beacon
That ribbon that just slipped
Through outstretched, grasping hands
The one we lost
In a turbulent sea
And never will regain.

I miss you.
A bond lies shattered
Fragments on the floor
Held fast by resentment
In your old house tonight.
I miss you...
Come home.

Quantity

There is never enough gas in my tank

And

Never enough money for my student debt, and

Never enough time in the day

To do

The millions and millions of things I want

To do

But there is always enough food on my plate

And

Always enough money to get by, and

Always enough love and work

To do

To make me feel like I am

Enough

And that is more than

Enough.

Maroon-y

Being a synesthete is sort of like being Superman.

Except not at all.

It’s sort of like being trapped in your own skin when you neurons are screaming to be free of their chains, to be released from the crusty tendrils of old notions that others have of you.

It’s a responsibility. To be better than people who don’t understand. To blend in so that those people don’t feel threatened or belittled. To be there for younger synesthetes who are just beginning to learn the significance of their difference.

It’s a privilege, to know and to see what other people don’t see.

It’s a curse, to know and to see what other people don’t see.

Synesthesia is not a disease. It is not a problem. It is not something that prevents you from living your life, but prevents others from living in yours.

It is everything and nothing, so important and so disastrously useless.

But being a synesthete is more than synesthesia. It is the knowledge that you have something others want and others fear. It’s that rumbling ache from the soles of your shoes to the soul of your soul when you see another synesthete, one who is not comfortable in their freaky, colorful skin, one who is crying out to be understood and you just want to shout I GET YOU. I GET YOU, AND NOBODY ELSE DOES, AND SOMEHOW WE WILL BE OKAY.

But you can’t, because it’s all a secret, because the mere mortals will never just let it be okay.

To the End of the World

(My first attempt at a villanelle, 2008)

Maybe you'll find that I'm the safest place
Seek shelter right behind my burning eyes
Someday we'll make the patient mountains pace

As tears of bafflement stream down my face
The pleading crowds stare helpless at the wise
Maybe you'll find that I'm the safest place.

My shallow, bleeding heart begins to race
The temperatures and tempers start to rise
Someday we'll make the patient mountains pace.

With secrets kept within a bolted case
A solitary figure turns and sighs
Maybe you'll find that I'm the safest place.

The narrow, bending path that I will trace
Will lead us both to where the moonlight dies
Someday we'll make the patient mountains pace.

Dreaming of seas and clouds lined with white lace
The sun will set forever for black skies
Maybe I'll find that it's the safest place
Someday we'll make these patient mountains pace.