You Can't Spell "Friend" Without...

You used to let your hair grow long down your back
but it was never longer than your face.
Now you wear it shorter than any of our conversations
Its quickly lengthening again
like the distance between your toes and mine
if you faced me
the way you face this beauty concept you've been battling.
I've been there:
wanting to be as ugly
as I wanted to be pretty.
But chop it off and keep cutting;
trim up,
trim down,
remove,
(you're so good at purging),
eliminate the excess--if it matters:
the house I asked you to stay in
The favors that you bathed in
and the entirety of me--
besequinned,
glittering,
burning out your lenses with my color and brilliance.
I know.
It's too much to even look at me.
I've heard it from kinder friends than you that I'm "too much."
So plug up your ears with those iTunes,
plug up your mouth with those "I"statements.

The insolent child in me wants so badly to say:
I'm not going to try to ingratiate myself anymore
if you want a cup
a tablespoon
even a grain of sugar
you just trot down and knock on the next door.
I won't sprint with a spoonful of soul soup
in the morning at 4
across hot coals and the chasm you've constructed between us--
Yes I may have had a shovel in it...

But god! That buddha gets to me.
he says "let go."
So I won't cling to a reluctant wrist;
Let's both unclasp on the count of 3
and we won't point any fingers,
I'll just fall in
call myself a good friend
for letting you feel
however you desire.
and not even in my dreams
will you take that music out of your head,
turn around,
smile,
and say "hello" warmly
before you walk in.

What It Is, I Can't Say

Trying to write is difficult.
No, writing is the challenge.
'Trying' is immeasurable.
Music is a distraction.

The porch is a place I occupy frequently;
it's the 'inside' outside
or an 'outside' inside.
Either way it's an oxymoron,
a contradiction
So I'm most comfortable there.
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I waited
and you asked for my number.
Then you gave me one to wait in line with.
Not one.

And now my mind is violating you--
it's on you constantly.
It can't take a hint
won't take a hike.
It loiters in the corner
leering at you;
sick thoughts.

You've exceeded expectations so far
but I'm an experienced woman.
I've already scheduled my appointment
with disappointment.
A good doctor.
Prescribes the proper medication,
the proper meditation:

I'm maintaning low hope-levels.
I don't want to get over-excited.
It's bad for the heart;
makes me sick.
That's what my doctor keeps telling me anyhow.
-------------------------------------------------

I have other things to do.
That I should be doing.
Not worrying about all the "you's"
in all of my poetry.