there's simply too much.

[Backdated - 18 February 2011]

There's simply too much. The body cannot endure the things through which we make it suffer. Once delicate, fragile, touched as though a petal - turned to weathered appendages that have seen too much, toiled too much, lost too much.

It is just a perfectly haphazard slop of chromosomes and blood, incredibly housing the viscous parts that keep us alive. Nothing more. But we know no other way to show our gratitude for what it does than to abuse it. We inhale carcinogens or imbibe ethanol to deadly degrees, and then marvel at how, one day, the body simply forfeits the game, unwilling to be a contender any longer.

But what else can it do? It has no choice but to relinquish its crown, crushed underneath the debt of this thing we incredulously call Life.

The Girdle of History

the chattering of obedient silverware

married with the hushed and quiet

fadings of laughter and lifesharings

come scampering down this

horrendously-pattered carpet,

speeding through treads created by

the boots of workers

(suspiciously like servants)

and the heels of high-brow ladies who are

wrapped up in the furs of once-alive creatures.

the comings and goings of luggage carts

and thousands of stories

are embedded into each frayed thread

(well, the reds and beiges, at least,

but perhaps not the sea-foam).

the cheap perfume aroma of far-off edibles

invade each nostril,

masking the faint odor of history

until i cannot remember who was here last

and i am once again distracted by a

thunderous commotion,

trailing behind its owner like a curious puppy on a leash.

the flesh-colored wallpaper is encrusted with

songs and tunes from who-knows-when,

like a meticulously baked pie,

drowned by the clamor of present patrons.

how i wish i could breach every layer and

play each soundtrack against the

delicate needle of a phonograph.

the padded thud of a boot against the carpet

forces images of tasseled dresses and feather boas

from the depths of my cluttered crown,

reminding me that we will all someday be

the soundwaves captured in these walls,

waiting for the day someone will set us free.

Hauntings Are Not Reserved For the Dead

i am fairly

certain

that if you were to

r e a c h(stretch,stretch)

out for me,

your hands would pass

right thro(in and out)ugh

me;

i am an illusion.

i am the lingering remnants

of who and what i

used to be.

i have faded and weathered,

like the photograph that

sits on your

cob-webbed window

sill,

bleached by the

sun's

too-powerful strike,

my corners curled

and my edges worn,

my structure broken

and my chemicals diluted.

i am

nothing more than

some vague silhouette of

a girl

who once existed

in a once-beautiful world.

i am nothing

more

than

a ghost.

I Am Nothing if Not Ultimately Undeserving

i remember what it was like to be

clouded and obscured(in

a way unlike now), when

pain seemed more warming than laughter,

and darkness seemed brighter

than sunlight.

i remember the dull,

gnawinggnawinggnawing

ache in the depths

of my chest

at every forgotten call

and every excuse

as to why it was acceptable

for him(whoever he was)to disappoint me.

i remember that tears weren't common,

despite the feeling of a dull blade

piercing the breastbone,

but they fell once or twice

at the thoughtlessness and carelessness

that oozed from his every action.

and it is because of these

memories(how i'd rather forget)that

i sit quietly now,

eyes silently watching him

as he goes about his life

and about his world,

wondering(what incredulous wonder)how

on earth i have managed

to earn him,

wondering what it is that

he sees when his

eyes silently watch me,

wondering when his body will next be

slumbering against me,

wondering.

thanking.

forgiving.

loving.

Home Sweet So Long

I had spent my entire life searching for it, and there, across the Atlantic and seemingly across the world, I had found it. Amidst the Mind-the-Gaps and District-and-Circle-Lines and proper pots of tea, I had found it.

Distinctly, I remember slipping in earbuds that were leashed to an iPod, sliding said iPod into my pocket, and strolling (at an acceptably hurried pace) down to the post, perhaps to buy some stamps and a souvenir trinket of sorts. Weaving through throngs of meandering people, past sidewalk cafes that boasted lots of prawn (terrible) and rocket, past hidden windows and doors built into an unobtrusive stone wall at the clashing of past and present, I found it.

I found it in first looking right instead of left when crossing a road; in needing to purchase an extra coin-carrying purse because, for God's sake, why was everything up to £3 in coin form?; in traversing a Waitrose (admittedly not as good as Sainsbury's) and picking up a package of chocolate biscuits for nothing more than 50p; in waiting for friends in front of a large, over-sized memorial to Victoria's late husband, thinking him golden and rather trapped from atop his black steeple; in asking where I could find the Ladies' and having someone understand that I didn't mean to find a group of polite, young women; in purchasing a packet of crisps in the most ridiculous of flavors while tossing back yet another pint of Strongbow (and/or Guinness, though not simultaneously); in staying past last call while in the company of newly-formed friends (and perhaps a fleeting romantic interest), drinking more than I really should, but not regretting a single moment when waking up only a few hours later; in grabbing a pasty on the way to class then later wondering why I had thought it a good idea when frantically trying to find a Ladies' around the East End; in every double-decker bus that I never really took; in every Underground and every Oyster Card and every "top off" station I needed to find; in every smell, every sound, every tiny fleck of air that lathered my skin on that beautiful, entrancing island.

I found it. It was there. Years of unanswered questions seemed all but trivial. The biggest concern I could manage to have was how much time I had before the local opened and if I could manage to scarf down a dinner consisting of oiled noodles, salad, and bread in a reasonably quick amount of time. Tomorrow didn't matter, really, for today was all I needed. It was all I wanted. Please, give me another heaping scoop of this here and now, barkeep. I could ask for no more.

And just as quickly as I had found it, I lost it.

From the wrong side of that tiny, fogged frame that forced me to watch this magnificent world get smaller and smaller, I said good-bye to the only place I've ever felt home. I said good-bye to the friends I made, to the memories created, to the adoration and ardor I felt in a place I'd not known for all of my life, yet could never, ever forget.

I had no choice but to say good-bye.

When the Metamorphosis Would Not Come, Acceptance Was the Only Answer

I am who I am.

There may be moments where I wish to be somebody else, but I cannot be anyone but me.

My hips crack if I bend over too far. Only one knuckle cracks when I attempt to release the trapped air inside of my joints. My belly bulges more than I would care for it to. My left foot is slightly bigger than my right, which makes finding comfortable shoes a little difficult. I cannot put eyeliner on the same way on each eye as my left one opens up a little wider. When I have cried and gone to sleep afterwards, I wake up with eyes that refuse to open all the way, covered with lids that fold three times instead of two. My right front tooth is chipped because the filling that was put there following a root canal broke away. My cuticles are ripped and tough and all-around unfeminine. The fingers on my left hand are calloused from my many attempts at playing the guitar.

But I am me. I am who I have come to be over these twenty-three years.

I am the girl who hid under the basement stairs, making up stories and games with imaginary friends. I am the girl who found solace in climbing every tree possible, perched in its branches, viewing the world from what seemed a wondrous height. I am the girl who saved earthworms from the dampened piles of leaves that collected at the curb as her father was raking. I am the girl who could be entertained on long car rides with a paper bag full of books, crayons, coloring books, and word games. I am the girl who needed her mother and grandmother to help her hit all of the arcade alligators as they came out of their hiding holes. I am the girl who made her father ride the log flume in Busch Gardens dozens of times, who laughed each and every time he pretended to be surprised when they suddenly plummeted to earth.

I am the girl who spent her time in the library with her friends in high school. I am the girl who had a radio show every Tuesday afternoon. I am the girl who played melancholy songs about love lost and love unrequited, followed by a song that made her dance around the room. I am the girl who went to a predominantly white-bred college located in the middle of the ghetto. I am the girl who struggled with herself and her identity for her entire life. I am the girl who cried herself to sleep because she did not know who she was or, more importantly, why she was. I am the girl who dreamed of a woman she cannot remember, but knew once. I am the girl who contemplated taking her own life because she could not reconcile all of these differences. I am the girl who found renewed hope in life and in people after staring Death in the face. I am the girl who found God through religion, only to lose Him again, then find a form of Him in another religion. I am the girl who still cannot decide what she wants to do with her life or where she wants to go. I am the girl with too many interests and too many hobbies and too short an attention span. I am the girl who cried over boys who broke her heart when she foolishly gave it to them, hoping that "this one" would be different. I am the girl who found love in a man who caught her by surprise. I am the girl who closes her eyes when she kisses this man, even though she could stare at him for days. I am the girl whose hand he takes and squeezes when they are walking. I am the girl who stares through these eyes and inhabits this body.

I am who I am.

You cannot ask me to be more. You cannot ask me to be less. You do not have to accept me for all of these things. You do not have to like me for any of these things.

But I can be no one else.

I can only be

Me.

Not Just a Haunting in Connecticut

& no matter how i try,

something always ling(haunting haunting)ers.

ghosts are prevalent in this

ivory-and-entrails cage:

the faint wailing of

memories long

long

suppr(in order to

survive)essed;

the fading sobs of

who she used

to be(she can

never

go back);

the rushed

and worried

breathing of

who she will come

to be(unknown);

the shattering echos

of a heart once

untouched(once

pristine),

now disfigured;

these unsettled and wandering

spirits are plentiful.

constantly swirling

and constantly fighting,

grappling over who will be

victorious.

there is no calm

to be found

here.

only resigned

acceptance.

'Til Kingdom Come

Sometimes

it doesn't feel like it

really happened. O

ther times, I get th

ese vivid flashbacks

to what feel more like dr

eams I concocted than the

recollections of a part

of my life. But I know

that it was real. I

know I've felt completed a

nd whole. I know that I've

walked those dreary stre

ets and felt the Kingdom rai

n on my skin. I know I've been

HOME. will i ever feel it again?