Letters to Myself : At Fourteen

You're more than half my age but you think you're wiser
than everyone.
What you don't know though is going to cause so much hurt.
Love deeply,
that boy in the next room, for he will be taken from you
much too quickly.
These years will become a blur before you know it, so
let go.
Be something other than what they expect, don't
be afraid.
It hurts a lot, but it's going to
get better.
Find another way to express
your pain.
They're going to lie to you; don't believe everything
you hear.
You won't even think about half of these people when
you're older.
Being cool really isn't the most important thing; just
be real.
Start saving money now; put it somewhere you can't
touch it.
Someday you're going to find yourself in another world entirely,
enjoy it.
Twenty years from now, you're going to be happy and
in love.

Absinthe

chartreuse concoction
captive in a crystal chalice

pale preparation,
a piney palliative in a pellucid phial

verdigris venom
revealing revelry in your vision

I Regret You

a voice like raw silk
eyes, pools reflecting a springtime sky
words that touch, grasp, grope

knowing you feels easy
feels true and old and sexy

conversation inspires
ignites passion
the inevitable flare burns
too hot

I regret you
not in knowing you
but in having to let you go

Not Enough

Why do you do this?

A better question is, why do I let it bother me, I think.

I know you love me. You do, don't you. Yes, you do. It's in your agonizing eyes, in your searing touch.

So why does a simple call make my tortured heart clench, my throat tight with fear and pain and aching need?

Fear.

Because I'm not good enough. I know you'll say I am. I'm not.

Afraid.

One day you'll leave, and I won't know how to live.

Is it all in my imagination? I hope so.
I pray so.

Nothing burns deeper than the flames of my doubt suspicion breeds angry flames that lick and scar my tender flesh.

Untitled

Her world harbors violence.
Pain. Fear. Lust.
Breeching the Commandments is her life.

In her world, all these things are imaginary. Figments of the overactive minds of the pleasure-starved.

Faces are just words strung together to form meaning.
It's only as real as you want it to be.
[It's only as fake as you want it to be.]

Flowers. Amethysts.
Indigo and gold make up her words.

Nothingness exists only in the minds of the nothings. They are the ones who fear it. Who claim it. Who make it their world.

Her world is passion. Lust. Love. Sex.
Her world is pleasure. Joy. Hope.
Her world is freedom. Not their freedom, but her own.

Snowed In

crisp white blanketing the ground
untouched by the foulness of mankind
pure

each falling crystal a mirror
revealing its facets upon cool glass panes

flame licks at evergreen logs
breaking the quiet with hissing and popping
warming the dark night air

nothing moves
nothing but the falling snow
my breath upon the windowpane
the flames that destroy to give life
light
warmth

Between

Between you and I there is only air.
There is only breath.

Nothing else should matter, nothing else should stand in the way. We should not seek to put these obstacles between our hearts. So why do we?

It hurts more and more each time.
I cry harder.
You hurt, and scream, and make me want to fly away.

When did it become so difficult? When did something so simple, so intrinsic to our human nature become so heart-wrenching, so painful?

Now between us there is air. There is breath.
And tears.

But even with this I still seek your arms. Your love matters to me. You matter to me. Not even the hurt, when hurt is fading, can take that away. Not even the tears can cause me not to see. I see you. I love you. Even now.