Memory

My memory is hazy. But what is clear is that his facial features through my nine year old eyes could not have been arranged in a less appealing way. He handed us moldy, bruised peaches from the ground; rotting, skin separating from the flesh without effort. One, two, three rotten fruits in the hands of children, and we watched as he plunged his thumb deeply into the flesh of the fruit. The juices oozed down his palm and wrist before he lobbed it over the fence between his house and the neighbor's. "I bet you can't make it over." He challenged, his freckled face contorting as he spoke. We looked at each other for silent confirmation then arced our gooey peaches over the fence to hear a muddy plop on the other side. Marco Polo We played in a tepid pool never once skimmed for fallen leaves. We floated in the water chest deep, calling and answering. Fish out of water. kicking up the layer of dirt that coated the pool floor, no one daring to submerge their heads beneath the surface of the water which then resembles herbal tea before adding milk. watch out for the leeches, they warned. We played tag around the sunk-in living room with no couch, taking breaks to perfect our pitch and harmonies against the repeating Sing-Along-Songs video playing from the twelve inch screen tucked into a folded armoire. We ran free in the house smelling faintly of whisky and decay to the beat of Zip-a-dee-do-dah and held a competition for who made the better Jasmine in A Whole New World. I stood in the doorway of the back bedroom, they sat on the bed. The smell of stale shit and overdue death smacking me in the face. I cursed my mom and dad for leaving me with family friends for the week while this man slowly passed in a red tinted room covered floor to ceiling with Betty Boop knick knacks and memorabilia. I was out of place and forced deeper into the room brimmed with death and sexy figurines. I sometimes wonder what became of the boy and girl I spent a week with at nine years old. Maybe she teaches history and he makes scale models of high rises. Or he got arrested for assault and she smokes crack next to her baby boy's crib. My memory is hazy. But what is clear are his twisted features that sometimes haunt my ambient thought, and the smell of peaches makes me sick.

This shit gives me weird dreams. Those vivid ones that stay with you for days, that you remember the details as if they really happened. Then the specifics; people's names, places and the order of events, slowly start to trickle away, bit by bit, until all you are left with is that terrifying moment that it all was centered around in the first place. Sometimes I wake up to realize that the pool of blood I was lying in while looking up at the metal rake in my sisters hands was really just my sweat soaked bedsheets. Other times it's the tears that wake me up, and the shaking. Like when they wheeled out my dad's mangled body on a Radio Flyer just to dump him in a hole. And i watch as they cover him with dirt and garbage, wondering why they didn't bother to put him in a box or a bag, so the dirt didn't get in his mouth. And when she falls to her knees, I feel the electricity shoot up through my thighs. And when she starts to cry harder, so do I. So I wake up with tears covering my face, breathing heavily and violently shaking. But the terror fades until it is only a movie I can replay in my head. The emotions are gone, the sensations removed. And everything is back to normal. Well, as normal as it can be. This goes for the good dreams too. You know the ones, where you are fucking that hot guy from the office. It's raw and beautiful and dirty, and you wake up soaking wet reliving that moment where your body tensed up on top of him and all of the sound drained from the world. Then you realize that the only time you ever cum is in dreams anymore and get up to make a cup of coffee. I don't complain, sure I have to feel pain and heartbreak, and indescribable pleasure that's not really there. But it beats going through each day wondering if a smile really does warm up your chest like they say. Or what the hell they mean when they describe butterflies in their stomach. The only thing I can do is go to sleep and feel whatever forms of emotions that are thrown at me by the sandman each night. "honey. Babe, wake up! You're shaking and hyperventilating." Oh. I was just shot in the head execution-style in front of everyone I know. Weird.

addict

She's that liquid ecstasy that courses through my veins. She's that extra puff of smoke that holds heavy in my lungs. She gives me wings and holds my head as I'm coming down. She makes colors brighter, hours last longer and food taste better. I hold her in my arms and she alters my judgement. But, all in all, she is a bad idea. She makes me think she'll never leave me, but just hours later I'm jonesing for another hit, a stronger high. I can't have her; she isn't mine, but I steal her away and we dance in the colors we create. she leaves me when I need her most, blood and body, and all I can think of is how to get her back. She's a habit I can't kick, but she's controlled me for too long. Her plum stained lips call to me and it takes all I have to turn and say, "not this time" - an answer she doesn't like. She works harder, beckoning me with her slender frame and her crimson red fingernails gliding up my arms. I give in to her calls, take her one last time. I'm not an addict, I can quit her anytime I want. But, I take her to my bed and inject her into my veins. She rushes through me. my breath tightens, my pulse quickens and my skin flushes pink. I fall asleep in her and when I wake she has left me, empty and alone. Again. 

smile

Why can't you hear me? I feel like I'm screaming. My lungs hurt. As if lungs have feelings. Pain sensors. Nerve endings. My eardrums are quivering. Every flutter amplified one million percent. Like when you hold a seashell up to your ear and you can hear the ocean crash from a hundred miles away. Or something like that. Even my pen is craving your attention. My obnoxious, in-your-face, Barbie doll pink pen is screaming "Notice Me!" Could have been purple gel or blue ball point, running out of ink. Not that the choice matters, in print everything is black and white. Every word, carefully chosen with no grey area. Don't attach your agenda or personal interpretation to these words, they don't mean any more than swirling wrist movements or keystrokes. Everything broken down to ones and zeroes. Eventually something as dull and ordinary as black characters painted on white canvas with nothing to say that hasn't been said before will catch someone's wandering eye. But who knows, you may never notice the curve of the letters that form the word "smile". And by the time you do, I may not want you to anymore.

save yourself

Here's the pavement. Cold and colorless. Not inviting, but here he lays. Weight distributed between knees and elbows. His hands with tiny cuts on each of his ten fingers were raised up to his eyes, which watched tiny lines of red snake their way through the creases of his fingerprints. With overturned hands he scrawled his story onto the cool ground. In long crimson strokes, the red tint drained from his lips. His digits dragged on the floor, kicking up dirt that hugged the underside of his nails. He swallowed his tongue because what he bleeds onto the pavement is more important than words that escape his lips. He lay his head onto the chilled ground in the middle of a windy afternoon. He exhaled a stream of blood that formed a letter, that formed a word, that formed a sentence. And, that sentence read "Save Yourself".

Your story

There you are, engulfed in a story you've read before. You know the way it ends, yet you still rush to the finish line taking note of character changes and plot twists. Jump from page to page, your heart races at all the same places, your head whirls when something unexpected expectedy happens. You think that the story will change because you have; you've gotten older, more mature. But the words still form the same sentences they did before, and the ending still disappoints you the way it did the first time. You sit, heart melted to the floor and sweat dripping from your furrowed brow. Close the book for good this time, like you thought you had done before.

Webster Doesn't Know Shit About Love

you can copy and paste the definition of love into a blank page
but it still doesn't fill the emptiness.
all there will be is words
that don't mean anything.

Love (verb): To love. To feel completely devoted and attached to something/someone. To know that nothing else in the world will ever compare or matter as much. To KNOW.
Making Love (verb): Fucking with emotion. An act of pouring your soul into another. To reveal all of yourself, every fucked up detail of your persona to your partner.
Falling in Love (verb): the act of being completely smitten with another person to the point of ignoring all of their flaws. To fall in love is to reach a state of psychosis that will eventually fade and you will see each other as you really are. damaged.

Love (noun): An intangible "feeling" that is impossible to know unless... you know.
"if you were in love, you'd know it"

Historically:
Love is something that our world fights for, and fights over. We so badly need someone to love us that we do things for attention, make rash and rushed decisions. we burn bridges and lose friendships to keep love alive. we tell people that only some are capable or deserving of love. We set guidelines on love and we break rules for love.

Medically:
Love blinds us. We become so enthralled in the idea of love that if we don't have it, we spiral into states of depression and think ourselves "not good enough" for anyone to love us. Heartbreak: when a person "so in love" is let down by their partner. The pain they feel they connect with the heart which they connect with love. When a couple breaks up, their brains and bodies go through a state of detox. they must cleanse themselves of the memory of the comfort of that other person. Little things will trigger memories; scents, songs. eventually the brain and body heals, just like coming down from a drug addiction, although, there will always be cravings for love.

inspired

He shakes.
She is scared but he pushes the hair from her face
and erases the fear.
He shakes.
He laughs when he is nervous. she isn't nervous
with him.
The comfort that comes with the years they've shared
is equally matched
with the anxious desire to connect on another level.
He already impresses her
without needing to try.
"What i love is that i can be honest
and i know you are being honest back.
"We can call this our park.
And whenever we are scared or lonely or vulnerable
this is where we will find each other
to escape.
"And we can hold our breath for a minute
and feel our hearts beat faster-"
She kisses him mid-sentence,
rude interruption.
The butterflies rise
to coat her throat
and they melt into one another.
Passion flows through parted lips.
They try to read each other's thoughts
in silence
to know which move to make next.
He may not know what he is saying
but he always says the right thing
And she fell in love
with his words
like she fell in love
with his soft eyes
and his honest smile.
And how he analyzes everything
and his ability to love deeply.
and how he laughs when he is nervous,
even though she is never nervous with him.

September 22, 2010

Ada Lee Gilpin

"hurry son, hurry."
he made a mistake. he came for me. but took you instead
and now i am walking to the car, family at my side
as my son is lowered into the ground.
his brother, stronger than most
has placed the first of the dirt on your ashes
and i couldn't watch.
i had to leave
and as i left, i saw the squirrels playing in the trees
the deer running across the lawns
and the trees, all green with life.

in a place so full of beauty
and life
this is where i leave you.
your mortal body,
in the ground.
with the green vivaciousness all around you

he made a mistake when he took you.
he should have taken me instead.


Guy Allen Carmichael

Don't worry mommy,
there was no mistake.
i am here.

Don't worry mommy,
please don't cry anymore
let your family ease your pain
for i am free.

Don't worry mommy,
i know that you are angry
but don't blame God,
he brought me here
and i am happy.

Don't worry mommy,
you are strong.
and yes, it is unfair
but this place is beautiful
you'll see someday.
and i know
that i am loved.



Kelsey Franceine Carmichael

i have only seen my father cry once before
he was sitting behind a nurses station
calling his family
to tell them his father had died.

and now, as he placed the dirt on his brother's ashes
he choked up
and i saw the pain in his face
it grew a little redder
a little sadder
and a little older
but he held me in his arms afterwards
and i let him cry.

one last time

the sun is falling. dropping deeply behind the swing set. the swings sway slightly as the cool darkness acts as a mother, gently pushing each chained seat. a chill sweeps through the air and bites my nose. i am trying to say goodbye to this hidden world riddled with memory-filled grass and benches. i wave goodbye to the tree's branches and fallen leaves. the branches, naked, wave back to me. i kiss goodbye the bees, stuck in a cool puddle. they shake their wings in attempt to free themselves from their wet bindings. i bend down to the cool, damp ground and write one last "I love you" in the sand, knowing that the oncoming storm will wash away the emotions from this place before you get a chance to know it was there. It's getting colder, sun dropped fully beyond the hillside across the road. i cup my hands around my bare arms, erupted with goosebumps and try to soothe them away, skin to skin. i take one step, then another, and with each step further from my past my knees knock and legs tremble to match the tears that are stinging my lips. but i don't stop walking. it took me some time to leave this behind me, but i know if i were to look back i know i will not find you there. not anymore.

the process

words. just words.
flowing from the bottom of my brain to the tips of my fingers. the blue must bleed onto the paper. c'mon words, i just need a few to break the dam. begin the flow.
my eyes slam shut to block out all light and distracting elements that seem to blockading my needs, my words.
please.
come back to me.
i know youre still lingering right on the tip of my pen waiting for touchdown, landing the golden point to the colorless paper, willing something... anything to be released.
my hand curls deeply hugging the shaft of the pen and i notice that i hold it differently than others. i move my second finger to attempt normality.
shit.
distraction.
who cares about my finger placement as long as something is being written. but if the paper is still blank... nothing is being said, nothing matters.
i open my mouth to bring more and more oxygen to my brain, maybe that will trigger a reaction, a chemical blast between synapses which will allow a bulb to ignite above my head... wait for it... nothing. maybe i dont need to say anything after all.

the talk

him: ... hello?
her: hi. i know its been a while. i have something to ask.
him: okay. whats going on?
her: um.. this is hard. *breath* is there any chance between us? at all?
him: ... why do you ask that?
her: i need to know
him: well... i... i dont know. at one time i hoped so. very much. but now we are living different lives, we are with different people..
her: i know. i am talking future tense. ever?
him: i just dont know...
her: my boyfriend. he asked me to marry him. and i want to be with him. i love him. but..
him: but what?
her: but i need to know about you.

bad at love

i am bad at love
you may think you can't be,
but you can. and i am.
bad at love.

it always seems i am the last
to move on
or to move forward
or to let go.

i am always
hurting those i love
loving those i shouldn't.

please don't love me.
it won't end well
for either of us.
because
i am bad
at all aspects of love.

this girl

i've got a poem somewhere,
i'm sure of it.
its banging on the door of my brain
hoping to trickle down to my fingertips
and out onto paper.
maybe it is raw
and unedited.
maybe it is revisited and revised
until none of the original shell remains.
maybe it is an open doorway into
the mind of a girl.

some say this girl has "daddy issues"
but i assure you her issues are all her own.
she craves attention,
and she is immature for it.
she wants you,
or does she want you
to want her?
she'll spin a web
about her life
until its true.
did she ever really love you?
or was it a lie
that she made herself believe

there are words
aching to get out,
scratching at the walls of my heart.
these words will form a poem.
it's about a boy
and a girl.
it always is.

winter nights

here i go again.
sitting in the heat of the summer wishing for the winter's sting.
the love is dripping through my headphones, like an IV.
and suddenly i cant remember why i left.
there must have been a reason, but i cant formulate it. cant remember.
i had a dream last night
that you never walked away from me.
this dream made my heart smile and my eyes remember the sting of tears.
the waves of auburn ocean.
my fingers danced with your imaginary counterparts.
when i awoke, fingers cold with lonliness
eyes bloodshot with tears long past,
the saltwater stain on my lips.
i had a dream last night,
but only a dream
that you never walked away.

fall

i told you i would keep it.


in a phrase to cut these lips.
i loved you.

please remember

I hardly ever write anymore, I used to write because I was inspired, inspired by you. or because I had something to say.
This is something I have to say, and I don't even have a pen to write it down.
I go everywhere I hope you'll be, just to see your smile, even if I know you're not smiling at me. You're never there, just as well though, its not like ill know what to say. So i write it down and hope that you still read.
I am in the park today, the day my life is supposed to be different, but all I care about at this moment is escaping to the past, laying up against the tree where we kissed, picking up fallen leaves and remembering what you described as your perfect day.
I'm in the park today of all days, wishing you were in the park too.

=(

it hurts to smile.
an unbearable kind of hurt. and even thinking about parting my lips into an upward curve sends a sharp spear into my body.
i run my fingertips over the surface of my face and pretend not to hurt. not to cry every time i want to smile.
i wipe the black tears from beneath my eyes and think, hope, pray that someday the heat will fade.
because it hurts to smile.
and i had to kiss it goodbye a long while ago.
so relaxing my mouth, i fog up the mirror and draw a smile beneath my reflection.
because i can't smile.
it hurts to smile.

Andrew

You always said it would happen. And yet I was still unprepared. It’s strange how when the opportunity to meet with someone so influential, your mind…. Blanks. And then you are stranded with a goofy grin and nothing upstairs. “How’s it going? I’m Andrew.”
And the only thing I could force out was, “…Kelsey.” He shook my trembling hand and I could feel the energy flow from his fingertips. The attempted speech afterwards was barely audible as my brain was telling my mouth to open. He started a conversation about the show and we agreed that it was amazing, adding that we would be at the movie premier the next night as well. His heart seemed heavier than I expected, like he was the happiest man alive yet was holding something back. We all talked about this or that and all the while I couldn’t contain the feeling that I was in the presence of the most genuinely impressive person. After a while of my back-flipping brain trying to capture this moment, we said our goodbyes. And as I asked for a hug, he leaned in and said, “come here, darlin’. Be well.” And that was it. Such simple words. I thanked him for spending time with us, and he thanked us for standing by him through his journey.
It’s sad that we must face defeat in order to appreciate what we have. Knowing this, he is trying to spread the idea that you don’t have to stare death in the face to appreciate life, we just need something to swim for.

self portrait (take two)

She puts on her makeup for no one.
She hides.
Her thick disguise masks her from the world.
Generic smile
Genuine deceit.

She is a rain puddle,
Shallow to the naked eye,
Until your jeans are soaked to the knee.

Brushes swirled across her cheeks,
Already rosy,
Held by a rigor-mortis grip.

Learning the hard way
Swiping shadows across her lids.
Thicker and thicker.
Darker more defined.

Killing herself more and more
with each stroke.
For every picture of every kiss
She stares with milky eyes
Into the glass virtual image.

Change of brush – change of pace.
Colors dance
Grays and browns and golds marry.
But her eyes bleed black.

She looks up, taking in a long breath
Of recycled air.
All her makeup on the counter
Along with her tears.
Her dreams; her lashes
She plucked off one by one
Her shadows on a paper towel.

She dipped the brush into the water.
“Maybe tomorrow”
She said,
“We’ll paint a prettier picture.”