Whistle for The Choir

Eyes closed
My body
Comfortably curled on the couch
Fingers entwined
Longing to be tangled
With legs and arms.
I’ll settle for nimble fingers.

Distances being mapped out
Behind my eyes
From here to your home
From here to your life
From here to you face.

I couldn’t stand to think of distances
I let my hand slowly fall away.

Silence and people breathing
Became a lullaby
Starting to sleep
And you wake me.

You stood over me
Blanketing me in the chill
Of the summer night.

Van Gogh's stars look like eggs.

Laying in the dark of my bedroom. It's ten twenty and I should be sleeping, but I can't stop wondering why I let that one glow-in-the-dark moon stay stuck to my ceiling for so long. I used to have a galaxy of stars and moons and planets stuck to my ceiling. I probably convinced my mom to buy them for me on one of our trips to A.C. Moore. All the planets were unique, all the stars looked exactly the same and all the moons were trying to be unique, but all had the same number of the same sized craters. One Moon is left standing now, well, technically sticking to my ceiling. Every star and planet has fallen out of my pseudo sky over the last 6 years.

This one last moon is almost completely centered in the middle of my ceiling. A dried up rose is pinned next to it. Where I got this rose I don't remember. Why I leave that lone moon on my ceiling I don't understand. Maybe it has become a representation of who I was, because I never noticed it until now, glowing in the dark.

The puddy like glue that I used to keep the other constellations sticking is still cemented there above me. The puddy marks are just random dots of glue, but they seem more like scars to me. It's like the false sky that I pasted up years ago was a representation of who I thought myself to be. As years passed I found out I was not any of those things and the stars and planets started to fall. Before I began my junior year in high school I had an argument with my parents in which I exploded and shouted that, “If my ten year old self could see me now, I would hate me!”. That is when I had one last moon to stare at all night. I had the one last piece of myself that I knew, and that was only the fact that I existed.

Now, I am soon to paint the whole night sky on my ceiling like Vincent Van Gogh. It could chip away, but only if you had the right tools. It will be a new representation of who I can become and part of who I am now, because I am no longer one lone moon, I am a galaxy again. I am my own night sky dripping with color and swirling with lights.

The Irker

It's not like you could just tell the wind to stop blowing and it would. Your not God. You tell the wind solemnly that since it will not change it's course, and will not warm it's edges, you must build walls around you and a roof to guard your hair from stray breezes. So you've finally, slowly, built up your guard. You start to remember the feelings just a little breeze could give you. To play in the wisps of your hair and neatly place it behind your ears, because he likes to tease you, and he knows it makes you feel like a child, and it irks you. But you smile because you get this feather duster feeling where your heart is. You remember and it hurts now,you yearn for the wind, and you want these walls to fall, but, You've forgotten the door.

Don't Worry, His Bark Hurts More than His Bite.

If i could show you once or twice
how it feels to pay the price
of letting impatience and pride walk tall,
and you would surely bear it all.

If you would sadly start to shed your hair
so i could calmly notice that trees of hemlock line your brow
then kisses of lips i would allow.

Then if you could kindly just pretend
to care a little more that you do
beacuse the water dripping from my face is saltier than dew.

Unmentionables

There they lay.
Like some perverted masterful prize.
As if they could be a symbol of her changes.
They no longer fit yet she wears them anyway.
When they are worn they wander beneath her clothes.
Slipping along well-known curves.
Slopes known by any man in this town
Or some few passerbys,
That never seem to just pass her by.
Printed with fruits they mine as well be a symbol of the last year gone by.
She was picked fresh and so now is no longer considered ripe.

The ball of cloth laid out like a story book for all.
The tag had been cut off in the first week.
Then came unexpected rain,
Red stains were cast there too.
Holes speckle the front,
Borne there by inhuman teeth.

She sits staring at them,
Shriveled up on the cold cement
She’s Remembering the faces of all those who have cast them to the ground.
The pleasure and power were never hers to have.
However, money keeps the hungry fed.
So,how does one choose between dignity and fruit?

The Meltdown

The words came out like they would've if I was having one of my melodramatic meltdowns. You know, one of those complete mental breakdowns where you ask yourself, “Why?”, over and over and you roll around in bed wallowing in your emotional pain for a few hours. My meltdowns aren't usually like that. I lay on the bathroom floor in my winter jacket, repeating famous quotes on life, and reenacting personal scenes in which I fall victim to the fates of the world.
These words, however small, came out with so much umph that it caught my full attention. I was rummaging through everything in my room. Tossing aside any inanimate object that wasn't damned to a life of burgundy flower print.
I'm headed out tomorrow to stay at my sisters. She has an apartment in New York and I'm going to stay there for the weekend. It's a chance to get away from my daily stresses. I find it slightly ironic for me to be getting away from stress by going to one of the most stressful cities in the country, but I'll try anything. I would be able to finish my packing if I could just find my hideous makeup bag. I'm supposed to be sleeping, but I can't sleep knowing that I've misplaced yet another item of importance.
I get down on my hands and knees and press my face to the scratchy pink rug. I glance around under my bed. Boxes and boxes full of papers and from this view point it looks like I have a heavy smoking habit. Empty Marlboro packs lay scattered beneath my bed, having accumulated over the past few months. The sight only makes me wonder why I can't remember where I put that hideous bag since science has supposedly proven that nicotine improves focus and memory. I stood, frustrated, and paced a few feet, then let the exasperated words pound out of me.
I had startled myself and reacted by staring into the empty space where the phrase seemed to loom around me.
“I'm so lost.”
I had meant to say it jokingly and almost meaninglessly. I only meant I was completely lost on where the ugly makeup bag was last placed. But that phrase, Those words,They lingered in the air like a noxious gas. I suddenly felt suffocated. I cocked my head to one side; wondering how three short words could come out in such an oddly overpowering shock wave. It continued to resonate over and over in my skull till I was shallow breathing and collapsed in fear.
I slowly dropped to my knees, hugging myself and hyperventilating. I pressed my cheek to the rug once again. Warm and scratchy and smelling of laundry, mud and smoke. I saw no mud and I haven't done laundry in a week or two. I also don't smoke in the house. The smell was calming, distracting in a way. I've heard people sometimes can't notice their own scent. Maybe people don't notice it until they need to. Maybe it's our own scent that calms us.
It would be interesting is someone could know everything about you just from the way you smell. I don't know if it would be possible though. Take the smell of the carpet thats pressed against my face for example. I can say I smell of clean laundry,mud and cigarettes but the reasons as to what that means about me, are hidden away beneath my skin. I can tell you that my laundry detergent is homemade on the stove top out of borax ,water and bars of soap. I can tell you I live in the woods, on a lake, and walk through mud multiple times a day when walking to and from the bus stop. I can tell you I have at least one cigarette everyday. However, this still doesn't tell you who I am. All you know is my scent and if your intelligent, my mental stability.