Some Ever

ever is changing
tides all the time
blue trails of algae
to tangle in your feet
i wanted to watch
you walk
i wanted to congratulate
you
your back to me,
the ship sails at nine
mermaid eyes,
be a lover
tattoo each bruise
your absence creates
on my fetus heart
still growing
anchor into me some
promise, some ever,
just don't give me
glass to watch turn
into the sand.

Love Magick Anthology

My short story "The Listening" was published in the Love Magick Anthology, edited by the fabulous Francesca Lia Block. More information can be found here:

http://francescaliablock-lovemagick.blogspot.com/

Bones, Part One

“She Is Not Me”

I feel like this is

Internal combustion

Spread thin as a

Wire.

One wing curved over

The other, the bird is

Sleeping.

This isn’t me- who

They say I am, who

I should be with this

Disease.

So ugly, the obsessive

Wish for a magazine thigh

While cutting into your own

Bones and flesh to become

A disappearing act.

I am the magician. I hold

The hat, the wand, that

Red velvet cape. I am

Aware of the precise moment

I need to fold myself

Into an origami girl.

That is the difference,

Maybe.

I am aware.

.

“Just”

I did not want to be

Here. This has to be an

Accident. I don’t even have

A problem, not the problem.

I’m just small boned.

It runs in my family, these

High cheek bones.

It’s an incredible thing,

My metabolism.

No, I don’t want to talk.

I can’t believe you can

Just do this  to me.

Just sign a few papers and

Pull me into a sterile room,

With sterile stares and pencils

Scraping. I don’t do anything to

Make me this way.

Why can’t you just let me

Go home?

.

“One Follows the Other”

My heart is a bird

Beating hard to

Get out of my chest.

Out of this room

Where I lay on a

Cot shivering in an

Embarrassingly thin

Gown I can see my

Nipples through, down

The hall, out the door-

The doctor tells me

Severely that my heart

Is in danger of giving up

On me.

I think he is trying to scare me

But I feel hollow and I think

Maybe

I would be glad to go.

“Archer”

I watch their backs

As they walk away.

My mom is curved in

Like a bow, my dad might

Be the one to loose the

Arrow. I hate them for

Doing this to me, for

Destroying my tiny ribbon

Of control, for giving me up

Like a flea bitten dog to be

Tested on.

I’m told to lay down for

Blood pressure checks, to

Stand up for another

Blood pressure check-

And then I’m laying

In a crumple of dizziness.

I tried to say I have to get

Up more slowly. I think

I did. Oh hell.

They are telling me

I have to get an iv

Feeding me.

“Fine”

My day has been turned

Into blocks of time. I

Hate being told when I

Will do this or that. I’ll

Have bathroom breaks

That are supervised, three

Fucking meals and two snacks,

And if my blood pressure is too

Messed up, I’ll be forced to drink

Gatorade. I hate Gatorade. I hate its

Neon colors screaming out at me.

I hate the way it tastes. I hate the

Idea of being watched while I

Drink it.

It only gets worse: I have to

Go to therapy practically all

Day long, groups and by myself to

Stare at a wall. This isn’t for me.

I am not like them. I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I swear to god you are all making

A huge mistake.

I’m fine.

“Circle of Feelings”

First group therapy goes

Like this. A sheet of paper

Featuring emotions in a wheel

Is passed around. Every other

Girl seems psyched to see it.

Like, oh my god, do I feel

Vulnerable today? I frown at

The words, then at the other

Girls. The expectation is that

We are to go around in a circle

Sharing the words that fit

How we’re feeling.

I listen to anger and fear and

Pride in gaining half a pound.

When it’s my turn I just

Sit there feeling stupid.

Feeling nothing. I feel not

One thing on the circle.

“Fucked.”

“Do you want to tell

Us what you mean?”

“I don’t fucking

Belong here.”

“Reasons I should Get to Leave”

I don’t count calories.

I don’t weigh myself.

I don’t obsess over models.

I don’t exercise.

I don’t take laxatives or

Diuretics.

I don’t make myself

Throw up.

I don’t care what you think.

I think for myself.

I’m not this, I still have

My period.

Okay?

“Reasons I have to Stay”

I was signed in,

I have no choice.

They tell me

My heart is failing.

They tell me

When you starve

Long enough, your body

Starts to eat your muscles.

Your heart is a muscle. It becomes

Your unwilling dinner.

They show me charts with

Low iron, low this and low that.

They tell me I need to take this

Serious.

But it doesn’t seem real.

All that is real is my sudden

Total lack of control, total

Forced surrender, it feels

So broken it can never be

Fixed-

I can’t agree to any of these

Things. Not even when I

Feel my heart forget a beat.

Not even when I’m hooked

To machines.

“How do you be a good patient?”

This is my individual

Therapy session. I

Am so uncomfortable.

I could joke, I could stay

Silent. What would I say

Anyways?

Every bit of my turmoil is

Mine alone. She won’t

Understand. She has

No idea why, and a

Magician never reveals

Her tricks.

“Rachel”

Tell a happy memory-

I watched my baby

Sister sleep.

Her hands were

Tiny and waving to

No one, her toes were

Curled and her smile

The most pure of any

Smile that could be

Smiled in the whole wide

World.

I could hold all of her

In my two arms,

Feel her breath and

Sigh contentedly.

She won’t be like me.

She won’t, which is

What makes this the

Happiest memory I’ve

Got.

“Just”

I’m not unique,

It’s okay.

It comforts me.

Every star I see

Has been seen,

Every tear I’ve cried

Has dried on some

Other’s face, and so

Why should there be

Long goodbyes? There

Will be a hello somewhere…

I just know there is

Another girl who starved

For perfection the way

I starve,

The way I can’t count to

Save my life, forget it,

I just won’t eat anything.

I am not hungry now,

I know she’s out there with

A compliant stomach.

I covet her eyes, her

Long brown hair, that

Girl somewhere out there.

I covet her honesty, inside

Of her is not the smear of

A secret, it’s just nothing.

Just skin stuck to insides

So pink it’s a kiss of

Lipstick, so pretty. Why

Am I not her completely?

It gets away from me.

“Crystal”

Therapy 2:15

Her face free

I mean it was

All there

Uncaged

Brilliant and

Unnerving

The way she

Sat there tears

Trailing muddy

Paths through

Foundation

Her voice heavy

And breaking

What her father

Did I won’t repeat

It’s not my job

Is it my job

To listen?

Her story is

Carving a hole

Through me.

“Army Green”

He told me

He loved me

He fed me

Fruit from his

Family’s tree

So sweet, so

Bitter the heart

Beats.

We ran through

The orchards

Screaming and

Laughing

We ran through

The orchards

Where he caught

My hands in his

“I don’t want to

Leave”

He told me

He hadn’t long

Before he shipped

Off for basic

Training

He told me

I love you

I felt like I

Had to bury him

Mourning with my

Hands apple blossom

Held over his heart

He put the fruit on

My tongue,

I closed my eyes and

Felt his lips brush mine

I closed my eyes.

“It’s A Mean Painting For Here”

I could stare at

That painting for

Years.

Children playing

Flowers and

Kittens.

What the hell is

This doing here?

All I keep hearing

Are these coughing

Cries of girls with

Childhoods like rows

Of broken fences

Torn apart by hands

That they kept

Reaching their pale

Arms to for comfort

The fences keep us

Safe inside the world

Of consequence

Alcoholism was

Sandra’s parents problem.

They kept her bruises

Safely hidden from the

Social workers. She

Still loves them

She told us that

When she showed off

Her scars.

“Sirena”

Maria reminds me of

A mermaid,

Her voice is a

Lullaby being born

She sings soft songs

To me, while I lay

There getting my

Blood taken.

I hate the way it

Feels getting  sucked

Out of me when

I used so much of

My energy just to make it

Just to get it

Sucked out by a nurse

Who tells me not to

Whine

As if I do this to

Myself. I’m not

Holding the needle.

Maria’s voice,

I never asked

For her friendship

For her do re mei’s

But she gives them

To me, and for the

First time here

I let someone

Hold my hand.

“Teenage Lightning”

Stupid things to ask…

Let’s get to know

Each other through

Mundane inquiries.

Who is your hero?

I listen to actresses,

Pop stars, social princesses,

Models who pose for

Gucci.

Do I have to participate?

If I do none of these

Bitches will know who

I mean

No one knows, not really,

Anyways.

Nikola Tesla. He means

Everything to me.

“Spider”

What does it mean to me?

Purity, nothing inside me

Muddying things, Such a

Fine web of control that I

Am spider over all. My thread

Thin limbs climbing

Towards the goal of

Spinning a way to hide

Even bones beneath 

Such beautiful nettings

No one can stop my

Escape.

“Learning”

When I was a little girl

I ate an orange

Enamored  with the

Color.

The beautiful peel pulled

Back to reveal such a

Sweetness it makes me

Weep to remember-

A perfect summer captured

In that taste.

Until I could not breathe,

Until I could not see

Beyond the bright spots in my vision

As I slipped into a half conscious state

My grandmother’s long fingers

Snaked down my throat.

She pulled out the fruit,

She pulled out my mistakes,

She pulled out my teary air,

She pulled me back to life.

The fruit of that tree’s

Knowledge was death,

She told me so sternly

To remember to chew.

What I remembered was

Not to taste,

Not to listen to a craving

Which could render me

Mute.

“Clothes Hanger”

Kara has

Five inches of

Dark roots

That she is

Obsessed

About

She twists

Blond blond

Strands around

Her finger,

Pulls up her hood

And scowls

Unmercifully.

She is so tall

And so thin

She told us she

Models

And she told us

She is sick of

Being a clothes hanger.

“I am Alice”

This is a madness

No caffeine in

This cup for a

Tea party?

I hurt myself

As best I could

Through the thin

Skin my nails tried

To dig

How can I be expected to

Suffer through any further

Indignity?

I lose myself piece by

Piece and the puzzle

Lays broken edges,

All I ask for is black

Tea, all I ask is a proper

Way to greet the bleak day.

“Truces”

My therapist

The one

Assigned to me

For my personal

Slavery of forced talkings

Her smile always

So damn genuine when

She looks at me-

Her name I forget-

Brings me an herbal

Concoction she claims

Is tea.

She sits with me

As I stare into

The minty green.

I tell her tea is

An agricultural

Product of the

Leaves, leaf buds,

And internodes

Of the majestic

Camellia sinensis

Plant.

And whatever this

Mockery is it is not

Tea, she laughs with me.

I feel my anger loosen

Despite everything,

She’s trying so hard

For me, And I am a shit.

Always,

She sips hers and

Offers that it isn’t so bad

I sigh and drink and sigh

Okay, Okay, Tea also

Can be a reference to

Any beverage made from

Cured leaves and water,

But believe me when

I tell you this is still

A bit of a mockery.

“Little fish”

We lay in a tight row

Like sardines,

Wrapped tight in

Blankets and thick

Fuzzy pajamas

Getting our blood

Pressure checked

Lay down, and close

My eyes to the other

Girls’ gossip, they

Try to include me,

But I have nothing

To say in the morning

This is a strange torment,

Laying so close to the others

Trapped between laughter

And the talk of having to

Drink ensures or not,

Of having to go to an

Increased nutrition plan,

Of family therapy sessions

Coming at the end of the

Week.

“A Standing Torture”

Now it’s time

To stand. I hate

How the blood

Rushes to my

Head and I hate

How my vision

Kind of wants

To blacken out

And

I hate how hard

I have to pretend

That I’m alright

When it all is

Making me want

To cry.

“Mystery Numbers”

Behind the screen

I’m shivering

Weigh ins are

Quietly tragic

With my body

Stripped down then

Clothed in a gown

That opens in

The back.

I step on the scale

Backwards, the nurse

Gives nothing away

With her impassive

Face penciling in my

Fate for the day.

“Impossible”

I’m handed two

Ensures with my

Breakfast snacks.

Two?

Just looking at

The cans makes

Me gag.

I’m  Imagining

How the vomit of

This strawberry shake

Will taste.

“Am I incapable of Change?”

I take my seat

In the circle

Maria the Mermaid

Is the first to

Say something

Her black hair

Falls in her eyes

And she leaves it

There.

This is her fourth time

Here.

She can’t get it right

She can’t stop fearing

Cream.

She can’t stop her

Desire, for diaphanous

Skirts in dwindling sizes,

For hidden stashes of

Laxatives and cookies

In

Cream

She can’t believe she’s

Not done with this,

Standing on the verge

Of adulthood having her

Greatest fear be a family

Dinner.

“Blue Eyes”

I have never

Heard her say

A word,

This girl with

Thin ratty blonde

Hair and watery

Blue eyes

This girl stared

At her cuticles

And told us in

A dull voice

A steady voice

What got into her

What got under her skin

He did,

It was why she

Started to starve,

It was his name she’d

Carved into her arm

With the word

Hate and why it was

Continuing to hold her

Down-

The trial did not happen,

Case dismissed,

She was a drunk stupid

girl

He’s just fine, this

Guy who held her down

And taught her why

She needed to disappear

He told her he loved

Her breasts when he

Pawed them, and now

She lifts her head

With pride in

Watery blue eyes

Now

She has none. 

Pretty Mirror Book, chapter 1

Do you remember me?

The lines of my forehead

worried, the whispers of

my tea making. Incessant

reminders etched in my 

name even. You were

the moon and I was-

i was a physical mixture

pure air. 

I am not eating again.

The emptiness is the only

heaviness i have to weigh

me to the earth. I've 

started to wonder about

my heart. I thought it was

broken before but 

now I'm sure. It skips

beats and I have been

to the hospital. They

told me.

Eat. I can't eat.

fresh oranges crinkling

juice out of the 

clear catarpillar shells.

I love the taste of 

oranges but I am

afraid. 

Afraid of choking.

My grandmother had

to plunge her hand

down my throat once.

She extracted the orange 

and the world expanded

again, I was breathing

again. But after that,

always afraid.

Oranges taunt me.

Their sunset colour

fresh summer smell.

You know. At least,

if you remember. 

I feel like I have

a hole where my 

heart was and at

times I strain to feel

it but the beat is 

a mocking like a 

clock I know is

about to go wrong

it may be 11:11 now

but at any moment

one 1 will drop and

the set will locate

lonliness looking around

endlessly for the other

not coming.

I feel like once I 

felt your wings and

they felt fragile

but now all i feel

is the cage of the

world without the

softness of your feathers

pressing my hair 

out of my eyes.

I am drinking tea

in a quiet morning

black orange pekoe

the closest to the 

colour I can allow

Do you remember

waking up early-

so early it is dark-

the adults are crying

and we all must

start to pray so urgently

yes, the world is ending

I'm older now (you too)

but I still can't get

these early mornings out

I wake gasping to a god

i lost all faith in

I am eternally 

four years old and 

chicken little is all

too real. I wake up

gasping about to pray

tears coursing down my

 face. I can feel the 

urgency.

Did your mother

clutch at her own

chest and sob so

forlornly? Did your mother

light candles and

remind you of all

the torture coming?

We were born to

holy ones.

I don't know what

set her off those 

times. She heard the 

voice of god and 

we must all listen

to the wind in the 

pines. I thought i

heard him once too

but she told me to

be careful to speak-

others could think

I was crazy and

take me far far far 

away.

As it was, we were

the chosen ones. So,

this is how the 

world ends. Manacles.

Chains of all shapes

a viscious gaze. Now

they will ask me to

accept Sunday as the

Sabbath. Now they will

test my faith with fire

and cuts from steel

blades. I must stay 

true for all this will 

be nothing compared

to if I collapse. 

I am afraid still 

I see hell

coming.  I am appalled

and enthralled. I think

somewhere I got a 

malformed crush on

lucifer and how far 

he could fall. 

this is something i could

only confess to you...

Is your hair shorn

or does it fall around

like a veil? If you

thought of my folly 

would it make a 

smile stretch? Hidden

behind your hand or

your hair? So what.

I had the adolescent 

hots for lucifer. 

He could do so much.

I was sick of

sacrifice and blood.

He was Yes. He

was tearing the peel

off to get to 

the flesh orange orange

orange. He was mischief

and beautiful dark eyes

saying Yes.

after yes he hadn't 

the guilt. I am

still sick of the guilt. 

I am still sick of 

seeing my legs staining

once a month and

no matter how I try

to stuff the science 

in-it gets in-

i am the dirtiness of

eve's line, born to

apologize for a fruit

i never tasted.

I apologized for

years already through

my blood. You 

were there, then,

pressing cotton to

my arms. 

You were the first 

to hold me hostage

in your arms just

to say i was not

dirty. You were the

one unravelling their

lies.

I love you for that.

Your belief in me

grew slowly through

my mind like vines.

Is this the connection

still? It's all so tangling.

I am picking through

leaves, my mouth

smeared by the berries

of thought that 

tried to get in.

I am trying so

hard to be normal

in a world I

did not grow up in.

This world was a fable

of satan, remember?

The cities of Sodem and

the godliness of whoredom

and man's reckless swinging

toward godhood for

themselves.

I feel like a mannequin

or a piece of breeze

so apart still. I just can

not decide if i should 

be breathing.

We are not children

of this city; we

never went to a 

single prom. We are

not children of 

these parks. We

stand ackwardly 

at the few night

clubs we've gone to.

I know you can't

wait to get back

to your apartment

because I feel it too

so strongly.

I borrow your beauty

sometimes. Your I don't

care energy. I pick

my way through the 

crowds in the morning

coffee cup clutching. 

I don't care i don't 

care or your other

bemused bemused bemused

but always sepparate.

I borrow a lot of you

because, frankly, I like

you a lot more

than I like me.

Is that more of

my conditioning? You,

after all, were your 

parent's first born son.

First born son mythology

was stuck into us so brutally.

We were smart to leave

but mythology is immortal

and we could never travel

far enough.

Look at us! All the

continents between us.

Your parents dragged you

into danger preaching.

My parents never even 

acknowelged danger

dragging me between

their indecisivness.

I am so tired 

of the hiding 

so i have to 

tell you all the 

places I've been

trying to sear the

bible stories out of

me. I wonder if

the telling is growing

the vine inside

our minds.

When we left, did

we realize it would 

be a life long process?

And isn't it funny,

my career? It's a 

big F-U- to the

flowered aproned

dresses, the no cosmetics,

the no adornment.

I had to be in the

most aethetically pleasing

salon I could find. 

I had to surround

myself in superficial

beauty. I had to 

find somewhere that

has wearing lipstick

in the dress code.

My shears are even

extravagent- the kind

of steel finish that 

looks like an oil slick

a dull metallic rainbow

that enchants as it

clouds hair into pleasing

shapes. I am smiling

in the midst of

exhaustion there because

to them it is the

courting of lucifer.

let them think me

gone already to hell!

their heaven gave me

such scars!

We've read Jung,

Nietzche, Proust;

we've read forbidden

fiction and philosophy.

We know psychology

traces things to childhood

dreams. We know 

the rattling of words

in our throats. 

the coughing continues

i draw flowers out.

Stems, leaves, petals,

stamen. They wove

a moses basket, where

I put my

miscarried babies in.

I have streaks of

tears on my face

for futures that

were bent right 

back to the past.

......

you bring flowers of 

philosophy

you left me

buried six feet under

Sunday morning

i was born again.

.............

My mother tells me

I was born without

air. No doctors, and

the cord wrapped

three times around.

I feel I am still

gasping.

So for a moment,

let us humour

psycology.

You were born

when your father

was sleeping. Was

he still asleep?

he, in another life,

was a scientist.

he closed those

eyes and opened

his heart to the 

cult. You were

named for his

journey. 

When I was young

there were some

magical things:

crab apple trees,

hay bale jumping,

deer at salt licks,

auroura stretched 

dripping watercolours

down.

My brothers and 

sisters played tag

hide and seek

and bear. The 

forest stretched

up and up and

the beavers built 

their dams.

Imagine the chill air.

the dogs barking hello.

the neighbors come for

tea.

Then my mother and 

the old man argue 

the apocolypse.

The magic was 

still there. It just 

changed to the

cosmic kind, where

my mother was as 

helpless as i.

and i felt it to

my bones. In the

end of ends,

no one would protect

me. 

Can you still quote 

scripture? Remember when

we were told the

holy books would burn

and all we had was

our memory? So,

do you still remember

John 3:16?

I thought  by now

we'd all be dead,

or in heaven watching

the dying die-

angels reading scrolls why.

My face close to yours on the grass
then
and your smile pressed into my back
when
i laughed cried sighed oh god, is this
it then for me? this acceptance? the last
stage to my growing? more and more acceptance?
i am a coughing creature, i am constant
contradictions, colour concentrated, can not
pick favourites, i am laughing out loud
and shuddering down on sadness. i am.
unable to stand criticism. bend for years
until SNAP, change comes natural, stasis is
hard. i am dragon fly winged on all days
except halloween, tulle and glitter and
not always practical until i am the most
pragmatic person ever to be met, with
carefully constructed reasons, yeses and nos.
i am the quiet one in the corner crafting, the
singer with the loudest voice and strangest
way of playing the piano with my feet, i am
cat addicted, people distrustful. i hate conflict
so i would rather not bother try having long long
long long relationships of any sort, i'll lose my
voice. will i?
will i?
will i?