as you walked out the door tonight
so late
so late tonight
i-
in my messy ponytail, gray sweats and pj shirt
skin tired and pale, a
little red defiant pimple showing up above my left
eye-
was throttled by this sudden
fear
 that you are about to walk away.
about to leave and never come back
because why would you.
and i almost cried right there on the landing.
you turned and kissed my cheekbones.
a goodnight was exchanged.

please come back tomorrow.
please don't be walking out on me
i don't think my heart could stand any more of that.
i think i would asphyxiate on
my heart as it climbed up my throat
in a suicidal attempt to say
everything its ever needed to
because i forced it shut and silent so long
to this day.

what if i open it again,
meaning for just a crack
just a few things let out
just a small thing let in-
and it bursts
all over the floor and pillows and me and you
what do i do then?

its been a long night.

i live on the edge
not in a good way.
in a
im always panicking,
always afraid
always worried.
something inside me is always nagging myself.
i hate it.
and i dont do anything to fix my problems.
i just wish them away
i try to ignore them.
thats wrong.
the end.
thats the wrong thing to do.
because they dont go away
they grow.

Janina Ballerina - I am not your rolling wheels, I am the highway

I'm home.

BOOKS I BOUGHT ON MY TRAVELS:
Animal Farm - George Orwell
Lady Oracle - Margaret Atwood (novel)
The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie - Alan Bradley
The Gargoyle - Andrew Davidson

May 10th

I'm high above the world, or part of it at least.
Below, someone has mowed
HARPER
in large clumsy capitals in a field.

I imagine telling you about it.

I drink my third cup of coffee.
It's eight am. I've been up since 330am

My eyes are sandy, and "Blaziflor Et Helena" switches to "Gives You Hell."

She loves this song.

And I'm flying towards her.
Though, I won't see her.
The idea, the nearness is a comfort though.
And him?

"& truth be told, I miss you. & truth be told, I'm lying"

"Better luck tomorrow."
I whisper
as I shoo his ghost away.

May 11th

"looks like we're heading for a crash landing, like songs that say goodbye"

This place reflects me.
And today,
it's less lonely than I thought it would be.

At Night I was no less
[no more]
fitfull than usual.
But I didn't reach out for you, or your voice.
I reached within.
And I would drift off again,
knowing better than to reach out again for you.

I awoke as if hungover,
with a blistering bursting headache,
and my tongue felt furry.

Damn jetlag.

I showered.
I threw up.
I slept again.
I woke up
and you were barely there.

I saw you once today,
while in a book shop.
While in peace
but right now, perched on a quilt, in socks too big,
the sun finally appearing,
I'm good thanks.
You've been so quick to leave my system:
Are you just weak?
or am I stronger this time 'round?

*

Near the ocean
but not quite there yet.
24+hours here.
Why do I feel such trepidation?
It's water.
It doesn't know me.
Cannot judge me.
I think.
God, it's green here.
This place is so small town.
I feel the people my age looking at me.
What an oddity I must be.
They don't know me either.
I'm small town too.
I think.
I guess here
I'm a big city girl
impressed with the "novelties"
that make up their everyday.
I don't belong here with the locals.
I should be with the tourists.
I don't belong here
[not alone]

*

No one's love comes close to yours
Nothings what it was before.
My eyes are heavy
and my heart is sore.

*

I found a coffee shop, on a lonely walk with no purpose.
It's called the "Cha C'ha Java"

It's quiet. It's fun. It reminds me of Winnipeg.
I had a coffee.
I resolved to take a book with me next time I come.





May 13th
Raining.
I've learned something --
just because you love a place,
doesn't mean you belong there.
For that matter,
just because you love someone,
doesn't mean you belong together.
Or, even,
you don't always love what you need or belong to (belong with)
Sometimes it takes time, patience.
You just need to acknowledge that feeling, that voice that says:
ahhhhhhh
Need to know what it sounds like, that this feels different, because it is different




May 14th
Sunday Morning by Maroon 5 was the first song to play when I put my iPod on random.

"Back and forth/ we sway/ like branches in a storm."

I can still smell the ocean on me.
In my hair? No.
Feet? Hands? No.
It shall remain a mystery.
[in my heart?]

*

I am not a doll.
Nor am I a lady
British
Dainty
Proper
Quiet demur ivory fine chine
I am not a painting.

I never did much like playing tea party when I was little.
Maybe on occasion.
But not often. Not really.

Now, playing debutant or,
Proper Victorian British Lady
[ i think this the most fitting analogy]
i am smothered.

I've drunk countless and endless cups of tea
[only two sugars allowed]
ankles crossed, both feet on the ground [!!!!!!!!!!!!]

If I hear once more
"how pretty she is!"
"oh she looks so much like her mother!"
"oh Anna, you must be so proud of have such a lovely granddaughter!"
I will chuck this hand painted fine china at the wall
and grind my scone into the carpet.
As it is,
I smile charmingly, demure.
Lay my spoon on the saucer the way I've been taught
[Perpendicular to my body, behind the tea cup]
I endure my grandmother, whom I love dearly
adjusting my shirt
wiping my face
always being at my elbow.

I love her and spending time with her
but this is too much too many days in a row.

And now,
there is nothing I value more then my hour or two at night,
when I go for my walks alone.
In which I am,
as best I can,
young flirtatious and above all,
free.




That's all for now, I'll post more later!
(I took 1000+ pictures. I'm still sorting though them all. But all the pictures today are mine, from this past week)

For Now, Heavens In New York

He had no poise
no drop dead looks
and yet,
this little crooked smile
played on his lips

and something about it became him.

Maybe its the lighting
Maybe its the timing.
his shirt
the way coffee jumps in my stomach.
maybe its me.

Maybe its me sitting here
with fresh eyes
and unused to clean air.

Maybe its the way the sun came out, or how he said "excuse me" so politely.
Or how the birds are out again, after so long.

Maybe its him.
And Me.

"[it's scary/it's glorious]"

you are the elephant in the room, fast asleep.
We tiptoe about you, careful, ever careful, so not to rouse you.
So you won't awaken and crush us all
[me]
Your weight, importance, cannot be discounted.
One day you'll open one weary eye
and see me again
- awakened and infuriated, you are less large gentle bumbling elephant, more calculating, wild, preditor animal. -
and you will try to reclaim me
with bright scary eyes
large fumbling hands.
And he who tiptoes with me
shall try to slay you.
How do you slay what also exists in the mind, as real as outside?
How do you banish what will mearly
easily
return?

She is wearing rags and feathers, from Salvation Army counters

it's odd, knowing that
everything i've regretted recently,

has lead me here to you, and your absense.
Every lover
with eyes that warm and hands that tear;
Looking around my workshop

[as it is tonight, just that] I see evidence
of myself in everything:
the stickie note above the bed, the cup of coffee and glass of water. A pair of heels. A kleenex box perched percariously on a stack of books. 5 notebooks in plain sight.
The absense of you.
The dreams [nighmares] skulking on the cealing, reaching down occasionally to tickle my face or pull my hair.
If I were brave, I'd deal with them.
Banishing some, letting others go - after tender goodbyes - and helping a few down, making them adjust and adapt to reality;
'til I once again have control

[in the absense of you]

a voice whispers : there is
poetry
in the dark my darling, and what are you?
Sandy gritty eyes [my own]
peel open to have a look about;
What poetry where? Who's darling am I tonight?
"What I am" has little consequence tonight - while voice unseeable whisper, priorities shit to accomidate them [& besides, the only part of that statement that is new to is not that]
What poetry?
The stuff in my mind, the words of madness' voice? Or is it perhaps under my pillow? At the foot of my bed, or hiding in a cup? Hovering above me [ in such case, perhaps it entered with our friend here]
I blink at the sand in my eyes.
When did time move from 1 to 4?
Why am I afriad - when did I find the time for his nightmare?
I shiver.
4 to 10am.
The poetry came with the sun.

I've been kinda down lately.
I don't know, maybe too many sad songs.
But you know when things all just feel...
too much?

Yeah.



I can't tell the difference between
black and white anymore.
It's quiet here today,
and I can hear the quiet
even if I hum to myself.
It's hard enough without feeling
like I've killed
this little part of you.
It was quite a lie
to make me think that this
was more than it was, I suppose.
My fault, or yours?
Cause I stood still,
I closed my eyes,
I let you take
all you wanted from me.
If I'm not to blame,
If I'm not the reason,
then what am I?
Heartbroken is extreme,
but battered and bruised sounds
close to me.
And nothings riding in
from the distance
to save me.
I've contridicted everything
I ever wanted.
I've left behind everything from
before
and am left
only with these
fragments
these bruises that
refuse to yellow and fade.
This hand that still aches
from that too-hard-squeeze.
Who am I,
now that I am no longer
defined by what you do?
In the night
I know I am defined by what you did.
By what I allowed.
I see you in every pair of hands.
You saw the terror in my eyes that day.
And you dare to ask me
why.
And you dare to beg me
and I dare to cry one more time,
before I fall asleep to be defined again.
I am doomed
to know that this is
unchangable,
and I am responsible,
that my anchor crushed me
and I am lost inside this quiet tonight.