dansebalet

Late at night, you can find me out between the beans and the corn; beneath the moon and stars pulling and digging weeds. While tears stain my cheeks and drip off my chin watering the soft leaves beneath me. Hunched, I walk and lean and press fingers into earth and feet into roots until sweat runs from hairline into my eyes stinging like bees that chased my brother when we were children. It is the silence that weaves me like a violin and bow; my soul so pricked by undiluted thought. Daylight might come but for now I walk out between the beans and corn beneath the moon and stars; distant sunrise breaks my reverie.

Gondolier, don't lead him to this heart. Your stripes lead like maps through my skin. Oh, master of the watery roads, don't lead love to this heart. My defenses stand useless to the barage of his eyes and voice and skin. Gondolier, take him to a different city. Lay your stripes out like maps through their skin. Oh, master of the watery roads, don't bring love to this heart.

There's a universe between us. full of black holes that swirl and pull and cling until light tips into it's depths sinking beneath a velvet blanket; always so slow. Your breathless sighs get mixed with the cry torn from my lungs in between Pluto and Saturn. And as Mercury pulses along it's designated path we line up like stars except I'm falling towards supernova and you're not exploding for another twelve hundred years.

I'm leaning on cruches of social anxiety and inability to function and I'm watching you pull back and look at me with confusion and disdain as I wash myself with melted snow. Years and years for always I'm going to back away and never tell you I love you and I'll watch you walk down that aisle one day with tears in the back of my throat and I'll glue a smile to my face that doesn't need to be there because you'll know when I say I can't sing and I'll watch you, not the happy bride, or the crying mothers. It's always been you.

My lips are chapped peeling back layers of skin and cells with only my teeth. and sometimes my fingernails. So morbid, I'm no masochist. Air will do that to you.

i. I used to chew my nails but I don't anymore because it's disgusting and I'm sorry I'm slightly obsessive compulsive. ii. I hate my eyelashes because they don't curl like I imagine his do and they choke under make up so I don't wear it in hopes that someday someone will see the beauty in me everyone says I have. iii. I don't like taking pictures on cloudy days. My mom says it's the best time to photograph but I don't see how. I like shadows and color and teals and reds next to one  another but she's a photographer so I listen. iv. I wore a red dress to Elvis' house and noticed the flowers and letters and asked if someone died. My mom a

Old La Lune themoon watches the kids swing and twirl in her starlight. The mothers rock their babes and all I want is for you to loveme more than I can love you. No contest between Jimminy Cricket and his friend the Cicada, their songs rupture what would be a silent night. So watch as I try and dance to their ever shifting tune and long for you to takemyhand And spin me notlike you once did because see where we ended up now.

This is what I cannot understand. There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred. Or so I've always thought. But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe u

I don't want confinement behind strict white cut to fit a traveller's pocket, squeezed in on myself where you peer around folds to glimpse a meaning. I don't want to be recorded, sorted and optimised, placed against the others waiting to be discovered or left preserved or maybe lost. Take me from them premature, toss me to survive and see myself reflected many times a different angle in prismatic clarity though from uncertain origins. Tear me from my bounds to share, transpose me to your breath. Prop me up so that I may see myself live in thought and speech and action of the everyday. Don't let me be another one of them; I'm not content w