the poet

my hands are dirty; stories and secrets and generations mixed in with the dust. wash them— my mother says—  there are germs. but— the stories— the secrets— all of that came from an afternoon of running my hands over their dusty, dirty spines. i want to see more than just their skeletons.

sight—  beauty which cannot be conveyed any other way. sound— wonder which cannot be described. smell— allure which cannot be bottled up or written down. taste— memories which cannot be felt or heard or seen or smelt. touch— comfort which cannot be met through a different route. can i say all? no? well, then— i choose the experiences they create; for maybe the sum of the parts is better than the whole.

the claustrophobia of these confining sheets: the restless panther in its close, cold jail

am i the only one who wants to be a celtic maiden somedays, running through the moor with my cape and hair trailing a foot behind me, mist clawing high as my shoulders, cliffside and forest looming out of the shade? or perhaps a 1920s beauty, all sequins and glittering eyes and nightclubs, laughing and dancing because the war’s over, a new age has begun, because i  can ? but just think of being a retro 70’s girl, with records and instant cameras and bootleg pants paired with poofy bomber jackets that really should never have been in style. milkshake dates, neon lights,  just. 70s . but there’s also urban girls, all tough lipstick and leather jackets, lounging in alleys with a warning on their face, walking down city streets like they have their name carved into the cement, forced confidence (or is it?), leaving you second guessing and wanting to stay. but working girls! in 1899! starting a resistance and changing the world, fighting tooth and nail and pen to write...

most often silence. fists clenched, lips raw and bleeding from nervous habits, shadowed faces. standing in front of you, arms folded, waiting for someone to break the quiet. you? me? most definitely not me. all the language in our body, our mouths refusing to speak. the stillness is heavy with blame. silent treatment is what we call it, fear it what it usually is. don’t make me the bad guy when it’s your fault, it’s easier if we just skirt around the issue. but the pounding rhythm in our heads: it’s your fault, it’s your fault, it’s your fault —like a marching bound parading to war. sometimes loud. very loud. doors slamming, hearts racing, voices raising. grudges wait expectantly between the lines, ready to shove their monstrous heads into the conversation and bring up the past. standing nose-to-nose, trying to make you to see eye-to-eye. it never works. stubbornly clinging to my innocence, wringing out justification like a worn-out cloth. weak excuses flying from both our lips, ...

what doesn’t kill you doesn’t always make you stronger. it can leave you scattered, fragments of your soul lost to the wind. it can leave you as a crippled version of what you used to be, and wave a picture of your former self in front of your face as a tantalizing reminder of what you can never get back. it can leave you shattered and haunted and begging for a mercy that will never come. what doesn’t kill you can maybe make you wish it had.

you can find me somewhere between the lines of my favourite books, lost in the vintage record section of any second-hand store, and tattooed on all the pages and strings and keys i have ever touched

i’m in love with the feeling of raw humanness. the groggy morning smiles, eyes foggy with sleep dust, hair ruffled by your pillow. i love creases on cheeks from the wrinkles in your sheets, i love gently covered yawns and stretches that take up all the extra space. i love moments that show us half awake but fully alive, just a small snapshot of the unaltered human state.

it was, somehow, large enough that it could be filled with all of my feelings and still have room to understand

the colours are going to change the leaves are going to fall, spiral, drift, fly without wings down to the ground. and they will hit bottom— dead. but they are not the end, just the possibility for a new beginning for the leaves will return fresh again & darling, take this bracing assurance  wherever you go that  so will you

the night knows me better than i know myself. 11am has seen my desperate struggle for breath, my choking as the sheets tightened their wind around my neck; 12am has seen my earbuds pushed deep in my brain, a melody spreading like a stain from one ear to the other- 1am has seen my empty gaze, my vague silence because i just - can’t - sleep; 2am has seen my furious scribbling that i have to get out or die; 3am has seen my aching heart, pounding itself against my ribcage to be loose; 4am has seen my violent screaming that i can’t stop inside my head.

there’s a great deal of space near the beginning of fall-time. all that summer was has shrunken in its skin and molted, and left behind a great aching space that the fall has not yet filled. it feels that the only way to occupy it again is to lie down in the grass, now cool with the burn of the sun, and breath the crisp air and feel how it scorches your throat like smoke and wind your fingers around and into the leaves to hear them crackle, and then slowly, slowly, the space will be filled until it is near overflowing and fall will have come.

-but still, i rise

when i die, when they lay me in the ground and scatter me over with dust, i pray to leave behind a legacy of overstuffed bookshelves and hearts flooding with warmth and a rushing feeling that i have done something worthwhile. and i hope to look up into the blinding light of how i imagine new life to be and hear the words, “well done good and faithful servant”, and even if i had doubts before nothing will ever prepare me for the torrent of relief and love and worship that will fill me to the brim at hearing that voice

I remember a time where truth had one meaning and wasn’t hazy like breath on a glass; where i didn’t have to worry about picking myself up from shattered fragments of my wrong choices, where the lies had slithered in between us and guided my hand. i remember a time where truth was white, and lies were black— but now everything’s grey and i hate it, i hate it. now it’s all a mess where we question everything we heard; where suspicion is a killer that surfaces between us  and seizes our words and crushes our meaning and returns it, broken and battered and saying something else entirely. now a foreign voice, not me at all. i remember a time when i trusted everything and everyone trusted me, and the things that the world tried to wheedle into our minds were just feeble inventions that we knew better than to listen to.

dusk creeps softly through the city, so slowly at first you hardly notice. it dips down, weaving itself into chinks and alleys and narrow splinters until everyone is aware that it’s arrived. it settles onto the things that in the day aren’t so frightening.  not so frightening, perhaps, but far less pretty.  and the stars follow quickly behind

get out get out of him i will bite and scratch and burn; i will become a tornado, a hurricane, a cacophony of anger and rage and pain— and it will all be meant for you i will rend you asunder tear out your eyes with my nails i will not rest until you leave him alone you leave him alone this girl’s love will defeat you and you will burn and oh, how it will make you scream in all the agony he has ever endured

he painted in blood-red with his fists; she painted in  light , as if she were the sun itself.

I have chalkboard shoes. They are supposed to be white, but somewhere between the box and my feet they were smudged with tar and age and now they’re mostly black. as though someone slapped a chalky eraser onto the laces and never swept it away. 

i have a fresh pencil, lead cut to a stark point and missing its eraser. it rests, ready for battle, in my hand. i grip it like a weapon, fingers taut against the edges. I have a brisk sheet of paper, blue lines marking out the battlefield. thirty blue lines resting against one red line. it is there to keep my word from slipping away and getting lost. and i have not a single idea in my head. my weapon stands idle; its point is pointless without my words. my battlefield waits in anticipation. but my brain is empty; no jagged bombs ready to force pain in the mind of my readers; no hidden tripwires ready to snare their thoughts and stagger them with its cleverness. my words don’t often fail me, but today they have. they don’t assemble crafted words into pretentious sonnets or trickle astonishing narratives into your ears or stain this paper with black and white bursting into colour or paint images of dragons or the sky or anything

when your demons threaten to overfill you; when you can’t hold back the fear as it crystallizes into anxious tears; when you are lost in your own head unable to find the way out— let me in so i can outwit this maze with you. let me at your demons, let me tear them apart with my teeth

you expected so much, what did you expect?

i never talked -  not because you had told me i couldn’t, but because you had never told me i could

ares is nauseous. he wanders through the remains of a middle eastern elementary school and a city street brought to rubble by terrorists and feels sick. he’s stopped glorifying war a long time ago, this is not what fighting for your country should be like. no part of it is heroic or valiant or courageous. just senseless killing, so much senseless killing. he cradles a disfigured child in his arms and screams for it to stop. zeus is bored. justice isn’t existent anymore. his charisma is fading, his cat-calls are growing increasingly more brash. he’s desperate for something he can’t put a finger on. he’s useless, disregarded, alone. and he’s beginning to realize that he’s in the wrong. hera is angry. commitment has vanished, now she walks tall with her hands clenched in fists, confident in her own strength, ready to teach women about their own power. poseidon is sick of having to rinse out pollution and chemicals from his water. his charm is being replaced more and more by h...

I watched the stars until my eyes burned. desperate to keep them open but finally succumbing to the ache and allowing them to close, only to snap them awake a second after. i watched them, like dust all aglow, like splashes of watery paint flicked onto white paper, as they hovered above me. they were teaching me how to exist in midair.

our puzzle came second-hand, missing a crucial part of its plan, lost somewhere in another’s living. i won’t be able to complete the image.

i am italicized -  relating to thought or foreign words. hardly strong enough to stand up straight, instead slanted over balancing my weight on one side from all the times i’ve been pushed away.

i, i was taught to lie i was taught to lie through my teeth and i, i was taught to hide i was taught to hide through my tears and i, i was taught to mask i was taught to mask through my fears and i, i was taught to smile i was taught to smile through my screams

it was probably nothing but it felt like the world

her battleground was dangerous—a void of despair—but it was part of her nature to wear her sadness so well. she was the only light in her dark world, trying and failing to spread it further. they say that the stars that are the biggest burn loudly and die quietly, quickly. she was that star, freezing herself to throw light as far as she could reach.

She’s sitting in the passenger seat, backpack held close to her chest to protect her from the road ahead. She’s leaving herself behind, and she’s scared of what lies in front of her. She’s sitting in the passenger seat, watching again as the road changes in front of her, helpless to pull the wheel or push the brake. She’s sitting in the passenger seat, her new guardian beside her. Only fifteen years old and already she’s seen the walls of six different buildings to call home. She’s sitting in the passenger seat, pulling out of the driveway of her last prison. Her backpack is balanced on her knees again, she’s keeping it close; the one thing that has never left. She’s sitting in the driver’s seat, feeling the wheel turn under her hands as she pulls out of the agency’s parking lot. Her backpack is sitting across from her, its familiar battered face a comfort. The road ahead of her no longer holds any fear, for she’s the one in the driver’s seat now; she can go where she w...

inspired by people-watching. inspired by the perfect words that roll off of your pen. inspired by making flowers bloom. inspired by noticing the little details. inspired by small libraries and big museums. inspired by the smell of lavender and sage. inspire by watching fingers chase each other across the keys. inspired by late nights and early mornings. inspired by the sky. inspired by the warmth of green tea. inspired by windows and doors. inspired by wolves. inspired by the secret of the stars. inspired by road trips and plane rides. inspired by hope. inspired by courage. inspired by dark coffee. inspired by messy buns. inspired by hugs. inspired by the world. inspired by inspiration.

she’s a flower— a wallflower. but this flower won’t bloom. shrinking in a corner, pressed against the wall. seems like a part of her is wondering if she exists at all. she didn’t get the memo that told you how to be—  she’s wandering and hopeless and too afraid to leave. watch slowly as she withers, starving for her sun; longing to be a part of something or someone.

my parents gave me the middle name soleil - sun; surrounded by beams of light.  often i forget that there is light at all, that the sun still shines in another part of the world. and my name then transforms into a reminder,  that perhaps i can be the sun—  the light for someone else. on that day when my own sun seems to have disappeared,  maybe i can be the light that i am looking for.

she called me brave.  she said, ‘autumn, you are brave. i admire your courage.” i don’t know what she’s talking about.  i don’t feel brave.  but oh, how it’s nice to hear her say it. maybe you don’t have to feel brave to have courage.

would you rather learn the truth knowing it could hurt you, or stay silent wondering if there’s a chance? i can’t make up my mind

nothing ever ends beautifully. it ends with harsh finality, clapping a black screen in our faces, and we turn it into poetry to take away the sting. our beauty comes from our confusion, our loss, and our struggle to heal.

my biggest fear is falling short. of being so close to where i want to be that i can almost touch it, almost taste it, but my fingers slip and i fall away and everything disappears into another  a l m o s t

my heart is trapped in that smile

“just tired,” she whispered in response to the simple question of 'how are you' “just tired,” she muttered in reply to the constant refrain of 'are you okay' “just tired,” she repeated over and over again but you could tell it wasn’t just a lack of sleep that made her this way it was a lack of hope 

i won’t tell you if you hurt me, i will tell you if you are hurting someone i love when my sister starting crying because she was upset, i yelled and railed and locked myself in my room for her sake when my brother was concerned that my dad’s anger was because of him, i talked and cleared things up and put myself in the way for his sake you can hurt me you can be angry with me, even unfairly you can scream and stomp and judge it’s okay, i won’t confront you on it but if you dare to hurt someone i love believe me, i will whip my head up so fast that you can’t see my fingers until they’re around your neck do not hurt them unless you dare

sometimes her fingers sang the music of stars.  sometimes they shone with the light of the sun. but most often they slurred and stumbled in the blackness of night. then she would fall across the keys and dash tears away with the hands that caused her so much pain. and she could only hope that tomorrow the sun and stars would shine again.

sometimes this love can feel a bit too much like loneliness.

if you will love me, love -  do not love as the sun will,  with bold light that drives away gentleness;  that fills every inch of me, pushing away my darkness. for i have darkness. but i don’t mind it, sometimes. love me as the moon will love -   lighting up the dark, but not driving it away. just revealing what is hidden, yet beautifully there. reveal my stars, love

there is something just beneath her skin.  a tingling, a sort of humming in her veins.  it vibrates her bones, pulsates in her throat.  it’s always there in the back of her mind, always close enough to reach out and grasp.  she makes a point of ignoring it.  but it’s getting louder, and she's not sure how long she can keep it away. it whispers secrets in her ear, things she can’t forget: “let me get lost” “let me wander” “let me find home” it resides deep in her soul and she’s fears that one day she will be forced to listen.

she longed to be caught up with the wind -  to wander with the rushing waves and ramble along grassy banks. she longed for crowded cities and silent alleys -  for stars to be tangled in her hair and a song to surge from her lips. she was a gypsy soul with a itch in her heart for the unknown

have you ever heard the earth breath? how it whispers your name in the breeze? pulses with laughter in the ocean’s roll? echoes with loneliness in the mountains? screams with fire in the open air? it’s that sound that is ringing in my ears right now, calling me to come away.  to come home.

i really like the idea of having a book laid out like a tent. On my bed, my desk, the floor—wherever it fits. It makes me happy that if I need to, I can go, pick it up, and get lost in its pages. I like the certainty of having a book to read—no need to go through the challenge of picking one out and beginning. It’s like my books create a sort of fortress  —a fort into which I can disappear. The tent-shaped books scattered around my room remind me of that haven.

Every day I grow and learn. Each new piece of wisdom I discover stabs me like a dagger in my heart. These truths are painful. I’ve realized that good thing don’t last long, not even half of forever. There’s always a last page to every book, a last bar to every song. Every night the sun sets and darkness mantles my shoulders, and I will always be lost in the dark again. Alone again. Small again.

The smell of crabapple blossoms in the spring.  Morning air, breeze tousling our hair.  Fingers full of white, green leaves dotting the bouquet and bring a breath of laughter to our lips. It’s the scent of joy, the aroma of spring souls

she loves change.  she loves the feeling of being unknown in a new place;  where no one can recognize her,  where not a single soul has looked on her face.  there’s something exciting about being the unknown in someone else’s familiar.

i’m restless again.  tossing and turning,  ankles twisted in my sheets and hair spilling over my pillow.  i feel the familiar itch in my chest, the one i’m careful not to touch. but the ocean is drumming in my ears,  it’s calling me away.  my hair longs to be tousled by the kiss of the wind and pinned up with stars. there is no rest for the tired, yearning soul.

parallel lines -   they share a moment together but never meet. they have a split second where one looks up and notices the other; they might smile, offer a glance or nod,  but in the end, they divide. it makes me sad that they had one moment before drifting,  as if they just tasted what could have been, wondered at the possibility, but never took the risk and were condemned to wander the rest of their line alone.

i don’t know how to respond to stunning beauty.  the kind that makes you freeze and feel like you’ve been hit in the chest,  the kind where you can feel it tingling in your toes; as if you’ve seen something otherworldly. i want to capture it, but set it free,  i want to display it to the world, but keep it for myself,  i want to snap a picture, but memorize it in my mind. there are so many contradictions running through me that i forget about the beauty in front of me.  and then i can't respond, because it’s gone

i never want to loose the scent of apple blossoms and lilac buds.  i want to drink it in, to have it fill me and overflow from my pores.  but the flowers fade, the aroma grows dull -  and i can’t hold on forever