Point A.

 The trouble with this humanity is that you're in my blood. I drink you up like water. And I make my body yours time after time. I say: "Use it, for whatever," as if it were some piece of furniture, or some forgotten art-fixture that no one sees, and no one wants.
 We walk over the bridge and I am enamored by the city lights. They kiss the ripples of the water below us. Their voices ricochet off the crystalline surface of The Cumberland and into something heard.

They sound like 

some. small. hope. 

  And that hope is what keeps my body drawn to yours (in all the inappropriate ways futile flesh can be drawn together until its sawed apart at its tender seams).
 Sometimes, I sit on the dock of quiet sunsets. I watch the cold, steel frames of buildings-to-be going up around me. The beams sing as car lights flicker; their surfaces glisten and chime. There is eagerness in the bones of these skeletons. They wear it on their chests as a badge of honor that they will one day be called "home." In those moments I hope I can one day be called "home" too.

If I were
"Home,"
I wouldn't be 

"Just potential."

If I were
"Home,"
I wouldn't be

Dry-wall.

If I were
"Home,"

 I wouldn't be
This

Itching,
Aching
Ambition,

Suffocating
Quietly
Beneath
The
Crawlspace
Of
You. 

I would
blossom

Into something 

Breathing. 

I would be a 

Warm Haven 

That

Families 

With 

Small Children
Could

Collect themselves in. 

And I wouldn't be
Hollow
Anymore. 

And my eyes would be
Picture-windows.

And you would never be
Invited
Inside of me
Again.

Mr. Storm God, Mr. Storm God, Mr. Storm God-
You've
Failed
Your


Native Land.

     Their heels were martyred by rain dances;

 
           The earth curled back again.

"I've got that
'Same sort
Of passion,'"

She says.

In the sick-house,
They told me passion was
The poison of our
Humanity.

I wasn't ready to accept it.
So I looked for all the

Psalms and Proverbs
To
Correct it.

But it just kept
Rolling
Down

The

Slick face
Of my
Window
Pane:

The vibrancy
Of my
Storm cloud:

As
Thorough
As
Seattle
Rain.

She says they play the tambourine for her
Because she made her dreams come true.

I sacrificed my
Passion
For
Superstition
And a
Church pew.

Getting Mad Now
Getting Mad Now
   In this Mad World
   With Mad Trees
And Mad People.

     And All the Mad Houses
     Are on Their Mad Streets
     Swaying to-and-fro in this
     Mad Wind.
     This Mad Wind
That's headed East

  Where things begin
  Where everything
  Left
  From the West Goes
      When the Mad Wind Blows--

 And it's coming for
 Me.

There is a Cuban woman next to me
Wearing extremely loud
Orange pants.

She says she's an acrobat.
She says she does trapeze shows.
She says she's going to Haiti
Twice
Before December.

Her male manager
Has an earring and is wearing
An extremely tight top.

He wants those pants for himself.

I'm sure of it.

  I used to have a family.
  Now, they are just
  Paper People.

  Sometimes,
  I take paper dresses,
  And paper pants-suits,

  And I put them in
  Unique clothing,

  So that for a moment--
  I can pretend as though they are puppets.

 When I play Puppets
 --With my family--

 They no longer have me on strings.

 They no longer
 Have me on
 Strings,

 They no longer
 Have me on

                S
                  t
                   r
                    i
                     n
                       g
                         s.

                       Because
 I have

        T
         h
          e
           m 

                       On strings.

 And everyone comes home.
 And everyone eats dinner.
 And everyone watches movies together.

 And our picture windows glow with the dimly lit flicker of
 Night lamps,
 And bedtime stories.

 No one is
 Loud or
 Quiet when they are mad.


 No one lies--

       Or omits.

 When my family was
 Flesh
 And Breath
 And
         Bones

 They would sometimes gather around the table
 For hot turkey,
 Fresh vegetables,
 And
Mac & Cheese.

 It took me 22 years of sitting
 Around that table

 To
 Realize

I was searching for my
   Identity

With a
    Room full
               of Risks

 Staring back at me.

The bruised yoke of my
Fragile self,
   Tip-toed around the lines
Of a house made of
     Egg shells.

 --Everyone had damaged feet.
    And their heels bled.--

 Now there are crimson footprints all around my
 Castle.

 Not even I can
 Pretend them
 Out.

 They keep telling me
 Christ will come
 And mix blood with blood
 And wash all the
 Crimson out.

 But I've been sitting on the curb
 For years
 Waiting

 And dinner's getting cold.

 And this waiting for a miracle
 Is getting old.

 So I pull out my paper dolls,
 And 

Then I-
[The Poet]
Write the dream;

I stitch 
My 
Family
Back together

At their
Fraying
Paper
Seams. 

 

It's Not Me You're Chasing

  I used to believe in you.
  I thought you were someone big.
  When I was eight eighteen,
  I told all of my friends that I believed you were
  An angel.

  That was back before I believed in angels...

  But I believed in you.

  You told me that if I wanted to
  Feel God,
  All I needed was the wind
  And a paint brush

  Or a
  Morning in the garden-

  You said
  Taking life for granted was the
  Greatest sin.

  And I built my whole paper theology around your ideals...

  Because I believed in them.

  I used to cry myself to sleep at night
  When thoughts of you

  D
    y
      i
       n
         g

  Would cross my mind.
 
  I was convinced I could never

  Function

  Without you--

  If you

             Died.


  But then you died.


 And you just keep dying every day.

 You choose your bullet,
 And you blow your skull to pieces
 Every day.

 And some days I watch from

 24 hours away.

 But most days I don't.


 You told me never to

             s e t t l e.

             But then
                   You did.

You settled for

            A roladex
                Of other womens' phone numbers
   And
   Three
   Kids.


  Some days
  You pretend you love me.

And I like those days,
   Because it means you haven't forgotten that I'm your kid.

And it makes me feel like we've mended the wounds,
 

[But I know we never
                        Did.]

   I tell everyone that I look like you;
   I tell them you're my best friend.

Your lies to yourself
About who you are

Have helped me
 See who
        I am...


And who
I'm not.


I'm a
I'm a
I'm a
I'm a little girl
      Running away [again]
      Like last time:

     When I was convinced I was
      Orphan Annie
      And I packed my things.

But the difference in Nashville
And
Tahlequah

Is now

You're not

Chasing
Me.

   I wish I was in an airport. 

   I wish I was in an 

   Airport. 

  I wish I was in the

                         Air. 

The Man Made of Moon

I once gave my heart
To
A
Man
Made of
Moon.

He loved me like
Blossoms

Sprawling forth

From their
Seed.

And we
Walked through
The
Lemon Grass
On
Buttermilk nights--

And he taught me about
The Sea.

And even now,
I still
Can't understand
How he saw the

Coastlands

From

Tennessee. 

I once loved a man
With eyes made of
Moon rocks;

 He had silver inside of

His
Jeans.

 His gate was magic;

 It glided
Slowly 

Beside:

Composed of

Milky

 Transparencies. 

And I love that Moon Man:
That Man
Made of
Moon,

Though my moon man
No Longer
Loves Me.

And

 I sit on my porch

Engulfed in the night

Searching for

A

Face

That I no longer
See. 

I ended up on
A West Bound
Highway,

Listening
To Stevie Nicks

With as few clothes on
As I could
Legally
Wear
Out in public.

And Kingston Springs
Caught me.

Had it not,
I would have been
A

Bold Shot

Into an

Oklahoma sunset.

And that sunset?

I think it was
A secret

Between
The God
I went to see
A little bit
Too late

And I.

The Cerulean
And Tangerine
Melded
Like watercolor:

Hung itself
Above

The
Dark
Shadows

Of a cool earth--

Of a cool

        Red

            Earth.


And God read "Goodnight Moon"
To His children.

And He
Nestled me in a crescent

That was

Illuminated

With specs of
Silver
And white

To guide you home with
On a
Night

Like this.

And
I was guided home too,
Too
Far
To Home:

I swear I could have made it by morning
If I'd

Tried.

“It is a very strange sensation to inexperience youth to feel itself quite alone the world, cut adrift from every connection, uncertain whether the port to which it is bound can be reached, and prevented by many impediments from returning to that it has quitted. The charm of adventure sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride warms it; but then the throb of fear disturbs it; and fear with me became predominant when half an hour elapsed, and still I was alone.” 

Charlotte Bronte

   I don't do endings well.
   Inevitably, the budding blossoms of a Tennessee spring always come to meet me where we last left off. The cushioning between January and April is filled with vibrant days. The innocent moments coat themselves in milky compassion and honey laughter: they do not realize their own preciousness or their fleetingness. When the skeletal month of May comes, the days peel away their clothing. They become naked, raw, and hot with vacancy.
 
   Everything hurts.
           Everything hurts.

    Today,
       Even my skin
                Hurts.

      May is the constant, inevitable reminder that things change. Endings come. We are on limited time. I recoil in late April. I'm torrential rain by May.

       I used to believe if one writes well,
       Even letters will suffice for all the lost days.

       Now, I no longer believe that is true.
   
       There is something about
           The presence of
                     A person.

          Throughout my life I have been devoted to the power of words: their succulence, and their ability to capture life. But there is something about the laughter of a friend, the warmth of an embrace, and the magic of hysterical moments spent over meme sharing and chai tea. I have (as of late) been in a state of desperation for these moments. I cannot seem to be able to satiate my need for them due to my knowledge of the ending that is coming. My neediness has been overwhelming to my friends. I am demanding of their attention because I selfishly have too much trouble saying: "I love you."
       Showing my vulnerability is difficult. I am transparent in almost all things--except for that. I cannot count on both hands the times that I have left others before they could leave me. Usually the people that matter to me I never say goodbye to. I avoid goodbye parties. I slip out the back door early at graduation. I won't help friends with their luggage at the airport because ending embraces require my entire capacity. I leave.
        I am scared of my life because I am now my own--I am all my own, and I am all on my own. Where I used to feel comfortable showing my ache to others, I got tired of them always sticking their fingers in my wounds. So I built The Little House of Flora--my house, and I was certain that would be enough for shelter.
       When I met with Kevin Hester, he asked me: "What good is a house with no one inside of it?" I understood where he was coming from...but allowing people to come in is difficult because seeing them leave hurts this much. I leave them welcome to my porches, my swingsets, my gardens, my kind words, my lemonade, my walkway. But when the long day is over, I vanish inside my corridors; I fall asleep to tears and the sound of a fairytale spinning its story on my static television set. And everyone goes home.
     
       There are things that
                 Letters will never send.

        Letters will never send how much I will miss you. And states may just be states...but to me, they feel like galaxies. I feel as though I am alone in my life, like a tumbleweed. I am blown about by the winds and the seasons.
        You changed that for me. I don't think I have ever told you that.
        The melancholy pools of loneliness became fit for puddle jumping. I saw my validity in Christ through a clear lens because you shattered the deceptive looking glasses that I kept choosing to view my life through. I am sad you are leaving because I am staying. I am staying right here--rooted in my little corner of the world where your wisdom still hangs its hat, and your encouragement still blossoms behind the walls of my gardens.
      I will hold on to you far after you exceed the boundaries of my Richland and flood into the warm hills of a paved Kentucky. My morning coffee will be lonely. My people watching at Fido will go un-entertained without your perspective on all of the peculiar strangers in all of their peculiar hats. You will not be here to help me pick out my peculiar hats. You will not be here to pull me  back down [like gravity] when I'm manic and irrational. Who will I share my peanut butter with?
 
      I am not handling these things so well.

     And though I know you are not a fan of Pearl Jam, I can't help but think of Eddie Vedder's words:

     "Did I say that I need you?
      Did I say that I want you?

      Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool you see;
      No one knows this more than me...
                                    As I come clean."

    I come clean. I will miss you big and deep and very very wide. And I will have many grey days, even when the sun is shining and everything should be okay. And I will probably even miss you into August: after the summer should have stifled out the peak of my loneliness. Even if all the good reasons for my missing fade, I will probably create new reasons to miss you with. And maybe that's not healthy, and maybe that's not what friends do. But I have never known what a healthy missing looks like, because I have never had a real friend before...until I met you.
   You are the first best friend I have ever had.
    I am sad you are leaving,
    Because you are the only person who has ever stayed.

    And I'm not ready for this Little House to change
    Without

                You.

  My heart aches.