wordplayground

inhale
like a first breath
after holding in
holding on
to stale air
for years

and this
this fresh air,
at once
you realize 
it's equally 
refreshing
and dangerously
addicting.

i'm learning to
say 'nothing'
be uncomfortable
step back
hold my tongue
nod my head
realizing
it's not about me

now

my sister knows my secrets, things
i never even told you
it was never about a real phone
call, it was the disconnect
and having repaired the line
these words become our past

i opened myself
to my mom and she proved 
everyone wrong when she responded
"that's okay" and now,
she loves me as i am, although 
she probably always did.

so we've moved on from these things and
the words remain as a reminder
of where we've been, they're
a cautionary flag of the devastation
of anger unharnessed.

but they're not now.

wrapped in mesh,
a metaphor for how i tried to expose myself
selectively.
i used to hand out pieces
spread so thin so
no one could make a whole
from their collection.

your fingers whisper
softly across my skin,
relishing each imprefection
until all in turn felt perfect,
bringing forth a wet river
of heavy breathing and a 
racing heart, which
in the interludes, hesitatingly
(and yet without hesitation)
opened itself to you
as never before.

my heart, which so often 
gave the perception of open-
ness, knows it has been shielded,
alone. it builds a window, but
your fingers, experienced in 
these things
do not want what's inside.
my heart wants recognition
of the window, because people
actually had to die
in its construction.
"look at me" it cries
(silently) and with pride, but
your fingers do not hear.

they are preoccupied 
with finding the answer to life, and
my heart could only 
answer for itself.

allowing myself two steps forward only to take three steps back in precaution was still a negative progression, just like how with movement to the side you could never really move on.
/
i developed a rational formula for calculating panic, an irrational occurence that can't be contained, only to find that divergence from the formula itself would cause anxiety.
/
i wanted to be the girl who didn't hold anything back, so i learned to give that impression without really letting go. i would still ration truth and trust in bite-size morsels that you could never really sink your teeth into. it would take the patience of years-after-the-fact before anyone could understand, yet mostly i filtered everyone out long before that time. and just as my family never really stood a chance in the wake of a grandfather, my friends would never stand a chance in the wake of someone for which i now realize i have no title.
/
this year i've come out in more ways than just the obvious, sometimes just by staying in the moment or really being seen. and just as i find myself grown up enough to go home, i've also discovered how to hold on and find it difficult to let go.
/
a habit is born out of a single occurence and its result, despite the weakness in the causal logic. in anger i refused to use my last name, and when my life was saved i wanted never to be identifiable again.
/
i frequently end sentences with prepositions. that's something i can know.

let me go back to another time, 
another day, 
and start over.
there have been too many tears, 
at twenty-three
my well is running dry.
too many loves, 
too many introductions,
good-byes,
too much packing, unpacking,
too many memories in storage.
there are too many unread books,
unplayed c.d.s,
pictures in boxes,
too many faces i remember
only when reminded.
too many numbers:
714. 949. 805. 661. 219. 317.
she doesn't live here anymore.
change of address,
times sixteen.
and who could keep up?
maybe that was the point.
and while i may have been sincere,
i shorted every
one
along the way.
i was looking in so many directions,
my mind racing with so many thoughts, 
you could be two feet to my right,
or two thousand miles to my left,
and i would still be in a world of
make-believe, where