victory

every moment you breathe through is
a tiny victory
the conquest of a shining minute that you can keep in your pocket
and worry like a stone

remember this

when you want to climb trees
climb trees
there isn't much you cannot do
you can cry and weep and rage
(if you want to)

and every moment you think through is
a moment you are still alive
and still hoping
and still wishing
and still winning
(even as you lose)

remember this

when you stop in the street in the middle of the day
and you are overcome by
the ugliness of life
all the seconds ticking by are
feathers on your back

and one day
(maybe soon)
the moments ticking by will just be
air beneath your wings

Gravity

Wednesday, 3:40 p.m., sitting on a bed stripped of sheets (because I do laundry in the middle of the afternoon), looking online for jobs.
I have an exam tonight.
And tomorrow night. And next week.
And then? ...
I am 22 years old and don't know what I am doing. I haven't known what I was doing since I was.. 13? 14? Kids are too fucking smart. I remember sitting in my room, writing in my journal, internally patting myself on the back for how pretty and awesome I was, how cool everyone thought I was. I have a very distinct memory of that.
Where the hell did that go?
I have spent so much time trying to control things. To worry, to think, to plan. None of it has done much good. I would have been better off running outside, drawing pictures, fucking finger-painting.
I have books on buddhism piled up next to my bed, and a book and CD on meditation. I've been studying psychology for the past four years and I understand depression, rumination, anxiety, fulfillment, self-efficacy. I understand the self-serving bias, and I rue the day I learned that people who are depressed actually more accurately assess their abilities. We have no self-serving bias. That's why we hate ourselves - and why we can't figure out why everyone else doesn't hate themselves too.
I don't wish I was 13 again. Thirteen-year-old me was an asshole. But I wish I could recapture that sweet, blissful ignorance, that absolute insane enjoyment of moments of pure joy when I thought my life would turn out like some fairy tale. When I thought I was the centre of the Universe, and the stars revolved around me.
Before I realized that, in fact, it is gravity pulling me - and not the other way around.

nightmares

are you lost
drifting out there somewhere in a
smoggy city full of stars
i am grounded but falling
falling but not free

like an invalid i sleep imprisoned by mountains
of pillows and sheets
but try so hard to run in my dreams

i used to have nightmares where
terrified i would open my mouth to scream
but i couldn't make a sound and my feet would not budge and so i would be
stuck feet to floor
forced into facing my fear

of course this is life
too scared to scream too stuck to move

tonight i choose nightmares over
waiting
wondering at the words stuck in my throat
wondering if i waited long enough if
i could run

princess

christine weighs
three hundred pounds or
more
her hair is bleached blonde and
almost always unbrushed

her breasts hang like pendulums
stretching from chest to waist
her smile is padded by
bloated cheeks

christine loves tiaras and
sparkly ball gowns
she calls herself a princess as she
asks social workers for cigarettes

she tells me that her meds keep her feet
planted firmly on the ground
and i think i would be sad too

it seems wrong to take away the dreams of someone
who doesn't even have
a cigarette left to smoke.

girl

girl, eighteen
cut her hair off close to her head
she wears pyjamas all day
going back and forth from
coffee pot to bed

out of pyjamas she still looks sleepy
eyes lidded and half-closed
she is smirking or smiling
i can never
be sure

today she left in ripped fishnets and
jangling jewels
arms decorated with the
scars of anger she
took out on herself

i wonder what they take out on her
or where they take her out
do they buy her big macs or
packs of cigarettes?
do they call her girl, too?

labyrinth

old friends remind me of
old places the
black walls i used to climb
even in my sleep

before you came i was
clawing my way through
thickets of dark damp
smells followed me through the day

sad talk reminds me that
most days i am sad no longer
not climbing walls looking for
a way out of the labyrinth
the world has built for me

you are the clue, the ball of string
the tug that reminds me that
i can always turn a corner
find the light

your blue eyes are there
at the end of the day
your hand holding threads that
lead me to
the end of the maze

the old place

red walls are not a home not

paintings unhung hidden behind

beige couch and beige walls belying the

volatility of the dining room

your mother came and wanted

to show me how to clean

i was a mess and the mess around me

reminded me of who i was

now maybe i can hang curtains

open the window and hear the world outside

i don’t need finger tracks in dirt to

remember what day it is

i don’t need to sleep alone

to remind someone of

what i’m worth.