The Morning After

Why do I cling desperately to the night?
I refuse to close my eyes and give into the dawn

I don’t want to be awake for the beginning
I don’t want to recognize an end

This idyllic morn has never occurred to me
and I won’t sleep while others are awake –
what could I be missing?

An anxiety takes hold as I regret what I didn’t do
and lacking courage I refuse to look forward to
a new opportunity to undo the things not done

The darkness is a comforting wrap
not haunted with ghosts or terrors
but providing a shelter, warm and closed

To be open is to be a deer in a clearing
To be optimistic is to be a fool

I am no dunce so I wish just once
the morning after would not come

Only night, eternal, forever more
no loss of time, no morning sun
no end to the day, no more: it’s done, it’s done…

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bedtime

Hear, the sleep is calling
rest your head upon my chest
I hear the wind fly through the reeds
yet you must get some rest

It’s been a long adventure,
you’re weary from the ride
your journey’s almost over
it’s the returning of the tide

The moon is waxing in the sky
the stars but guiding lights
Hecate’s chariot, magic driven,
takes its night time flight

Peel away the layers of the day
now a lime whose zest is grated
you have loved the sun today
but a whole day you have waited

To lie your back flat on the ground
and heave a deep calm sigh
say goodnight to loved ones
lie back, breathe deep, and shut your eyes.

3 parts 

I

As the sun sets, my sorrow grows,
The lights are dim, and the television screens pointless shows

Aladdin’s lamp is the only one I’d currently light,
I could use a wish, and there’s no prediction for shooting stars tonight

II

I hate it here: the place is filled with princesses.

And a sorrow blooms in my chest.
My heart is heavy, and my head is light.

But whether I’m in love, or I’m surfing a nicotine buzz is unknown

As I breathe, smoke fills my lungs, and I feel a heaviness – a restriction in my chest –
so that I don’t feel light, but weighted.

And so my mind is.

Desire between snapping and murderous rage
at being dominated, controlled….
Or not caring….

… to not care would be a wonderful blessing.
And maybe I don’t?

My hand smells like cigarettes, and as I ball my fist,
I imagine smashing it into a face…or three.

But I hesitate – do I not want a world without violence?

So I hold my hand, and bite my tongue – so hard –
blood drips over my lips and down my chin.

There is no one to kiss away this pain. No deathly
grip or vice in which to hold and hang this thing

Held over me.

III

You are three parts, and still not whole.
I’ve fallen down some rabbit hole, now living like some sightless mole,
and walking over hellish burning coal so that I may play the role
of perfect person – never a troll – while I feel my withered soul
is draining away as if someone stole – without paying the toll –

My freedom; and my love: my heart.

Why Not Wednesday?

I never could find the big dipper, and yet

I spot Orion’s belt every time I look up at the stars.

My head back, my heels clack: click (clock) ((clock)),

An impressive noise in the night,

On the pavement, in the street

Strikingly feminine, and startlingly angry

Echoing, click (clock) ((clock))

And someone texting me, asking if I’m alone

Scolding me and telling me that I know better.

I know we normalize violence, and blame those that stand their ground

I know we shut up those people with a voice.

I know that I like to walk alone, at night, in my scary

Clacking heels. Click (clock) ((clock))

Intimidating frightful men, and seeing girls turn their backs

Knowing that I’m lacking

Maybe, their impressively huge racks,

But knowing no one’s tracking

My every move. Nor do I care. Should I get whacked

then I’ll be smacking

Back. Click. (Clock.) ((Clock.))