stone billows knew

and when you know that you know that you know that you know
what can you do except go to sleep? what can you do but curl yourself--
into 3-plied thickness. i'm sick of writing about sex.
sick of writing about events, and people, and places i've never been
the imaginations a sickening thing, and it's never your fault, fault cannot be given-
when it just is. it is. this isn't poetry. it's the lines dissecting the beat that never changes
it's a memory i can't give up but can never relive, can never make because you're gone
to go is permanent, and permanence is never something easy to "just deal"-chosen or not
i'd rather spend my evenings with a phone strapped to my ear then reading
from a text i'll forget, in a day or two, maybe more
there are things about me i hate-things i pick at on a 20timesdaily basis
would medication make it any better, any worse, anything? would you medicate me if you could, would your group therapy work? what if i already know (i do)
i know all the definitions, symptoms, even the therapies;
it has changed nothing.
i am that bubbly, that honest, that frank and easy and real, i have the body of a mother & a runner, my body is confused, confusing and i don't think i could operate otherwise; but sometimes i'd like to. should i or shouldn't i give it up?
i'm 19--i'm 20--i'm alone, i'm everyone/everywhere/everything--anything you want me to be, i'm you in a nutshell, your female form
you'll never admit it (even to yourself) and if you hurt me i'll accept it, you knew it from the start. fed me, antagonized me; you gave me drink when i was thirsty and you simply drank me up.
i've never had a back massage i didn't ask for first. i've never gotten flowers sans ulterior motives.
i've never been
there

i have to become something professional, i have to be the professional
to lose my voice
to lose my fervor
to lose my dynamic, spectrum of collegiate depression
to loose
porous
i'm afraid, i'm scared
i'd like to be held, cradled--but i won't beg or play
i'm afraid, i'm the pawn, outside the game-
i'm the iron.
monopoly, get it?
i'm above and below you-in reality i want you
and it might be only because you want me, easily
it all could be so easy-i'm afraid, i'm not the girl
arms extended, upward lifted herself, onto the countertop (herself)
as you, she caught between the grasp of her thighs (clothed mind you)
she looked into your renewed eyes (2 weeks and counting), she thought you got it
your hands on her wastes, she held you completely to her, connect, connect and-
she kidded herself into believing it was that perfect fit--1 year
you checked and checked and double checked, ADD borderline OCD
you kissed her, the best she's ever had, she caught your lower lip in her tiny embrace
she got it, you let it linger-pressing familiarity into her bite--God it tasted so sweet
you left her that night--she freaked--she came
they spent the night together, drunkenly you slipped her tongue into another girl
she's just a girl. you took your familiarity and pressed hers into everyoneelseyouknew

this is not a poem. not poetry. there are no signs of someone else in here.
just me, and i have to
be afraid,
professional,
taken, envious
silent-bubble

i have to watch you go. unfinished.
i have to relieve myself of fault.
i'm almost 20 years old in a 35 year old's mind, sometimes...i have hot flashes
sometimes, only because my body gets confused--catches up---
my hips of a mother's mind