in the sun, sun having fun.

a day at the atlantic.
a basket full of scones and lemon curd.
sunshine and sand.
homemade dinners.
cups of coffee.
biggie snuggles.
platonic soul mates.

these are the some of the ingredients to make up a good day.

boys are cruel but girls are meaner.

i am a dance. trapped in a mason jar.
shake me like a firefly and see me alight.
i am a song. trapped in a bullhorn.
shout into me and hear me cry.
i am a love. trapped in a doll.
pull my string and listen to the screams.

i drank my bottle of sorrow till it became joy.

she rolled over to face him and curled into the nook of his arm.
it was like she was born to be in that place. in his warmth.
he pressed his mouth to the top of her head, drinking in her smell.
she felt safe. she felt right. she smelled like ripe mangos.
he shut his eyes tight. hoping the noise of his heart fluttering would wake her up.
he had never felt a stronger urge to be near someone.
it was more like a craving.

with a love like that, you know you should be glad.

If she loves you, if she really loves you, you’ll know it. If you can wake up to her staring at you and it’s not even mildly creepy, if you catch her smelling the shoulder of the hooded sweatshirt you lent her for an autumn walk at the beach, and not for B.O., if she makes you a pancake in the shape of a shark, if she calls you drunkenly at four in the morning “to talk,” if she laughs at your jokes when they’re funny and makes fun of you when they’re not, if she keeps her fridge stocked with Guinness tallboys for when you come over, if she tells you how she wishes she were closer to her sister and that her dad makes her sad: She loves you, of course she loves you.

-PASHA MALLA

first corinthians eight eleven.

he was a cool moving piece of blue mountain song.
his trees would sway in the wind of my breathe.
the mountain goats collected in his throat.
and when he spoke, he spoke of mist and dew.

he was a tall glass of whiskey, shot down into your veins.
smoothing through my body, silky and sensual.
his ice tinkled onto my tongue and melted my senses.
and when i drank of him, i drank deeply.

he was a peacock strut, a feather fanfare, a broken victrola crackling my skin.

he was a cool moving broken piece of song in my head.
his notes would flatten up to my breast. over my heart.
the tunes would fade in and out and in and out and in and out
and when he sang, he sang of past indiscretions and future heartbreak.

he was a warm mug of seduction milk
made by your mother after an evening of sweaty dreams and fear.
he tingled into my fingertips soothing me down.
and when i drank of him, he burned through me.

he was a peacock strut, a feather fanfare, a broken victrola crackling my skin.

he was comparable to a Joni Mitchell song, calling you home.
his voice a shaky one swirling inside my head.
the curtains giggled in the movement of his notes.
and when he called to you, he made you feel lost and alone.

he was like a bottleneck coke on a summers day
crisp and clean, sweating down his glass body as i inch closer
he was meant to be swallowed down in large gulps.
and when i drank of him, i drank deeply.

he was a peacock strut, a feather fanfare, a broken victrola crackling my skin.

with a peacock strut, he entered.
stage right.
two steps.
pause.
slight of hand, trick up my sleeve.
wind whips, feathers fluff.
exit stage left.

skip kiss.

i move, the minutes fall out of my pocket.
one, four, seven, eleven.
ticking away from my grasp.
falling away from an open space.
I'd like to write a letter to time.
asking it politely to stop.
slow down.
wait.

go back.

go back.

go back.

I'd like to petition time to go back.
to start over.
I have given time alot.
its time for time to give me something back.

i want to dance. i want to drive with the top down with both hands flying free. i want to have a world free of drama, instead of having a state ID. i want the true meaning of heartbreak to punch me right in the face and leave me wanting more. i want to light candles and listen to tommy. i want you to change my life. i want i love you's in the morning and i can't live without you's at night. i want to go to the bathroom with the door open, always. i want to be on stage with the burning lights guiding my way. i want to fly. i want to know everything about someone. i want comfort. i want to eat anything i want and not feel (or see) the effects. i want to be on time. i want to shake hands with johnny cash. i want to catch the disease of time. i want to be in 5 places at once. i want to be forgiven. i want to break all my bad habits. i want to let go of anger. i want to sit in the sun and just laugh. i want to lay on a beach all day and not think. i want to give me away. i want to lose all i believe in, and find it again. i want to really get locked in. i want to go home. i want tight squeezes of the hand and heart. i want someone to realize who i really am and never want to let me go. i want someone to fill my sorrow. i want to steal all your catch phrases. i want to laugh. i want to dance. i want to ask for more. i want to be broken and put back together again and again and again. i want to stand on my own mountain top. i want to go to ireland. i want to be. i want to mean to you what you are to me. i want love, not like. i want more, always more. i want to laugh. i want to dance. i want to learn to drive a stick shift without stalling. i want to learn to let go of you. i want to taste you. i want to move. i want to shake. i want to dance.

i want to dance.

once bitten, always a heart surgeon.

im just missing this connection.


i crawl through the spaces in your lungs
and climb up the ladder of your ribs.
just to get a little bit closer to your heart...

my hands get sticky
i loose my grip and slip down your esaphagus.
i roll past your heart and reach out to grip it.
but my hands are slippery.


i just missed that connection.


i want to be your bob dylan
i want to be your magic trick.
i want to connect and conspire.
i want to squeeze your heart till it pops.

connect to me like a connect four game
black to red to black to black to redredredredblack...
red like your insides.
black like your lungs (you really should stop smoking now.)

i need your easy silence to drip into my overzealous eyeballs.
i need comcast to be cheaper
those bastards.

fix you.

as humans we are all prone to believe that the bad things in life will skip over us.
maybe because we are "good" people.
or because we believe in karma.
regardless of the underlying notions we have, bad things do happen.
cars get wrecked. people die. love is lost. tears are shed. you loose things you can't replace.
the worst part is trying to lead some sort of "life" for yourself.
a life thats not really your own because you left your own behind.
packed in boxes, and stuffed in bags.
hoping that no one would dig it up or dig it out.
but your new "life" is one you were enjoying.
until
your old life reared its ugly head and smaked you in the face.
reminding you that you left things behind.
i never thought of myself as selfish.
until recently.
i suppose in our own right, we are all selfish. to some extent.
we do things because they look or feel right.
we move away.
we smoke.
we drink.
we hurt people.
we put up walls.
we leave family.
we leave comfort.
to have adventures that don't really belong to us.
possibly to just have something to grasp. something to cling to.
some smidgen of something that seems real.
i long for something real.
its like im stuck under water, with one arm extended through the surface....
waiting....
waiting.....
waiting......
i've waited my whole life.
now i take shallow breaths.
im always near tears.
i give pretend smiles and fake laughs for the benefit of those around me.
but, the truth is,
i'll never be me again.
because the me in those boxes and bags has curled up deep inside me.
is laying in a hospital bed with needles and patches stuck to it.
is crying in an empty bed.
is a 14 year old girl who was forced to be an adult too soon.
is a brother who has to be a dad.
...is a girl who can't find a real home....

time, is on my side.

i wish i had a time machine
i want to go back to that time, even a year ago
when i was happy
when i smiled
when i didn't worry
when i still had my dad.
i want to go back to the time when boys were nice to me
when i didn't worry about money
when i didn't need a car
i want to go back to early morning "good morning" texts.
and late night phone calls.
if i had that time machine i'd go back to christmases not spent together.
and fights that were had
because i think there is truth in the pain
i'd see all the meaningful movies again
i'd laugh so hard i couldn't breath
if i had a time machine
i would date all the boys that wanted to date me
i'd hug my family more
i'd go home for that last thanksgiving
i'd tell my dad i loved him
i'd have asked him every day to quit smoking
just to know, that i did...
i would kiss all the boys, and dance with all the girls
i'd listen to my friends more
i'd trust more

if i had a time machine,
i'd go back to when it wasn't so hard.


but i don't have a time machine
and i can't go back
and im starting to wonder if going back would even make a difference.
and im starting to wonder if its worth every ounce of blood?
and im starting to wonder if the happiness im searching for is actually in the past.
or if i have to simply learn from all my mistakes.

but i still really wish i had that time machine...

the man was pure poetry in motion.
he waved his hand and stanza's fell from his sleeves.
when he opened his mouth, beauty tumbled down like a prisoner breaking free.
he spoke of nothing important and waved to nothing in particular.
but he moved me, like fresh blueberries on a summers day in the park.


the man made me want to reach into the heavens
grab God by the ears and kiss him on the mouth
(in a strictly platonic way, of course, it is the Almighty, after all)
he made me want to ride sharks bareback and tame the wildest of seahorses.

the man made me feel one with the universe.
made me hope for something more that my pint of golden beer.
made me long for the comfort of curling up on my fathers lap at the age of 2 and falling asleep in long car rides
the man made me want to rip myself limb from limb to start over.
to begin anew.

the man, the man, the man.

the man. the man across the bar.

and give me back my broken parts.

the first real memory i have, by normal standards, is not a "good" one. although, if asked honestly. i would have to say, i don't view it as being good or bad. being happy or sad. it is merely a memory.
Around the age of 2, I was living in Big Bear, Ca. with my Mom and my older brother who was about 4. We were living with a man named Bob. If I passed Bob on the street today, I wouldn't know it. I do not remember his face, I do not remember how tall he was, I do not remember if he cared about my well-being, or fed me my cereal in the morning. What i do remember is that every night we lived in that house, my brother would come and pull me out of the crib to come and sleep in bed with him. My first memory happens on a night like that, Scott had pulled me out of my crib and we, for some reason (probably scotts idea) crawled from his room and snuck into the living room and hid under the dining room table. The scene that lay before us, was my mother, quite possibly drunk or high, and Bob. They were fighting, pretty fiercely, and Scott and I remained under that table and watched this man hit our mother, over and over and over again. Looking back now, I do realize that this is not a merry, happy-go-lucky memory. Not one for the books. But to this day, I do not have a feeling of fear or sadness when I think of that night. I would have thought it all to be a dream, if Scott's first vivid memory was not the same one.