Rolling Pains

I’m running my fingers over my stomach:
a hill filled country,
a necessary plane.
And I notice the birth marks,
the little freckles given to me from both time
and sheer existence.
I think of how the sun will turn the peach fuzz
that forms a line to my sternum, golden,
I think of how it will disappear with the tan.
I think of how the sun will be the only thing
to kiss my stomach for the rest of this summer.
And yes,
that makes me sad.

Glorious Ache [Rest]

Stop holding out your hand
like he can see the baggage that
twisted Indian burns
onto your fingers.

He doesn’t know the difference
between your lowest moment
and your highest,
the same way he doesn’t know
why one of your front teeth is chipped—-
all he sees is your smile.

We always talk about scars,
us poets;
our demons,
our pasts,
how one of us
is more
unlovable
than the next.

We don’t realize that
scars come from wounds that have healed over,
that demons
are just fallen angels,
that our past does not have
to repeat itself.

So take my heart in your hands
like a stopwatch.
We can run this race together
or wait until the alarm goes off.
Either way,
we will be together,
sprinting or benched.

I have not wasted bandages
to never risk re-opening my wounds.
I have not tried my hardest
so the next time could be easier.

Love
is all about that glorious ache.

That fear of falling before you fly.
That jump you take,
where there is no him,
or I,
but an us,
and goddamn it,
he will not notice
the blood under your fingernails,
or the dirt on your knees,
so please,
just realize:

You are covered
in new beginnings.

He does not see your failures
in the gaps of your teeth.

Let him peel off your layers
only when you’ve found peace.

Light Inhabited

He stares at me like
my skin
is alive with fireflies
creating constellations
in my eyes
and I am but a hive of
glowing
glowing
gone—-

I am so gone,
because he stares at me
like I am light inhabited
and I wish I could show him
just how endless the dark sits
in the pits of my insides.

I wear brightness as disguise.

I let shadows love me
with the pull of the tides
and I watch
his heart beat
glowing
glowing
gone
in the palms of my hands,
sift out the glass in the sand,
grow ash on driftwood and

I watch the fire die
and want to tell him
no amount of lit jars
with holes poked in the lid
will bring him back to life.

Sometimes,
illumination is hiding
a soul painted in twilight,
just trying to survive.

A Letter to Mr. Frank Lee from Yours Truly

Gabby,

your father is a good man.

 

A phrase that has been ingrained

on the sutures of my brain since birth.

A phrase my mother has repeated constantly,

in apology for my father’s rash actions,

mean words,

rude sentiments,

and lack of common sense.

 

Gabby,

your father is a good man. 

 

The night my father told me

he loved my mother out of practicality

was the night I realized dreaming was

fruitless wishing.

 

But your father is a good man.

The day my father told me

he wondered how his life would have been

without my sister or me

was the day I realized

we threw a wrench in his fantasies.

 

But your father is a good man.

The night I graduated,

 

when they called my name,

my father stood up and applauded me.

I plastered a hand to my mouth to keep from crying.

 

Maybe my father is a good man.

 

The dozens of Wawa runs my father has made,

where he has always brought me back

a pretzel and a Wawa iced tea.

 

Maybe my father is a good man.

 

The half a dozen breakfasts to Malaga

where over creamed chip beef and

three eggs over easy we discussed news

and the Holocaust.

Where my father could sober me one minute

and then say something worth tweeting

it occurred to me that:

 

My father, might, be good man.

 

The night a boy told me

I was brainwashed

for believing in things I cannot see;

for being narrow-minded and

not choosing fallacy of my own accord,

my father did not expunge his own views on me.

He was an atheist,

and he looked over at me from the driver’s side

with tears streaming down my face

telling me to hold on firm to my Christianity.

I am slowly realizing:

 

My father is a good man.

 

And the night.

over half-priced appetizers at Applebee’s

I explained how I wished

I could take away a boy’s pain

from a girl who did not love him due to his age,

my father told me, don’t even bother because

he is not working toward getting a job

that will pay for his meals,

his bills,

eventually his family—

he is making nothing of himself,

and there is no way a boy like that

deserves someone like me.

I can see why my mother thinks:

 

My father is a good man. 

 

My mother looks me in the eyes as she says:

 

Gabby,

you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger.

How do you, of all people, not see,

your father is a good man? 

Babe: {Terror}

I want you to scare me.

I want to fear the fact that you are willingly to fall for me.

That you will charge forth willingly and blindly,

and wait in the silence, in the darkness,

for my fingers to entwine with yours.

Perform open heart surgery.

See inside of me what others shrunk back at,

the internal workings of my complexity.

Maybe it’s slightly interesting?

The range of my music taste from Dani California, to Fat Bottomed Girls, to Give Me Love, to Clap Your Hands < 2NE1’s song.

The light in your eyes will come from

whatever sparks your curiosity.

I only pray you’ll be able to take my fragility.

And break it:

Break in my spontaneity, 

my willingness to try you out.

To try the inner working of whatever might be if we become a “we”.

Eventually.  

Will you make me believe in the physical attribute of beauty again?
It’s so easy to look at flowers and oceans and skies

sunsets and sunrise

but never my own reflection.

Sure,

I know I’m pretty enough.

But is that worthy of over-used words such as 
“Beautiful”?

Yes; they cheapened it for me.

Will you beg to know my secrets, my fears and dreams,

regrets, and failures,

just because you claim they are pieces of me,

pieces that you want to keep?
Pieces that you’ll hide in your heart like scripture, like a lock of hair,

if only so that when the time comes for me to flee,

you won’t only be left with memory,

but with tangibility?

(I should’ve considered that with him.)

When I meet you,

will it strike me then,

like lightning?

That the tides have changed,

the time has come,

and now I will have to start all over again;

this time with one who wants to dive in,

(so he says)

with one who fears only my rejection,

because he wants to love my flaws,

fearlessly.

Flaws

We sat there.
You scrolled through videos, talking and laughing to yourself,
And I laid by your side,
Tracing…
Your hand in mine.