He says that I have been making so many metaphors that I am starting to look like one.
I fall in love with those words, before asking for an example.
“Which metaphor am I becoming?”
And to my dismay, he can’t think of a single example.
It seems I’m always intrigued by the ones that say the right things,
but I’m also a sucker for things in writing:
Right now I am sitting in my car and wondering to myself:
Do I want someone who thinks of me as art
Do I want someone who makes me into art?
Ripped, retro, ready,
she slips into her kicks.
You see, girls used to be pretty in pink…and heels, and
whatever else they say-
but today continues a new age:
one where rules are made to be broken and
fashion is whatever feels best on your skin.
My momma always says,
“Never leave the house without lipstick.”
I used to laugh before I realized:
some rules are not spoken to be broken-
and your momma is almost always right.
-pretty in pink lipstick
For the last few months
lay a yellow glass lantern
broken in the corner of my bathroom.
People seem to throw away glass once it shatters.
Something, once whole,
now far too broken to piece back together-
but we don’t throw away broken people,
…unless we do?
I realize this is a faulty comparison.
What could I do with a lantern
that could no longer fulfill its purpose-
one that could no longer hold
There isn’t a chance for restoration-
Unlike a human.
Scratch that metaphor.
I will look at the glass as a reminder that
Whether I decide to keep the glass or toss it,
I cannot bring it back to what it was.
I can see it, I can touch it,
I can let the shards shred my skin if I wish…
I can recognize what was
and make room for the next lantern to come.
-I have a problem of making everything into a metaphor.
Tell me about the comet that destroyed you:
the one you swore was a shooting star
until it came crashing, hauling towards
the inner workings of your castle:
towards your mind.
Tell me about the days you laughed at
the otters and they laughed right back at you.
Tell me about the months that seemed like minutes
because that’s how hard you loved her.
Not because I’m asking-
but because you want me to know you
as much as I want to know you.
-I have comets, otters, and minutes too.
I remember little from when I was little.
You watched me grow.
You sure remember more about me than I do.
You tell me stories about myself and I listen intently,
discovering new things each time.
With every silly catch phrase and habit I once had,
I was me.
I was as me as I am now.
So I hear that I was shy and sweet.
I went through a stage where I referred to everything in the past
as “yesterday” even if it took place a few hours prior.
I ate pasta every day,
I didn’t share my feelings much,
And I had the biggest eyes:
eyes that took over most of my face.
still bigger than they should be,
but they once saw the world in a much different way:
a way I will never remember,
but you always will.
Dear New York,
Every time I see you, you strike me with vision, awe, sensation, admiration. Let’s just say it’s like love at first sight- love at first sight, second sight, thirteenth, fiftieth… Love at Broadway, Bowery, Madison, Houston. I would ask you to go easy on me, but I only have a few days. I want all of you. A few moons later, when it’s all over, you still won’t remember my name, but I’ll always remember yours. My dear, New York.
-a city exquisite doesn’t remember every face, name, art, and wonder, but every face, name, art, and wonder remembers the city exquisite.
I speak greater in ink than
Collection of sound.
Do you feel the pulse in my palm?
My hands hold more than a heartbeat.
Each time a pen is grasped between my fingers,
My hands become my mouth.
-Some will listen, others will read.