Russian Doll Prompt- Think of an Object (I Open X and find Y, I Open Y and find Z, so on…)

I open my car door and find a street with a black snake of tar ripping through like a border from an old life to new

I hobble over the tree that invades all space and reaches its roots into my waist to take hold of my stomach and whisper “hey, it’ll be okay”

I open my mind to the possibility of running before I ring the doorbell and find I am frozen in place

I open the door to find a brunette, big smile wearing my same shirt

I open my mouth to say “it is okay, that means we already got rid of our one mistake today” and I find that pressure picks up its suitcase and waves us goodbye and wishes us luck

I open the door to the Museum of Fine Arts to find frames filled with prompts for my humor

I open her hand when she asks me why the hell I haven’t held her hand yet to find this is going to be easier than I thought because she is confrontational

I open the battery compartment for the TV remote so we can watch our second movie of the day and find that though it is SpongeBob, it beat the first selection by a landslide

I open the plastic wrap off the peeps in the middle of Randall’s to find a stomachache around the corner, and go on to find that my heart won in a match of rock paper scissors and said “suck it up we still have to kiss her”

I open the mail-slot on the porch of my best friend’s house where we went in a panic because I forgot I was cat sitting, to find I am a good liar

I say hey come help me with this the door is locked

I open her hands once more and set her things on the floor when her back is turned and after dishing out commands and summoning the most courage I can I give one last order:

Kiss me

She opens her lips in that breath-snatching smile and we find that a year and a half later we never had to close ourselves from each other because like that date nothing happened for so long but everything happened so fast

and life is tailored to us

The Saddest Word I Know

The Saddest Word I Know

Is hollow

For I’d rather be filled with 1,000 wasps

Or perhaps trapped in my own tailored punishment prescribed by Dante himself

Recognized by me because I am someone with a body to tailor punishment to

Someone with a mind to torment and a heart to break

Than nobody at all

When I graduated my teacher assigned me a word with speed, derived from lyric

And she called me an active participant in my own life

And I never felt a more beautiful assignment, a compliment with more weight

Than that of a comment with density and interpretation

Because I’d rather be non-stop

I’d rather take a turn too fast and hit the wall

Than to stall

I’d rather be my biggest fan and my worst critic

Than to have nobody read my name and to have life, or death, assign it nothingness

In silence tell me that my servitude was worthless


And I’d rather be filled with 1,000 butterflies

And feel my illness at its peak, and to turn in my sheets and watch the clock climb with struggling old limbs

Than to never feel worry with its partner excitement

To never hear them argue with each other before a speech

To never hear them make up and take a vacation and hire a babysitter named peace of mind


And I’d rather love at 1,000 times the normal amount to love someone

And accept 1,000 times more risk

Or love even 1,000 people and open myself to loss

Than to live this life without connection

Than to feel emptiness not only in my ribcage

But to have bones like a bird

And fly above the connection darting like movie magic on the level where people walk and exchange smiles or even peripheral awareness of each other

I love these heavy bones and this loaded transcript I carry in my synapses

The saddest word I know is hollow, and the implications that follow

Spinal (A Poem on Loneliness)

Solitude feels like an itch between my vertebrae as I am unjustifiably exhausted from routine

It smells like nothing because I don’t catch smells from the air, I only breathe and I only know this because it is the last standing measure of my living, I only see grey and white and I only speak longer conversations with the future and shorter words with myself and others in present time

It feels like clean hands because I am not digging through emotions searching for remedy

It is less sleep and blurry vision

It is losing grip on the ability to ask for someone’s language and with that their time and their care

It is losing the ability to reason that they would care if you can’t

It is a passive, secret longing kept from even yourself

It is craving without remembering the taste and without conjuring an image to match it

It is mute     and      slow       and         a silver veil between yourself and the world you don’t necessarily despise

I just fail to notice or invest myself because I do not see a reflection in high definition staring back at me in the dreary oval above the sink

I do not see that which to invest

I only feel the spinal irritability and the longitude of time

I am only a submissive participant, a cameo, an extra, in my own life