bluetooth connections from the grave

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I pull open the car door. Climb in. All the soft blurred in shape lines of my body settle into the soft worn blurred in shape contours of the leather seat. Feel the cold steel metal of the key in my hand as I slide it into the ignition, and turn. The machine stretches and yawns and let’s out a low rumble as it awakens and comes to life.

I sit for a moment in the silent cocoon of the space. Feeling the car stretch and shake out all its limbs. Feeling the vibration of the engine as it pulsates through metal and plastic and leather and skin and muscle and bone.

Silently, and without hesitation, phone and car reach out and search for each other. Mysteriously connecting over the airwaves. Desperate to feel the fingertip touch of current and connection. A heartbeat that allows them to communicate.

I’m sure I haven’t turned on the Bluetooth on my phone.

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I love you grievers.

Up, Up and Her Way

for Ann.

I love you grievers

you who reveal to near strangers your deepest wailing. at first, because you have to. because it cannot be contained. because it is the truest expression of you. you who have never been more you while feeling so completely foreign and unknown to yourself

you who continue to reveal your deepest wailing after it is no longer inevitable. after you have come to find the sliver of self-control that can keep it under wraps. but you don’t anymore.

I love you grievers who keep revealing yourself anyway

I love you grievers

you who are angry. who look to the heavens and condemn the god you don’t believe in. who are willing to look the Father in the eye and say Fuck You! Fuck You for leaving me here with this. for taking my beloved. the one I cannot live without and then watch me…

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mascara, leg warmers, and secrets

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It was either 7th or 8th grade (I’m not sure which, those awkward and icky junior high years all blend together in a memory of general horrifying suck) when I started sneaking makeup to school. My mom would drop me off in front of school, kiss me goodbye, and I had just enough time to run to the girls’ bathroom and apply the makeup before homeroom class. Circa 1986/1987(ish)? Blue eye shadow. Eye liner. Sparkly lip gloss. Just a hint of color on my cheeks. The day would end with a return trip to the bathroom to quickly erase the evidence, and walk home the pure natural innocent girl that my mom had dropped at the school gates that morning.

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let’s talk about it

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You’re going to die one day. I know, I know. You don’t want to read this. You don’t want to hear it. You don’t want to acknowledge that. But it’s pure truth. Not morbid. Just real honest this is how this life shit works. We live. And then we die.

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i stand alone

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i stand alone in a room
empty doorway in
empty doorway out
blue carpet
gray walls
no chairs
white flowers in black ceramic pots
a skirted table
i can’t remember the color of the skirted cloth
polished mahogany box
free of adornment
set on the skirted table
whose skirted cloth color I can’t remember
i’m alone
yet I’m not the only body in the room
two bodies
skin head arms legs face hands feet hair nose fingers eyes lips
two faces that look so much alike
mirrors of each other
one younger
one older
the same high cheekbones
the same full lips
the same almond shaped eyes
the same blood embodied in veins
one flowing and warm
one still and cold
a heart that no longer beats
a heart that is broken, yet still beats
my heart
broken
i stand alone in a room
with tears streaming
i caress her soft cheek
and say one final goodbye