bookchick0

I am the kettle and you are the pot let me show you your wrongs in your dented reflection   as water simmers to a screeching boil screaming at a fault-line, waiting for a stable temperature: I am the kettle, you are my pot moving forward only as we move back, a treadmill going too fast. see the mistakes, looking at you, my mirror, I see my own blurs, smudged from another; for I am the kettle, you are the pot.

I remember my father rubbing his hands together almost all of the memories I have of him include his hands, Wisconsin winter, chilled quick or slow, the friction relieved tension he wanted to bite his nails and he did and if I could go back I'd tell him to try harder, to be more; I'd tell him I love him. I don't blame him. I remember him at Christmas, or I remember his family, I can't remember if he was ever there. The lap of luxury is a hot seat when the expectations are so high morale can drop even further down. I notice myself doing this, as well, but for a different reason.

poems are arbitrary like woman's love or man's hatred to generalizations.

the feeling of days: lost when did you wake up? Time zones out and            lift in the fog of brain drain                  without sleep on a plane            but both planes served break                   fast croissants so you feel lucky.            probably too much coffee as you hear the bell and cyclists ring (you soon learn on a Sunday the bells are always tolling right outside but there are less people so you can sleep) and you have made a vegan friend that reminds you of someone you used to know but that shouldn’t be important.               learn together or not at all. yesterday was 4 july 2016 and it passed without

to be             isn’t to say “let’s get coffee?”                                 early mornings sun rise        crow caw you roll           over                  Never for crows. I get coffee                 meet my true love but before leaving I stared for far too long,             not yet used to what I— or we—just did.

after a date at noodles & co with john smith or doe   we talked about our majors and our families and places to which we had been.   [he is sweet and I want a connection with him and I’m not sure how long it will last, longevity is impossible to guess (so fucking don’t!)] the golden tower of people who are somehow happy, that damn feeling suppressed left in the      depths of the          whole.   “will you lose me?” asking my lover, but knowing not to ask questions I don't know or want the answers            neither of us can                          know            what will happen upset and hurt—bu

rain here is the state of droplets in the air an occasional shower, not a bucket pour; it's different yet it is by definition the same perhaps that's what makes it so unsettling.

my insides are metaphoric: depressed syringe.   your compliments: a slap in the face, sincerity cringe. stop my binge fumbling to find 50 pence, goddammit! a child of needing—the unhinge. your words twinge nerves in my back is turned, in the fringe; but alas my bed can singe even you.

privileged to walk outside to enjoy nightmares to have no father feeling nothing    and everything toward my mother. to love with many demands,           with no demands; to be  hypocritical—                      to feel: lazy, stupid, pompous,   intelligent, reactionary—      blank. to have no take-aways to know my triggers,            ignoring yours to steal your take-aways—                        making them my own.