Who do you think you are?  

Shouting to me from across more than one sea “If it’s meant to be, it will be”.  

As if love can be safely propped up on the fingertips of stars,

as if the sun were to finally get a grip on reality

and say something like despite how bright she’s been burning lately she’s actually been feeling like concealing some of her light,

how refreshing it would feel to slip behind the moon for a while.  

But everyone knows that not even a planet could disguise the kind of monsoon

I see forming in your eyes.  

A tidal wave of words are crashing my way

and I’ve never been one for surfing but I’m damn well going to try.  

And I know that I’ve never even looked in your eyes

so maybe it’s your words that’ve got me feeling sky high.

You tell me that you’ve been “contemplating the L word”  

You dance around the syllables that sound like “love”

with the kind of wariness we ran from the word “fuck” as children.  

You try and use the letter L as a selling point,

offering up your heart for a dollar a day

but I’m ready to pay in the hundreds,

and if forever is as long as it takes

then I guess I’m going to be here for a while.  

I’ve got a stockpile of savings

from every time I’ve had to pick my broken heart out of the trash

and cash it in for recycling.  

But this time when you dump me out,

I’m going to spend as long as it takes in the rubble looking for the rest of those letters, forever solving the puzzle of “the L word”.  

You told me that you’re not afraid to fall but  

But the fear of heights is the number one fear for a reason

and no one really knows the feeling of the fall

until after you’ve played the part of the rag doll.  

Our moms and dads told us when we were younger,

“When you’re hurt, 911 is the number you call”, so we called.  

But even the kindest doctor cannot foster the broken heart.  

So accept the fact that we’re going to fall,

and figure out what it’s gonna take to fly.  

I want to be the kind of friend that brings along a spare pair of wings for the whoever can’t afford the airfare of another broken dream.  

It seems like we’ve just been sitting here waiting for the cloud cover to clear,

but maybe it’s time we learned how to dance in the rain.  

I want to move my body so unapologetically that the mad scientist calls up the cat lady just to say, “Damn, that girl’s insane”.  

Because insanity has only ever been a measurement of how much life we’re willing to get out of living.  

We were never made to stay sitting so take my hand

because it is time to stand and jump up off of this ground that keeps trying to ground us.

I think…

I come from the Heavens,

For the face of the sky is scattered glowing freckles

that mirror the dark ones on my cheeks and this is why I think

I come from Hell.  

The spots on my face are backwards stars,

Each one makes up a larger piece

of a dark black shard of ice I had to smash through

As I crawled up out of hell after it froze over.

I think…

I come from hope.  

My imagination is to blame for my months spent as a child

Collecting every bird feather I could find

With the intention of sewing them into a pair of wings.

And I come from a hopeless faith because when I realized

That the human body was not meant to fly

I sent prayer after unanswered prayer up into the sky

To whatever God I didn’t believe in

Asking why exactly it was,

That my wings would not grow.

I am now as old as I have ever been

And have aged to know that it’s not the wings

composed of hand-me-down feathers I should be holding onto,

But rather the naivety that propelled me up

Instead of holding me captive.

I want to grab hold to the kind of spirit that doused me

In the belief that


I will be soaring.

I’ve always been good at playing games.  

It all started with Monopoly.  

I collected properties faster than a charmer

who’s perfected the art of hoarding torn-up hearts

and putting them on display

as if to say,

“Look at me… I broke two more since yesterday”.  

Now that’s not to say I haven’t had my fair share of losses…

I’ve been buried so deep under a fictitious flame I’ve resorted to prayer…

and I’m not even religious.

We’ve all been guilty at one time or another,

for being caught

caring too fiercely for things we should not,

and by the time we realize that the sky

is in fact the limit,

the wings we constructed

from our torn up heartstrings decide that the ground is a more desirable collide

as the destination for our glorified joyride.  

I don’t know if anyone ever told you

but cloud nine was never meant to hold anyone up in the night sky

long enough for our signs to align with another’s.  

And maybe that’s why all the star-crossed lovers

I’ve ever met

never seem to survive the nosedive

back down to the ground.  

I’ve met more than a few people who keep a playground

where their hearts should be.  

All the broken and rusted parts

hidden under a new layer of new paint,

because according to our society,

anything with a little variety is with taint.  


Watch out for that wet paint!  

Don’t you see the lines that the masses are boxing you into?  

Being different is your crime

and all the judgement you’ve faced

just sentenced you to a life behind bars…

it’s as if they couldn’t tell just how far back in your mind you’ve been sitting,

as if the greatest prison known to man

isn’t hidden inside your head.  

As if this mind-made lockup isn’t casting shade

over the part of yourself

that used to harbor memories of the days when summertime meant holding a buttercup under your chin.  

Has been are the days when flowers were a symbol of fascination,

at our age,

their silence shouts apologies

for the lovers who have discovered that an unrequited love

isn’t something you recover from.  

I’ve never been good at playing games…

I guess I’ve only got myself to blame.