Distant

distant subjectivity

unplugged soul

polarized bond

frozen warmth

unrecognizable love

foreign familiarity

scary alienation

confused normalcy

dizzy perception

Flamingo

dizzy pink flamingo 
stares into neverland 
keeping meds down 
til sleep envelops  

bored mad by quarantine 
sleep, sleep, come, sleep 
movie distracts 
from threatening nausea  

sad drama knows me 
worn journals to phone ringing 
movie won’t pause 
despite mental absence

Bed without sleep

Bed without sleep, full of vacant boredom.

Sweet, floating away dreams drift, til insomnia cackles “never.”

Thoughts bounce off everything. Even stillness grows hyper.

Dread urges forced quiet, as sunrise looms nearer,

but endless tossing resumes

and failure brings exhausted frustration.

Not

sanitized silver stalls shield scuffed soul

from silent figures

who only ignore, observe, stare, and ogle

while papers and passport

warrant the usual identity frustration

tequila tangles today’s tiresome thoughts

after unfamiliar family pries

near confused recesses that are mine

and a relationship status change

deletes concrete aspirations

exhale exudes unexpressed exhaustion

no plane will leave behind

as it pierces the sky

bringing tomorrows ever closer

whether I’m ready or not

Ana.

Please,

let me be

simply

Ana.

Let me live

as an essay without abstract,

pirate’s trunk without treasure map,

and undocumented comet.

Define me, if you must,

as an improvised patchwork being,

ephemeral mirage,

and gypsy collage.

Don’t make me claim

a country of ancestral descent,

language of origin,

or family tree.

I will not pronounce

a bulleted outline of my life’s agenda,

exegesis of past occurrences,

or report of my present sentiments.

I do not fit into

a personality test result,

list of implied obligations,

or eternal legacy of inborn traits.

Save your myopic documentary of this soul’s aura

for my epitaph

floating from a nomadic breath of wind

down to the rise and fall of the restless Pacific.

Cows

The faded sky cries.

These eyes can’t.

I’m over it all though,

Of course.

Wind flies between my fingers.

Take me away.

Fast.

Please!

Cows feed their babies.

Where’s mine?

Can I be a cow?

That would be more funner.

I wish I were a poet.

That would be romantic.

And dramatic.

But I’m too tired tonight.

Let’s go to Cuba.

Forget school.

I can be a maid!

Can I be yours?

So, I think we should get married.

Cuz I like you

And today you said my ears look good.

I think that’s a pretty good reason.

I’m not high,

FYI, Mr. Polo-and-Sperry’s!

I’m going to be a real counselor when I grow up.

Since I guess I can’t really be a cow.

Cramps

Quiet cramps kill ambition

Invisibly eating strength

Diluting muscle

Inside

Slouching sloth seeking relief

Horizontally active attempt

Ease pain

Bedridden

Medicine meanders millimetrically slow

Finally settles sedatively

Deep drowsiness

Erases

Hi

I waited

For the sky blue box

To pop up in the corner of my screen

Saying “hi”

From you

One syllable

To free my heart

And tell me you care

At least

That’s how I read it

Or would read it

If only you

Wrote to me

Right now

Wherever you are

But you aren’t

And I don’t understand

What goes on in your thoughts

Or

What doesn’t

I skipped dinner

I skipped dinner

again

to avoid you.

Your shape,

my eyes dodge it

instinctively.

Those eyes

soft

menacing.

Is it me

who makes them spear my lungs?

Am I irrational?

Really,

what is your face?

Your eyes?

What are you,

but a feeling,

but pain?

Why should it hurt?

Happy memories

that are no more,

…that are no more.

I killed

them

mostly

didn’t I?

I did.

Emphasis on the “I”

I killed them.

I ended it

us being Taco Bell hobos,

homework parties past dawn,

memories on The Couch,

tickle fights.

It was my choice.

My decision.

I also put an end to the other fights though.

Those with tears.

Arguments

that demanded Excedrin.

Too much.

That left me alone

when I shouldn’t have been.

I ended it.

Yet I fear you.

What is it

that makes me seem an ant

soon to be squished

in a boy’s fist?

Being replaced

so easily

and seeing you happy

now with her?

Wondering if she’s just as “amazing”?
Sitting

watching you do with her

what you once did with me?

Probably d.)

All of the above.

It hurts.

A lot.

Still.

So I skipped dinner

again.

London

I got lost in London

To find myself,

I thought.

To figure out who this person I call me

Might be.

I looked for traces of me

In the slim blonde businessman

Chuckling with old friends at a pub

Over a chilled Guinness.

I looked in a fishnet-clad girl

Searching vacantly for a customer

On a lonely street corner.

In a blue-eyed boy

Staring at me

As he clings to his mother’s skirt.

I even looked in a mob of hungry grey pigeons

And a bottle of Spanish wine

For something that was me.

I found London has a culture

And I want to belong to it.

I want to have old friends

To drink a Guinness with

I need a street corner

That feels mine.

Even pigeons belong to a park.

No.

I didn’t find me.

I spied on a city full of people

With their lives rooted in London.

I didn’t find me.

I found people

With roots I’ve never had.

So I drank

The bottle of Spanish wine that is not me.

But it only made me more blurry.