gloves in the summertime.

written for todays open mic:

the burning is still here
the burning is still here.
still stings like sparks.
still makes itself known when ever my heart beats.
pulse
in my wrists.
the burning is still here.

and i caught them once.
my hands
cupped like a fireplace.
shaking like fear, but not moving like they need this.
like this position is still routine.
like they need to find familiarity to cover them like a blanket
before they go to sleep.
and that will only come from flames.
that will only come from remembering.

back when momma's boyfriend
would take our hands, tender, in his,
and curl our bones like burning paper.
set his anger aflame beneath us,
like all the rage that man had was crammed into his zippo.
he was all fire.
his mouth was a chimney.
his knuckles made of flints.
stinging like sparks
when the strike the logs they're setting on fire.
sticks in your mind, as sharp, as poignant as the smell of butane.

i remember him like a house fire,
hitting each family member like were curtains.
like we're shot glasses of vodka, flammable at best,
like we're all trees to you.
my momma was only kindling to you.
my little brother was only kindling to you.
i was something so much bigger.

he was so much bigger than me.
he was firewood to last a whole winter, and i was only a sapling.
i was only candle sized, then. 
now, left as barren, as scorched as the aftermath of arson.
left a pyrophobic.
left with hands like a prayer.
praying to the sun god,
begging to make this inferno stop.
please Ra,
i am too young for cremation.

i caught myself once.
remembering his face.
red as fire.
make my heart beat faster.
feel my pulse in my wrists.
hands like bricks.
cupped like a fireplace.

they used to be as black as coal,
as cracked as the sound of matches.
still as delicate as ash.

when i was younger,
i wore gloves
in the summer time.
to mask the sound of my flesh screaming.

i still have gloves,
still want to wear them.
my flesh doesn't scream anymore,
but the burning is still here.
the burning is still here.
he is still here.

"don't ruin love, by wanting it so bad.

don't ruin love, by wanting it so bad."

                                                 -Derrick Brown

I was once told that I was Winter.

Skin as pale as snow,
and I wear red lipstick like holly berries.
Leave people cold,
leave people dry,
leave people.

I leave people when they just started to get used
to me.

the product of last nights poetry class:

i'm SOOOO hungry

i could eat the president.

yah.  i'm a poet.

i will never tell him

that when i remember him
i remember little.

the things i recall:
1.  the always tired look in  your eyes
2.  the way your cigarette rested hesitantly between your lips,
as if it knew that your breath was not it's home.
3.  how comfortable you look on that bar stool,
your fingers ice skating with the condensation on your glass.
how close you seemed to slipping.


4.  finding out about your young son.

this was the day i realized,
he will always know what a smokers cough is,
and he will always know the taste of beer.
he will always be kissed with the same lips that have taste nicotine and alcohol.
so i pray that you brush your teeth,
tired eyes.
and i think of your son.

untitled I

death has become a color

for us.  a line, resting

gravely beneath our lower

lashes;our eyes have

become cloudy.  this is not

a silver lining.

month of may.

You
came
in, like a lion.
with teeth of excitement and fur as gold as dreaming in the middle of church.
your paws
ran the road to rebellion like a speedway,
and ran right into me.

hovering, as nuetral as a bumble bee.
people like me
are soft to touch,
but i assure you, we can sting.

so you came.
much like a young lion.
who has just gained its molars.
extatic, over just about anything
whether you should've been or not.

and i
was monotone at best
when it came to our meeting.
it came much like spring in my city.
when it arrives, neighbourhood by unsuspecting neighbourhood,
you will know.
as if it has it's own parade
complete with mega phones.

everyone knew.
and it was as loud as a car crash.
crashed into each other as violently as a racer into a tree.
you were moving so fast,
and i was content in staying still
in myself.
and in my plans.

i had plans for staying secure
in my lonliness
and in my bitterness
of the last time i had been trampled on.
so i was willing to sting who ever i need
to keep my self
from getting attached.

lions
seem viscous.
but a cub
holds everything but what God wouldn't allow.
and my eyes
hold blindness to whats right infront of me
and i wear rose coloured glasses,
so i can only see
what concerns myself.
myself.

so it appears,
my stinger got stuck,
backwards.
it was like a thorn in your paw,
for a quick moment before your abrupt departure,
then it was me, sitting on my own sword,
that i had once blindly thought was a shield.

it is clear to me now
that you were out for more than play,
and less than murder.
you were hunger,
in a less dangerous way.
you were teeth of excitement and not torment.
you were vulnerable and now viscous
and now i deeply wish
that i didn't send you away, lion
as a lamb.

tide is low.

1.  As far as anyone was concerned, my mother was a mute from the day she could speak.  From the day I was born, I knew her as silence.  I would identify her by her breathing.  As a baby, pressed firmly against her chest at all times, I came to know her like no other had ever tried.  Her breaths were steady; deep and defined.
In; Tide is high.
Out; Tide is low.
I pictured her heartbeats like fishes, rattling the waves.

2.  My mother owned no books.  It has been debated whether or not she would be able to read them, with her inability to speak wearing her down like the absense of glasses to blind eyes.  But on our walls, where we placed no bookshelves, there were paintings.  To everyone just looking, they appear as vague as parking lots.  But I let my eyes swim in them.  Some as blue as blueprints, I see detail.
The only time my mother released me was to paint.  She watched me the whole time, and I, her.  Imagining each stroke was an idea she could never vocalize.

So people lie about her paintings, only because they don't know the truth.  These canvases re-enact our life.

3 a).  I come to the ocean daily.  It reminds me of her.

4.  The last day of my mothers life was alot like the first year of mine.
Lying in a bed of waves.
Head to her chest in listening.
In early rememberance.
In; Tide is high.
Out;  Tide is low.

5.  My mothers last look was one of safety.  Made me feel like every time I left the softness of her breast, I was leaving her to drown.
Almost as if foreshadowing, she held me in her gaze, treading in the color of my blue eyes,
And in one of her last tired breaths, she said

"Michael"

In; Tide is high.
Out; Tide is low.
In; Tide is high.
Out; Tide is low.
Tide is low.
Tide is low.
Tide is low.

3 b).  I come to the ocean daily.  It reminds me of her.  I watch the tides, and thank science like a God, for never letting me remember her death.

graves.

i need for my hand to be held
the way it used to.
when i was young,
and my legs had barely 3 years to break in their bones,
so i was the princess of unstable.

the way it used to be held,
when the two of us would walk across the pavement connecting back roads,
when i would trip on the air beneath my toes,
when you would tighten your grip
and suspend me.
our fingers interlocked, like a chain,
and you would swing me.
and all my eyes could see was a sky as blue as my future baby's eyes.

so these days, i need you to hold my hand,
because since you've left me,
i've started falling out of nowhere,
and there's no one waiting at my fingers to catch me.
so my landings have been so hard.

need you to hold my hand
the way you used to.
wrap your arms around me
and distract me with the feeling of what home should be.
you were the only thing keeping my cold heart
from freezing every part of me.
even my peach fuzz stood on edge.
even my bones felt barren.
so i need you here,
to have and to hold,
even if it's only in my palms.
i just need a distraction these days.

because all that i can remember
is cradling your bones on that last saturday.
all that i can remember
is you calling me beautiful and asking me about that boy in my math class.
all i can remember,
is the warmth of your heart filling your eyes and every inch of your cold white room.
all that i can remember,
is our fingers puzzle pieced together like graves.

so grandma,
i need you here.
to remind me to breathe, because sometimes i forget.
and hold my hand through all the hard parts, because sometimes i get scared.
to bring back memories that aren't of you on your death bed.
the only dreams i have of you, lately, are nightmares.
lately, my life has been a nightmare.
lately my hands have been cold.

and i need you,
because i don't want to do this alone.
i need you,
because i can't do this alone.

benign

(before you read this, i'm just going to ramble.  my school is really involved in the cops for cancer campaign, and we went from raisin 16, 000 our first year, to 52, 000 last year, and 84, 000 this year, and still counting.  this was the first year i attended the headshave, and it was an incredibly emotional experience for me.  multiple people in my life have been lost to/affected by the demon that is cancer.  these were generally just my thoughts during the hour i spent in the gym, watching many students, including a large amount of beautiful, beautiful young women shedding their hair in memory of the ones they'd lost, the battles they'd fought, and the connections they'd had.  i'll be shaving my head next year, and while i'm extremely nervous, i know it's the right thing to do.  when the time comes around, let me know if you'd like to pledge me.)
(side note- this is still really first draft and rambly.  editing it, so there will be newer, more structured copies, eventually.)



today, i remember my grandmother.
her death was 13 hours before my premature birth,
and i believe that the fingers that once graced my mothers stomach daily
left a residue of their bodys pain.
believe the shock was enough to throw her into labor,
enough to throw me into a newly empty world.

so i remember always looking at my current grandparents,
in waiting
in wishing she could forever hold the title of "in-law"
and never grandmother.  never relative.
every time my grandfather remarries, he passes on her hurting like a re-gifted ring.
and i've come to discover that you're the type of demon
that tends to stick to certain family's.

remember how science class tells me that rapidly splitting cells is not contagious,
but lately, i think my late relatives and yourself would beg to differ.
you see, the only thing that has never differed in my family
is disease.

today i remember the last call i ever got from my mother.
i took this news with ease and a dose of surprise,
realize that your annual visit to our tribe was well overdue.
remember saying 'goodbye', and expecting it to be the last.
everything you did to us in the past was only practice for our future presents.

today, is a day of realizations.
a day of regret, remorse, remembrance and change.

i feel the tears on their eyes and decide
that instead of wearing fear like a shield,
i will never skip a doctor's appointment.

feel the hair beneath my toes and decide
that expectancy will, today, turn into me being ready.

embrace every skull i see
with the understanding

that someday, you are coming to get me.
but i will not let you take me by surprise.
scraping the pain from my mothers stomach,
and grandma's ring,
and every memory of loved ones i have,
and paint it onto my flesh.
in preperation.

i will clear the hair from my neck,
and welcome you to take a bite.
my skin so full poison and my blood so full of lethal spite.
come and get me.
i am ready
with war paint of your own medicine,
come and get your taste.

i will not drop my guns,
i will not drop my defences.
i will not drop the pictures of my lost ones,
or forget the sound of my grandmothers singing.
the sound of the silence ringing.

together, as a hurting nation,
we will join hands,
we will join skulls,
we will join together in our hurt, join together in our loss, join together in our anger and make it clear,
as truthful as a gymnasium of bald skulls,

you will not beat us, cancer.
we will not let you beat us, cancer.
you cannot beat us.

identity.

a hole beneath my ribs.,
nestled, comfortably, against my spine,
eating at the back fo my eyes,
making home in my throat.

so all i ever feel is empty.
all you'll ever see will be empty.
all i'll ever say will be empty.

you were my identity. 
i found the meaning of cozy in us.
you, the meaning of secure
in my arms
and in my trust.

i found my rescue badge in your eyes,
found my pass port in your wallet,
found my identity in the plane seat next to you on the day of your leaving.
left my weeping.
left my sacrifice.
left your owed goodbye to me
somewhere on the side of the highway.

left me to months of praying & begging.
the only lullaby  i knowi s my own saltwater,
over used, and evaporated
all of me, has evaporated.

left me to a hole,
left me to a cave.
left me to be the ash of what once was.

it seems,
by the light of your cigarette,
your lungs weren't the only things you were poisoning.

for lana.

i met you,
at your grave.

hands caged in foreign fingers
and adventure.
feet in cemetery.

the soles of their shoes
were digging into grass.
their toes
wanted to find you
that bad.

we are searching,
their toes are close to digging,
for your name,
carved into stone,
as if your death is the only thing that is.
lana, you are gone.

please stop pulling on these souls
their shoes should be running away,
and not towards.
but still, i tell them to watch their step,
don't step on the grave stones.

brooklyn straightens up flowers,
and ethan leads the way
with determination
not commonly found in a seven year old.

they tell me stories of you they shouldn't.
lana,
i'm sorry that the only knowledge i have of you
is an impression a 7 year old
should not have the burden of holding.
so you must understand
that my respect for you is not the highest,
after seeing how bruised you made his shoulders
from the weight.

ethan
is not a basket for the memories of your sins.
and brooklyn, is not a pathway to redemption.
i know sometimes you'd see angel in her eyes,
but lana,
a  5 year old is not dependable.

let them grow.
go back home.
stay in your grave,
and let go of their feet.
get out of their dreams.
before they realize who you really were.

run.

*a free write on point of veiws in my english class.  a bit scattered, didn't think about it much.  the last stanza is both the younger and older sister*

Her bed

Is empty

And today, I think I’d find comfort

In body shaped pillows under covers

The least she could have left me

Is a façade.

This morning

I am running

From the nothing that is biting on my heels.

From my mother

Always punishing

The body shaped pillows under covers.

 My wet, from tears, bed sheets

Felt more like punches

Than concern.

Remember

When she called me ‘little sister’

Love in her voice,

Only because she felt the need to use my window

As an escape route

But in my innocence,

I would not call her out,

Only take what I could

Get.

Sprinting,

From the memory of saying

‘I love you’

Hoping my little sister

Could believe that in every lie,

There is a hint of truth.

Believe

That she is more

Than an escape route.

My little sister

Is my path to freedom.

And this morning,

I wake with guilt

At the sight of her bedding.

Run with guilt,

At the sight of her sleeping face.

Will sleep tonight,

Wondering,

If I could have done

More.

To a Stranger,

You are one among many, among the broken that is our adolescent society.
You are beginning to blend in with the others.
Be careful, or you'll fall in with the others,
Be the same face as the last one I tried to pull out of your communal pit.

Promises of
'I will be there, I will love you, I will fix you.'
I promised I would fix them,
so I'm certain it made their breaking that much more painful.

So Stranger, be careful,
Use caution,
let no one know you are in need.
I promise you I will find out,
I will promise to fix you.
and I promise you, I have a habit of loving, leaving then breaking.

update.

sorry, to pretty much... james, for not posting.  ahah.
'one a day' definitely not going to happen.  anyways,

i'm working away on a poetry book.  i want to have it out for july, but the chances of that are so low.
still, it's coming.
and i made it into victoria slam finals.  so i'm preparing for that.  it's on the sixteenth.  which is, wow, alot closer than i thought it was.  hurrah.

oh, and the youth poetry team has a feature at tongues of fire in september, season opener.  so, come to that.

yeah, that's what i've been up to.  just posting for the sake of posting, and keeping james happy.  ya good, boy?

claws.

hush little baby, don't say a word, mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.

i imagine that i would have called you 'birdy'.
that your eyes would have been as blue and as light as feathers. 
that your laugh would have been a lot like a song, and your cry like a whistle.
and that name, would be like a prophecy,
and sheet music of the songs that you would sing to your daughters,
as each mother before you.

my mother.
sang me that lullaby every night,
as if each note was a promise
for a perfect daughter,
as if she knew what i would name you,
and that you would be worth more than diamond rings.

were what tempted her.
my mother was alot like a crow,
she had no feathers to speak of,
but claws and hair a jet black shade of mystery,
so i shouldn't have been surprised
when she left the nest,
but in a beak full of her regret
i realized that i can't teach a fledgling to fly,
if i am still a chick,
and my body went from being aviaric
to empty and barren,
because a cull was more appealing
than a little labor and finding worms.

i never thought i'd end up being a murderer.

but fear reset our future,
i was afraid of the possibilities
that maybe, you wouldn't be special to anyone other than your mother,
maybe you would bring me things other than happiness,
and maybe, your song wouldn't be one to change the world.
like maybe you wouldn't take the form of a dove in the middle of a world war.
too afraid of my mothers promises being broken.

so i found my self,
in a war zone,
with fingers curled beneath my stomach like claws,
holding a birdhouse of fate and an incubator of fear.
my little bird, you would never know what hit you,
whether sticks and stones, a vacuum or a syringe.

the memory often makes me cringe,
like three days after
when i learned it is a sin to kill a mocking bird,
and in a jail cell of chalkboards and desks,
i realized just what i had committed.

so,i am sorry for that first fleeting moment of thought
of following poor instinct
of me thinking that if i pinned your wings down
i'd be able to fly.
birdy, i wish that i could say i would take it back,
if i was given the chance,
quick as flight.
but i am clearly too selfish to raise a child,
and try as i might,
i would always have been too afraid
of you falling far from the nest to even let you try.
always would have been too close to filling up your bones
to keep you grounded
just so you couldn't chase after me,
when i decided to leave.
my mothers genetics have predisposed me to believe,
that i will be a terrible hen,

but now, light as a bird, my words surely have little meaning,
but i feel the need to assure you,
that i was only protecting you from myself
need to assure you
that death will be a better mother, birdy,
she won't ever leave you.

and you will never leave my mind,
no matter how many months you have been left behind,
your name will be heard in every breath i exhale,
like a breeze.

i will always remember the feeling of your wings pressed against my spine
i was so prepared to hear you breathing,
i pictured you singing,
i felt like it was real.

but my mother's lift off taught me that nothing goes as planned
so i ran.
straight into my guilt
and into the safe house
of the consequences of what happens

if that mocking bird don't sing.

little brother.

it's been eleven, almost twelve years
that your name has been on my tongue
syllables dancing on taste buds'
sweet as memories,
sweet as childhood.
it's been five years that i refrain from
saying it like it's comfortable.

the thought of you
makes me uncomfortable.
you are freckling into insecurities
like a growing girl,
and shrinking into addictions
like television shows.

my imagination catches me breath,

and i never know what to say.
you are past emerging,
i often picture you swerving
into the wrong curb.


little brother,
you are moving backwards.
you are turning nocturnal.
i don't bother knocking on your door anymore
i always know what you are doing
and i know you're just sleeping,
tired because the day has been long
but you look an awful lot like you're breaking.

can't tell the difference
between the moon and the sun
between me and your mum,
you are curling into balls of body,
of little brother,
and i am a body of worry.
i told my self i'd start worrying
when insomnia kicked in.
when static screens were more important that sleep.

but you do nothing but sleep
when it is time to be alive.
brother, you are unfurling into erratic behaviors
and i can see your future
in every reaction to things
that don't go the way you planned,
and i often pray you don't believe in karma.

brother, sometimes i think
that if you just pulled back the curtains,
and turned of the television,
you could be human
could be happy,
could learn how to smile,
and how to empathize with humanity.
understand what your mother means
when she talks about africa and your picky eating
could understand that the meaning of life
isn't getting another one.

i need you to understand
that family ties will be cut,
if you never cut these habits
these images are the saddest i have ever seen.
i need you to understand
that i am holding on to you
by a thread,
brother, get out of bed
and figure out how to live,
or i'm letting go.

tangles.

you are an ocean away
built like a shield,
body built like a mask.

you tell me you're okay.
tell me you're stable,
you're holding me up, so
you can't fall down.

but sometimes i know it's tempting.

so i say prayers for your decisions,
fingers folded like my rib cage
i am heaving,
breathing words
like tears

like stop being afraid
of crying.
you act strong like wood,
but i see worried wrinkles
like tree bark,
like  furrows in their trunk,
in their branches, in your brow.

you need to know
that judgement isn’t a side-dish
to your vulnerability.

i imagine the word ‘fear’
written along the curves of your feet,
and ‘escape’ along your heels,

but i am this close
to setting traps
to tripping up your feet
to tangling your limbs
and your words,
tangling your thoughts
to make you stay a moment
and realize

you don’t have to be okay
for me.

LESBIANS ROCK

Roses are red
And violets are PURPLE
Kanika is the coolest prettiest most fantastic person ever
Uhh.... Nothing rhymes with purple


<3

for gabriela.

it has been
eight months.

of regret.
of me thinking i did
what was best.
since the day i put
our relationship to the test.

eight months of
me folding my fingers
into prayers and into nervousness
singing hymns
of me wishing for forgiveness.

you left me
as empty
as the translucent jam jars
i used to keep our joint happiness in.
i swear, if you tried,
you could see right through me.

but i rarely let you see me.
because it has been eight months of
watching you deteriorate.
you used to be 70 % smiles, 29 excitement, and 1 % chai tea.
now all that i can see
is your fate,  and you are full of it.

and i spend my days
watching you fall through holes
and i waste my breath
speaking words
that never full go through your head
i bet
that you haven't read the last letter i sent you
since the first time i did.

gabriela,
i built my life
like a house
around a post.
of skin and bones,
you are skin and bones,
and i built my life,
like a goal,
around your limbs,
i would give anything to call you kin,
to call you sister
call you what ever i did back when things were right.
i would have given anything to save you.

please listen to me,
i would give.
anything.
to save.
you.




it's been eight months
since i made the mistake
of giving up.

christy brown.

the first word
that you ever wrote was
mother.
and it curled against your spine
as if it was your backbone.
this memory
could hold you upright.

you held inspiration for your paintings
under each foot step you could never take,
and each time i witnessed your heartbreak,
my pulse slowed down
a little.

your face was always in a frown,
but the first time i saw you
smile,
i had shivers down my
spine,
as if your mother
had come back to
life,
and suddenly,
you could walk,
and trail a tail of your inspiration
behind your feet.

paycheck.

i feel
like my sides have paper edges
my skin
has numbers scrawled
like they are freckles.
like, each home
is just an envelope
and i'm just a set of photo copies.
i am next month's hydro
and half of february's heat.
i am
"take a seat,
it's time for number seven"
this one
will be different.

for elisa.

1.  I remember summer like
abandoned boat houses, mornings at the bay, and naps on the dock.
like, for the next two months we will count our sins on fingers and at least three times a day be considered holy.
like, divinity in the form of sun cast down on fields and modesty in the walls of green buildings.
i remember summer like safe.
summer like love.
like home.

2.  You, came to us in the middle.
with bright eyes and guards right up.
you came with gifts, and you came with no intentions.
and you left with a tan and a few scratches.

3.  I, call you 'Birdy'
you are not feathered nor hollow boned,
but your hair is a blackbird shade of mystery
and sometimes i catch you dancing in the back of the room during church services.
you tell me that your feet don't hurt,
and sometime i think that you're lying,
and just believe the pain is worth it.

4.  I remember September like
goodbyes and snail mail,
like calling you beautiful.
Like wishing you were here with your tan and your scratches,
and your mystery.
I remember yesterday
like repeat
repeat
repeat.

5.  I miss you.

christmas eve, 2009.

he tells me
he can't.

it is christmas eve.
and he is not sleeping.
in a shared room of dresser dividers and walls made of bed sheets.
i know this isn't ten year old excitement.
he's just breathing.

i notice absense of snoring
through my television static
ask him the question.

he tells me
he can't.

he feels
like he isn't alive.

regardless of his breathing.

he tells me
he can't.

smoke.

suddenly without registering myself I fell
I'd sworn against liberty of heart,
built my own cage with solid hands
with straight and pointy nails
kept extras near my palm for protection
and then here you brought a torch
and smoked me out.


we
do not care
for the consequences of
classes skipped or filters between
our lips.
we are rebellion,
wishing we could be revolution
but sometimes nicotene and relaxation
is more appealing than learning manifestation tactics.

I smoked you
with my fist first,
then my knee into ribs, my fingers into hair
I smoked your mouth
between teeth
with curling curling mouth
I smoked

passenger seat
of his creaking car.
slamming doors, and tires turning
the asphalt black as my burnt toes,
i will walk towards my fate.
let the trail of your exhaust exhaust me.
and the rope of your smoke and your lack of regrets
tie me to railroad spikes.
trails don't come here anymore.

it was thought most foxy
most femme fatale to frightfully smoke up my eyes
charcoal like excuses
I blink and then like the glare of a thousand miners,
romance curdles itself
and I am just smudgy.

-- with zoe jacqueline duhaime.

bright lights.

She was a dream girl. She followed the amygdala caged in her white skulled mind like a road map. Since she was a starry eyed child with little fingers dancing through ringlet hair, she dreamt in a bed of glitter. She had visions of mazes with brick walls and dandelions in the corners, and what was so appealing to clams about those small holes in the muddy sand at the ocean down the road. As she grew older, her eyes grew more dull, and her fingers grew out of her skin and her ringlets grew into waves. Her mind changed. She dreamt of being trapped in the circle of yellow cascading out of streetlights until the sun woke up, and she was free. She dreamt of scary men with countdown watches sitting in bus stations, waiting for something that was nothing to her, but was anything for them. She dreamt instructions. Run down that empty, abandoned road until you reach desolate spots where civilization cannot branch out and you can barely feel your feet skidding across the pavement, because all you can feel is your being taking the shape of a lion. This, is the spot where magic lives. Go there. Escapism, and the owl that was perched in the ragged branches of the tree that situated itself in her childhood friend's backyard. He flapped his wings in the sky and wore glasses in fantasies and story books. This is where wisdom lives. Go there. The eyes of young girls and teenage boys, back when they both contained stars, and damsels painted their nails pink. Before they wore lipstick and stopped wearing dresses. When kisses were like cash in a barter economy. This is where love lives. Go there, and fill your tear ducts with what they are selling for free. You need to cry the way you used to. When your eyes were still filled with stars. Give your fingers a rest, and let them shrink back into soft skin cages. Let them be comfortable in flesh blankets and let them sleep. You need to go down to the ocean that inspired you to be so interested in clams and driftwood and beach glass that displayed your reflection and reconstruct your hair. Create brunette springs with salt water instead of electronics and live in the trees. Use your newly reborn fingers to make tidal waves and dream. This is your amygdala speaking, Sleeping Beauty. Use me as your road map. I will guide you through brick wall mazes with dandelion flowers in the corners to the coast that you've forgotten. I'll be the blinders on the side of your eyes, distracting you with solid images of what's ahead from the signs on the sidelines stating that Nevada is only six dreams to your left. There are no oceans there. Only deserts of dry grains of sand that will whisper devil's delusions into your mind. Las Vegas is only bright lights. The future is soft and full of glitter coating your bed.