ended early justwrite

Icicles unfold from the spaces between my fingers, hot as your breath against my neck in the earliest hours when the teapot is whistling frantically on the stove and there is no desire in any room for someone to set it free. The dishes are three-days dirty in the sink, water long-settled in their throats and chests, heavy, waiting. There is dust holding silent meetings in the corners, a spider's web on the bedroom ceiling that sways each time the heat turns on as if an invisible guardian is brushing against the air.

short creepster justwrites

Adrien, like the only cloud in a vast, grey sky, like unlabeled spices in the cabinet and an empty blue bowl waiting on the counter, like a guitar pick talking to the sidewalk dirt, like charcoal drawings and a plastic bag that had cheese in it once, like those late nights that are really early mornings, like all you want to do is be, awake and talking, like watching the lights in the buildings across the street blink like time is passing faster, like letting wildflower seeds sprout where they land, like watching cigarette smoke fade in a city wind, like Adrien.

Holiday, like everything you ever knew, like a sepia-toned photograph of smiling strangers in party hats, like fingers snapping, like lettuce waiting to be picked, like a garden that lost its rows intentionally, like looking at tree bark closer than ever before, like really seeing it, like your head, light with joy, like you've been kissed unexpectedly, like saxophones calling to each other at dusk, like candlelight dancing on the ceiling, like silence feet dancing across the floor, like lying on the roof counting the stars, like the roof is so high traffic in the street looks like stars too, like Holiday.

Sam, like throwing spaghetti at the wall to see if it sticks, like being barefoot on cool mornings, like finger painting like you're five again, like fresh grapes in the middle of the day, like lining up pens according to color so you can mix them together again, like jumping rope inside, like perching on a branch because you want to be a bird, like speaking as loudly as possible on a stage with no audience, like laughter for the sake of laughter, like looking forward to the sunrise because it's never in grey scale, like Sam.

Susan, like hot chocolate, like hot tea, like iced tea in the perfect weather, like going outside without sunglasses, like learning to taste the air you breathe, like the first time you're running so fast you think there's wind, like when you stop and see the world is hardly moving, like watching the sky after spinning around for five minutes, like deciding how to use a dandelion wish like you've never had one before, like leaving the dirt under your fingernails, like embracing the bottoms of your feet, like realizing that swimming is like flying but slower and more free, like Susan.

Layne, like trying to see the story but only seeing shadows on the walls, like days that aren't hot or cold, like late, late evening the moment before night arrives, like quiet music that becomes part of the silence, like bold black shapes against white paper, like tracing the lines on your palms in ink like they'll tell you where you're going, like trying to form the fog into birds, like a moments someone sees who you are, like empty picnic tables resting on a rainy day, like sitting on the floor and thinking about nothing, like mist gathering at your front door, like your pulse in your throat and a camera in your hand, like Layne.

Tyler, like finding an unplanned field of secret daisies, like eating as many cookies as you want because you can, like fireworks in slow motion with no sound, like strangers offering you a place to sleep, like curling up in six quilts like a kitten named Goddess, like a poem in your pocket and a hand in your hand, like meandering down tree-shaded lanes and soaking up the quiet, like lying in grass, cool green against bare legs, like early summer evenings when the sun doesn't want to leave, like the crevices that form on your cheeks after lifetimes of smiling, like folding paper frogs like knowing they'll come to life, like Tyler.

Abi, like faraway waterfalls echoing against the rock, like lines of henna on your arms because there was nothing else to do, like tying knots in string and letting them stay forever, like a crack lacing the window pane like a spider's web, like how we realize nothing's a weed unless we want it to be, like embracing petals wherever they unfold, like using duct tape to fix torn hems, like seeing airplanes while your feet are on the ground, like marker rubbing off on your hands while you draw, like realizing how many shades of green there are, like walking a different way to work just because it's Tuesday, like watching fruit swell after a downpour, like letting the rain touch your skin and turn to steam, encasing you, like Abi.

comfortable justwrite

Comfortable captions resting on my feet as fingers chase invisible lizards across the grass, like shards of moonlight cold against my skin, hot between sheets of glass etched and etched again until there is nothing but steam like a fog and a shadow falling heavily with each breath, lost in itself, in an imaginary rhythm because no one counts syllables anymore unless they're lost at sea and the waves can't carry more than
one
at
a
time
until you've no more words, just empty sacks and a few torn magazine pages you think are mirrors but know can only reflect pea soup, thick and unappetizing, like tides of memories you wish weren't, tides of walls falling in and an unwelcome hand swabbing the sweat from your forehead so the ocean grows less salty, ice melting into lemonade, music filling the empty spaces because you don't know what else can fit in at such awkward angles, and you point all five fingers in your search for blame, ignoring the guilt creeping like distant sister laughs up your arms, her calling from New York and you pressing silence so you can avoid the inevitable, her wallet aching and her pockets twitching as your mom pours boiling water over the good china. It cracks like ice. You try to fit inside but only have two of yourself to work with, cram the corners into rounds and imagine what it is to be comfortable.

last night write

We're not crazy simply because we wander the streets talking to ourselves. It's just too hard to keep these lines inside, to silence poetry when it's meant to be said aloud, shouted; we could even sing it if we hadn't let our voices go so long ago, when the crowds looked on as if we were angels grasping stars like pearls from the sky, laughing at the way the blood on my thigh runs down like three tears, surrendering to gravity and asking why it didn't happen sooner, the salt washing in waves into my wounds, between my lips, and a girl birthed from the surf as if she were part of it and had always known, her thin hands pulling me back to shore, a city that is a tiny piece of a very large island, reminding me that the whole world is an island floating across the universe, running in circles, trying to find an anchor, chasing the speed of light but never quite fast enough. I am an island, the water on all sides begging me to let it swallow me, but I stretch my neck as far as I can before teeth clamp onto it, taste me so they can't ever forget and neither can I because I know my flavor is warm between cracked, cement lips, searching for the rest of me. My bedroom lights blink off and on, a silent signal to the stalker, the predator, unsuccessful camouflage for my glowing skin, and I pray I start to rust so the street lamp's rays don't bounce off me so well, the memories of when I was pretty projected from my eyes so anyone nearby wants to tear them in half or run grubby fingers across these images, thinking what it would be like to feel them in all three dimensions, my apricot breasts shriveling under a thirsty gaze. So I shroud myself in rainbows to scare them all away until a color-hungry monster feels the growls deep inside, wants to strip me of my skin and hang it out to dry in the sun, watch me age before my time, a raisin that used to be a dream.

steady justwrite

Much too steady hands, spilling everything within the boundaries, ribbons tied around clouds, burgundy in the sky like a reflection in your eye of my lips, tasting secrets starting to swell, warm fruit in July shipped all the way to January, all the stamps in proper order, nowhere to go from here but up because my feet are growing lighter as I leave my shoes behind for whoever is in the background, so they can finally see my soles and listen to my tongues and tie up their dreams with my laces, stringing sugar from your palms, waiting for spice between your teeth as the seconds wait for no one and trees turn to soil, then back to trees beneath my gaze, a place to plant ice cubes and wonder why nothing ever grows, to plant rosemary then but it dried at the store because everything is faster when you have a credit card or some moral credit, tracing lines in the sand, pretending the beach fades into the sunrise because you want to ignore how untouched the horizon remains, almost a concept except you can see it clearly in front of you, laughing like the time you colored your little brother's eyebrows while he was asleep and he went to school that way, threw his backpack at you when he came home, face flushed as the books spilled out, their titles displayed as vulnerable as childhood when angry voices are just through the wall, reverberating on your soul and coloring the carpet with shadows as you try to cover them with purple and yellow, fresh daisy petals pulled from your hiding place, still damp with spring air, telling you everything will be steady again, much too steady for the edges to fall away.

tuesday justwrite

Fully absorbed into the sky like rain evaporating from my lips as the snow creeps out of the ground, moss frozen pale as my eyes except the parts that are named after flowers that I only know are flowers because they are not trees or birds or the palms of my hands, doors outside opening and closing, the strings in my mind searching for kites. The moon is a kite, too free for me to catch, my hands encased in the cold of a creek, minnows darting between my fingers, not knowing what it is to be afraid of the seas boiling away and the clouds breaking down into minuscule puffs, searching for chimneys, searching for waterfalls, always searching because there's nothing to do if everyone stays in one place, nothing to sing about but waiting, your fingertips spinning invisible yarn because all they've ever wanted is to be warm, to hide, to have somebody find them locked away in a chest floating up onto the shore, anonymous photographs inside, staring back as if they know you, know who you are I mean, have memorized every line of poetry in your face and can see the wind beyond your eyes as the footsteps swarm around you, so sure of where they're going which has nothing to do with where you're standing, in spite of the future when their paths cross over your point and you have to move or jump or sink down even further.

haircut justwrite

Stranded hair on the floor, like wings cut away with nothing left to lift, nothing left to lift them. The wind picks up dust outside, full of hot air so we leave the windows open at night, dogs barking through the screens at sounds they can't remember, me clutching false security close to my neck, pretending I'm not safe, my mother's voice but not my mother, just a brief glimpse of sunlight before dawn when it's raining in the kitchen, bars of soap floating past my ankles as if pocket-stuffed tourists with dangling cameras are on top, missing moments they're too busy capturing so time doesn't run into itself any more except when the film is played fast enough we can't see the gaps or the BUY POPCORN in delicious fonts waltzing through the scene that isn't finished until tomorrow, when the hero, head bowed, cries into his palms and we all wonder if this is what relief looks like, or if we're missing the biggest piece, so far away we aren't even sure what shape we're supposed to be. The house is settling in for the night and sounds like unwelcome footsteps and masked faces gliding past the glass door which won't let my sight through when the stars are hiding behind trees, moths thick like ashes in the air, and I think for a moment that my outline will turn to stone and some day your weathered hands will pour plaster where my heart used to be, pull me out of the Earth and set me heavily on a marble pedestal, blinding me with their flashbulbs.

busy lately justwrite

The true colors on your wrist are hidden with dirt and shadows. The lights are off in this room, thinking darkness is something that truly exists and can bite back. I trim my petals and watch them cover my feet like snow against peaches, still warm from the summer air, potent enough to seal in a box and mail north, where the weather comes from, chased by harsh glares from mountain peaks, rolling over clouds thick as carpet, threatening to fall down onto us if we don't listen for a moment, remember, gather fog in baskets woven by one clumsy hand because it needs the experience, needs to know it can count on itself, whether or not hands have souls. The ghosts of last year's skin haunt me, as transparent as they were the first time they clung to me, veins pulsing bright indigo lightning frozen in time, trying out life and gasping at this new taste. I barely cast a shadow then, and caring faces looked down on my blood-streaked belly, warm and waiting for the wonders I hadn't met yet but glanced through thoughts connected directly to my center, a swelling line to hold me in place until my wings are dry enough, until I've shad my last layer and know my limbs, what they wish. I scream and they try to quiet me, thinking it's pain or complaints or anger, but really it's amazement, my eyelids drawn down like thick curtains before I'm ready, the light poured out through me, soaking into my bones. I clutch frantically at the cold air, trying to make sense of wind, of noise, of color. I don't love these things yet. I don't know their power, their comfort, how beautifully complicated they will be when I am walking, flying, lifting fistfuls of dirt and expecting myself to drop one, content whether it happens or not.