My "type"

I've never thought long and hard about the type of girl I am,

But at the budding age of 23 it somehow almost feels like I've been them all.

The do-anything-to-get-the-guy type or the 

run-away-from-my-problems-into-a-boys'-bed-type or the 

I-think-my-boyfriend's-toxic-parents-are-less-toxic-just-because-they're-rich-type, 

but don't forget the

I'll-sacrifice-my-dignity-and-friendships-to-make-this-poisonous-relationship-last type or the 

I'll-pretend-to-like-sports-so-you-take-me-to-concerts-sometimes type or the 

I-swear-I'd-never-become-dependent-but-here-I-am-dating-you-so-I-can-use-your-car type

and last but not least at all, the

This-boy-said-he-wants-to-marry-me-so-I'll-believe-him-type or the

Love-defies-all-cultural-bounds-even-ones-that-threaten-world-war-III-type or the

We-never-got-back-together-but-I'll-still-fly-across-the-country-to-make-sure-you're-okay type

And isn't this type of girl tragically predictable after reading these descriptions? 

That this type of girl is doomed to write poems that chug on a little red cart up a mountain, 

    Just to find time and time again that the abandoned mine is empty,

        licked clean with not even salt remaining to sterilize these sores,

            cast away, racing down the ridge, over the pass, blood dried and sores scared by the thin but 

            strong gusts...yes, these are the poems that this girl is doomed to write.

For someone who is so bitter about love, I write some damn good poems about it. 

The bitter-ex-lover who-writes-poems-about-love...that's the type of girl I am.

i can't help it

 when a man tells me "i love you"

i can't help it

when a man says "i'm going to marry you"

i can't help it

when a man declares "we are going to live together forever"

i can't help it

all who came before you also thought the same

and i wish you nothing but success because i would be the primary benefactor

but those who came before you sit waiting in line without consent

waiting to see if any man can break the spell

because my sweet, "it isn't you, it's me"

and all who came before you ultimately chose the path

with less thorn bushes and stinging nettle

it's been a year since i've written a good poem

It's your clothes strewn across the bedroom floor

it's the extra ache in your knees as you climb the stairs - one flight too many

it's the drum in your heart that resounds through your chest

and the ropes tighten, clenched fists and grinding teeth

but no anger, just the tension.

That the giving, sometimes for things that no one ever even asked for

nips away at the wool that wraps my bones.

Not knowing it was winter because I didn't know what day it was.

gliding on ice skates across a mirror but never being able to look down 

Too much of one can crush the other - be careful.

The freedom of loneliness (n): 

A brisk chill on what should be a bright spring day;

A beach with gray sand and a sunset like the day after a wildfire;

A plane to return home from whence you sprouted and thrived;

A detachment that always felt to good to be true.

There were things that happened when I was with you,

And now that I'm older, I've thought things through.

The mind remembers less than the heart,

But the electric currents are years apart.

Acceptance; breathing for myself again

Today

I crawled between the corner of where the highway meets the air

and for a second the cars are floating on asphalt

because really, how does that even make sense?

I stared at the cigarette butts and tiny pieces of who knows what

non-biodegradable material scattered

between the blades of grass

Plastic bags dangling from dandelion brambles and bushes

holding on forever maybe

but no one knows about this place

or even cares to know

so if I stay here forever,

who's to say that every day isn't today?

Confronting Conflict

You said I was as sweet as vanilla

but only when it's straight from the bottle. 

You bit me,

your lips sewn with fleece so it did not sting.

    And why do you set the water temperature

    to steam when its ninety-two degrees and 

    the shower curtain is embarrassed by 

    its incapability to block out the sun?

You lather to rid impurities

but I've lost track of which

of the droplets skating on your skin

were tossed down from the piping stream

or had risen out of biological response.

   You're pure and your intentions reflect it,

   Though the consequence is to inadvertently craft a 

   an alluring morass of paradoxical scenes   

   left for me to untangle.

What I would give to wriggle my tiny body

into your ear, following the electric paths to arrive

inside of your mind - just a peek

The reality: a discomfort of never being able to understand.

   

A little angry

I want to know that the validity of my emotion has to do with me and me alone
I’m tired of you only caring when my sadness has to do with someone else
That when I “update” you on my “relationship status”
Your disappointment in my endings are filled with more sympathy
Than when I called you crying at the age of 12
Because your brother could never do what I said happened
Until you understood
But that’s the thing about having pride as an adult
We don’t do “apologies”
No
That would mean we were wrong

on the metro in Paris

Falling in love with strangers in public

Is a much safer way to fall in love

A fleeting moment

Eye contact

Temporary butterflies

Everchanging motion

And just like that

You’re both on your merry ways

Like pressing your thumb into a sunburn

Just for a second 

You feel the warm pressure 

and see the yellow glow

But as soon as you let it go

It disappears