A word is not the same with one writer as with another.  One tears it from his guts.  The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket.  ~Charles Peguy

so, why don't you love me?

i admitt it, 

i sometimes think about our lives if we were together.

and i like how it looks in my mind.

and i even put in the fights.

so sue me

i like to sit in tims with my best friend

and smile at people.

so sue me.

i get angry easily,

i yell.

my heart breaks into a million pieces

i cry.

i feel too much always. nothing is half way. ever.

i hate you

 

 today, i painted my toenails flat pink.
they match the apology flowers you brought me.
this was not done on purpose.

you havent written back, and that breaks my heart.

i want to change my style. and who i am.

i often feel this way

but im finally doing something about it. 

watch for music videos feature little star and i! they'reacomin'! 

I'm back

I can't see why

everytime you fall
it's my job to catch.
When I fall
Where are you?

I'm seeing a pattern
as I shift through the ruins
of lovers past.

I want you to love me
when you're sober.
I want to be loved for
who I am, now how I make
you feel.

I can do the math
but math can't figure
what's in your heart, or mine.

Something inside me tells me
sober love is a different breed.
One who's contact has been limited.
One who I fear,
though loathe the alternative.

Which will win I wonder?
Fear or hate?
I can train the hate, the distaste from me.
But is that really

how it should be?

I'm a new soul- no.
No, I'm an old soul
with a new spirit.
I'm a young girl
I'm a small
to mid sized city girl
I'm a women with a left over lover history.
I've got big dreams
and I've got a heartbeat
so tell me why I stay here
in this state.
I'm an odd child, and I
have a strange sense of how to
live this life.

Pig Song - Margaret Atwood

This is what you changed me to
a greypink vegetable with slug

eyes, buttok

incarnate, speading like a slow turnip,

a skin you stuff so you may feed
in your turn, a stinking wart
of flesh, a large tuber
of blood which munches
and bloats. Very well then. Meanwhile

I have the sky, which is only half
caged, I have my weed corners,
I keep myself busy, singing
my song of roots and noses,

my sog of dung. Madame,
this song offendes you, these grunts
which you find oppressively sexual,
mistaking simple greed for lust.

I am yours. If you feed me garbage,
I will sing a song of garbage.
This is a hymn.

The burdick theater will always feel like home to me. The catwalks, the wings, backstage, basement. The musty smell mixing with the uncommon smell of cool air. The squeek of certain chairs, the movable walls

I watched your eyes
shift and sparkle and change
grean to grey to blue

with my words
and our stolen subtle touches.

Now I close my own and recall
the snowflake raindrops
dancing in time to our music,

resting finally, softly, on
your pink cheeks and my warm lips
before melting away

to something more pure.
Absorbed by our words.
I remember you lent me your gloves
though your hands shook as much as mine.

You smiled at me
and I smiled into my coffee.
You shifted green and closer, or must have,
because I could feel

the heat of your knee
through four layers of fake skin.