TheCourtRose

I must confess, old friend Years ago, I stole your wish and wrote it on a red balloon There was that moment over drinks where you did the thing that you do- with a faraway look and Cassandra on your tongue, seeming to have all the answers We talked about futures, about dreams, about what we wanted for our lives My laundry list, absolutely in earnest, both superficial and full Yours was one, only one- "May I always have a home wherever I go" It rang golden clear inside me as the truth often does as the pages of my wishes became hollow So, I took yours without asking Stole from our conversation the handful of letters that made it magic Wrote on a red balloon in big black marker, to ensure the Universe would never mistake my handwriting Cast it into the sky without comprehending what I'd set forth Years later, quite beyond what I knew to expect, it has come true exponentially- like one red balloon birthed another every year until my greatest...

I really, really don't want unicorn frappacinos, tiny dogs, large sunglasses, caramel highlights, and being blatantly, even gleefully, out of touch with politics to be the sum and whole of white girl culture As if it's a badge of honor The faces that launched a thousand memes, with no true concept of our own contributions to the political war raging around us When I say "political" my inner debutante just shudders and swoons and threatens to have a case of the vapors if I don't change the subject right this instant but when I say politics, I mean life I mean Water Land Food Deserts Global Warming  Trans-Rights Equal Pay for Equal Work Statutory Limits on Rape When I say I want to talk politics with you, I'm really saying Can we talk about reality, Helen? Can we talk about emotional labor? About the fact that I was sexually harassed on my way here? The Israeli/Palestinian conflict and US funding? Can we talk about your preferred pronoun? ...

I If you knew me before you would have known that I was wild and unashamed that I hold my teenage self in more esteem than most contemporary adults that the child of me was inundated by internal rivers and rode the rapids with a clarity If you knew me before you would have seen the moment that shame took over the moment I began to shrink You would see the broken oars rushed upon the shore and a pale white hand reaching just above the surface If you knew me before my wild blue hair would make sense now Yet even its vivid hues, so perfectly mimicking those rivers fade next to the temerity it took to keep living So, if you knew me then if you really knew me then You would stand in a goddamn ovation for my return home guiding myself downstream

Sleeping like a starfish Spangled limbs akimbo Sometimes waking nearly wrong side up is the joy of independence and autonomy Yet this morning find arms draped across an empty side Hand curled as if holding on to you Half-awake wondering where you went Like you stepped from the room only a moment before But you are not here Have never been here At least not yet Yet I am already making room

Bro, she blocked you on social media because your temper was as short as your dick (Absolutely minuscule, evidently) 'Cause, seriously? Who is an asshole to the waiter?! A quick smile will not conceal the hatred creasing your features deeper than the napkin he forgot to bring you She left you because you scare her Really, how is this surprising at all? Testosterone pills are not considered a vitamin by the FDA (Just FYI) She cannot explain herself, because you are immune to discomfort and panic Plus, like no joke, she's really, really over explaining herself There's muscle fatigue in her jawline from justifying her existence She will never know if you had sex with her while blacking in and out (Doesn't want to know...) 'Cause what's one more Jack in a full hand already? You are still convinced of your own significance Truly, you ended up being a tiny (Ha! Tiny...) blip in a much more grandiose radar She does not under...

Today may be the day to give myself permission to walk away forever and ever from The Novel Not sure I can live there, though the Muses hand out enough fodder for a thousand word canons It's just when I sit and sit and sit and The Novel stretches on like a marathon where each runner dies- I find the compilation of words and images and figures more vulnerable than baring my soul in poetry How can a book, full of fiction, require more skin from my teeth and hair off my back than this?

Are you caught in a manic dream? I am not the pixie to save you I will not paint your walls red, or inspire you to live I cannot spare strength to rip you from that drudge-filled tank It is not my problem that your days are hazy slow or trapped in cubic routine Riding the curtail of my impulse will not redeem your mediocrity I am not your pixie I will not organize you, console you, enable the shadows that cling to your shoes There are no excuses in my wet mouth that you can hide behind You are what you have decided to be No more or less I am living my own dream If kissing me rubs light on your lips, so be it, but I'll be damned if I let you eat me alive (In response to Olivia Gatwood's poem "Manic Pixie Dream Girl" )