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The Teapot of My Life

“A bucket. Yes. Mmm… how about half grilled half crispy?

Great. Happy Mother’s Day to you too.”

I thought about how uncomfortable a moose might get if I

stared at one too long from a helicopter in Alaska, and then

I waited. I thought I saw a spider swimming in my week old

coffee. The one in the cup holder. What the fuck?

As I pulled away I had that one thought, you know the one

that if I jerk the wheel I could die so fast.

 

The next morning I woke up expecting a Thursday

and it wasn’t.

Mackenzie Winters was wearing only one pearl earring

and when she winked at me an eyelash fell down her cheek.

She looked like a two-toed sloth.

I bit my lip anyway and gave her some gum, tossing

the wrapper to the floor. I stared out the dusty raindrop-stained

window, and tried to make my body do photosynthesis.

 

You know the feeling when you’re at a restaurant and you

think the server’s bringing your food and they walk past?

Felix Leschorn does that to Mackenzie. So do I.

But at the end of the day, he folds his bandaged hands over

the Formica counter and tells her about the pythons that come

out of the sewers in Singapore when it rains.

I just light a match and lean against the sun-warmed bricks

at dusk. I wish I had a blowtorch.

 

Thank God I don’t live in Idaho, because I need more than fifty

pounds of chocolate sometimes, and that’s illegal there.

Why are there so many bobby pins around?

I constantly feel like I am about to boil over the teapot of my life.

What? Jesus.

What am I saying?

I just stepped on a bobby pin. I need a plane ticket outta here.

I wonder if Mackenzie would come with me.

Sanctuary

I don’t remember

Why I was there

Or if I was waiting

 

A lonely cathedral

Cold and quiet

Strong and safe

 

It was the pretty part

With stained sunlight

Pooling at my feet

 

Well-worn pews

And ornate tapestries

A plain wooden cross

 

Not looming

Just listening

As was I

 

The first time I heard

Him

 

And no one was preaching

Promises, Promises

He said that he wanted to buy me the moon

as we sat by a fire that fell into ash.

I told him he should and then gave him a kiss –

but we all know the happiest moments don’t last.

I was wearing a dress of sapphire blue,

and he wore a promise that shone in his eye.      

 

The months seemed to pass in the blink of an eye

when we danced and we laughed under envious moon

and he picked me red roses and violets of blue,

our time simply burning, no sign of ash.

He would stare at me too, each gaze longer than last

and we ended each night with one passionate kiss.

 

It’s this I remember. The imprint of his kiss.

This and the serious look in his eye

when he told me he wanted our pairing to last.

I tried on the ring and looked up at the moon

all before smiles were turned into ash –

all before drowning in cyclical blue.

 

He looked like a prince, dressed in Navy blue,

Like a picture so perfect you’d give it a kiss.

Like a real man made from the dust and the ash.

He whispered to me with a wink of his eye,

“No matter how far, we see the same moon.”

The sailors all boarded, and he was the last.

 

How funny that word is; how when we say “last”

we don’t mean it. Did you know the ocean’s not blue,

but it’s black and obeys only sinful, sweet moon?

I feel like I’m waiting for not but the kiss

of the reaper himself. There’s no light in my eye

And my smile is forever colored in ash.

 

Any words I might say become ash

in my mouth. I know it’s the very last

thing he would want, but when I shut my eye

I can’t help it. My heart pumps blood blue.

“Darling, I love you. Give me a kiss?”

I can still hear his voice; a cruel trick of the moon.

 

Ocean swims in my eye now, a sickening blue.

As I hold him in ash and think of each last,

I kiss promise goodbye and I wish for the moon.

Fire

It is flamboyant, scorching

And hot

Stretching to clutch

Every sense of the body

To entice the clock

Into pausing

 

Or it is quick

Longing to touch

But in fear, it teases

And flits about

Sparks, in futile agony

Trying to ignite

To become flame

 

Then it is smoldering

Learning to seduce

Moving leisurely

And with a passion

It glows and keeps just

A subtle heat

Enough to warm the heart

To relieve its former pounding

 

And oh!

The aching

As this golden blaze vanishes

Into a black whisper

 

Kiss me again.

What We Own

Hup two three four

Hup

two three four!

 

A little pink dress and little

white

shoes dance along the gate of the palace,

imitating the famous red guards.

 

We do not have palaces,

but we have red.

 

Happiness can be found, even in the darkest

of times, if one only remembers

to turn on the light.

 

An old, well dressed

woman

reads aloud in a bookshop.

Her voice is warm and puts me to sleep.

 

We do not have voices like that,

but we have words. Boy, do we have words.

 

We are trying to be different. We will not hurry you.

If you have children, we have a chest of toys,

and milkshakes.

 

A Moroccan lady pours me tea as her

child

watches from behind a nearby Bergère.

The tea tastes like roses.

 

We do not have tea time,

but we have things that boil over.

Sometimes blood, sometimes hate.

Always ours.

Performance Perspective

*Meant to be read forwards and backwards, line by line*

I am a performer

… I am

Nothing

 

I have never been

A real actress

 

I believe that as

For others

My feelings and dreams and ideas are

Pointless

 

To my lips, and to what escapes them after experiencing all of how life is and how it is not

I hold the key

But it is lost

 

Fear of inadequacy has consumed me

 

Alone and emaciated

Far from

Perfect for my life and my time and my situation

 

I am

Trying to be confident, to not give up, and to follow my heart

Though I am

Afraid, making mistakes, and failing

 

I sometimes end up

Without the power to control anything about me

 

I have so many friends to prove that never am I left

All alone, yet

Life still hurts and is too difficult to face

 

I am “worth something”

Is a lie, when in truth

I am useless

 

I will persist in telling myself how

My wildest dreams are all impossible to reach, but

The “gods” we make of mortals in the theatrical world can tell me that

The impression I leave on others

Is more important than

My own integrity and self-respect

 

Then again… is performance not perspective?

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