Our Story

This is not a fairytale
I'm not a princess to be saved.
Nor will you swoop in on a
white steed to rescue me.

This is not a Shakespearean play.
I'm not playing a game,
and you wont't need to kill
anyone to save our love.

This is not a Disney movie.
All our parents are alive
and there is no magic,
talking animals, or evil villains.

This is real life.
It may feel like the world is out to get us.
And who doesn't like to be treated like a princess?
But this is real.
This is ours.
And it will last as long as we make it.

The Writer

I'm sorry about the times that I space-out.
The writer in my soul is drafting
and you seem to inspire her.
Don't take my silence, when you whisper love in my ear,
as indifference.
I can't share until I draft, edit, and finalize.
LEt me show my love through my pen.
I'll send you written copies of Browning's sonnets.
"How do I love thee?"
Let me love you through my words.
Written for you.
I'll make you my leading man,
wooing my protagonist in Europe,
or Brazil, the setting isn't set yet.
You're in my every novel plot and poem.
I'm sorry I can't say it well enough.
Follow my pen.
It will show you.

I'm so frustrated I could very well scream and wake the neighbors because of my own stupidity.(Revise)

Spent most of the night teasing you.
Winding you up like
a jack-in-the-box.
Waited for you to explode.

But you didn't.
And that's probably a
good thing.
You sent me home
out your door.

It had gotten colder,
and my shoes click, click, clicked
across the sidewalk as I left.
Lyle, your creepy neighbor,
waved as I walked past.
It is a good thing.
I couldn't have dealt with
the aftermath.

I'm so frustrated I could very well scream and wake the neighbors from their peaceful dreamlands because of my own stupidity.

Spent most of the night teasing you.
Winding you up like
a jack-in-the-box.
Waited for you to strike.

But you didn't.
And that's probably a
good thing.

It had gotten colder,
and my shoes click-click-clicked
across the sidewalk as I left.
It is a good thing.
I couldn't have dealt with
the aftermath.

A Reason (revise)

IT keeps hounding me.
That voice that sounds eerily like my mother
but with a bit more judgement thrown in
for good measure.
IT thrives on guilt.
Poking like a sliver stuck in your sock,
the kind you can't see, but you know IT is there.
Clean
Bake
Drink
All at once.
I'm doing all I can to ignore her. oops.
I mean IT.
There's a reason I don't keep a gun
in the house.

Dangerous, Treacherous, Hazardous You (Revise)

I know
how your hands feel
in my hair
or
against my back
or
clutched between mine.

I know
how your lips feel
against my cheek
or
down my neck
or slow against mine.

Stop

Sit up and move away.
Away from the warmth
of you.

Those hazardous lips
treacherous hands
dangerous you.

In Response to Her Damn Horses

Can any woman
write a book of poetry
that doesn’t portray
men as
repressing
conniving
dictators
whose only goal
is to
kill
steal
and destroy?