all she wants is to be a part of something
but she doesn't believe it could be
something beautiful

instead, she wastes away in
the arms of a lover who doesn't even like her,
in a perfect job she hates,
friendly dates she can't stand

in an ever-present never enough

her friends are constantly doing, but never
doing enough
neighbors caring, but never
caring enough

so she climbs into his bed and comes home
angry that he takes advantage
circling his home in the shadows and never
at his side, where she longs to be

rejecting everyone else, so she remains
frail and broken and pitied, because at least then she
gets his attention, gets our
attention and goes



i am an open book. of the
paperback persuasion

hardcover may be the
cover of choice for
classic beauty and for
durability and
what have you

while i am frail and i bend and
i fall apart, i am
composed of the same
confession-filled sonnets, guised
as delicate arrangements of
imagination, and
ideas so misconstrued

if a book will be judged by its cover,
let them see it rough around the edges and
worn with time

let them see it without makeup or
plucking or primping or
manicures or hundred-dollar hair

let them see it honest and real and
let them see me



i wish all my mistakes were
at the beginning of the roll, when you can just
take it out and
start all over again, but
here i am at exposure twenty two and
the lens won't focus and
i'm already knee deep, committed, zooming
in and out and
in again, still
feeling around in the dark, still
trying to make it work, still
pressing to capture when i should just
leave it alone

now it's finished, my
wallet a little lighter, my
heart a little heavier and all i'm left with is a



rooftops and cigarettes and
classic novels and instrumental ambient and
espresso and warm rain can never
provide quite enough of an


still, i sit here atop these
twenty four stories with my own so
unfinished, where cars are distant
fireflies in the night