Touch

I still dream about
your impish grin and how your 
fingertips grazed mine.

To All the Hearts I've Broken Before [Reprise]

I've been many things, but
I've never been yours. 

I come as I please, 
and it will
never 
happen 
a moment
sooner. 

I'll fall for you, land
on my knees for you, 
I'll give and you'll take 
and I'll let my heart bleed 
for you. 

But, this vessel wasn't made for
hand crafted and paid for 
your pleasure alone. 

I've lived ~

I.
Have.
Lived.

~ through seasons
and I cherish the 
nights ahead of me,
new love I know will be

because

when you drew me 
into winter you forgot. 

I'll chew my own foot off 
before I submit to a cage. 

I am sunshine, passion, 
and power, I can give life
and bear witness to flowers. 

I bow to the moon and
will remind them when they 
think it's too soon, to refrain
from taking me for granted. 

I am earth, the ground their
soul leans on, and they'll cherish
the gift and shared dreams from
vulnerable positions
in between sheets. 

I fell for you, waited
in the cold for you, 
but now I'll thaw
and welcome spring
for them. 

And on my way
I'll eat and I'll pray, and
love myself in the ways
you never could. 

And when I'm back
from that climb
because, darling, you
can be sure I never miss,
another summer will be
right around the corner. 

The Golden State

They claim nothing rhymes with
orange. 
That it has no true equal
in name, in zest, in color.

But nothing quite rhymes with 
California
either. 

If I were to draw from 
a dictionary, 
I could define surfing
as
the way we study tides
in search of the perfect wave. 

And if I were to pull from 
a thesaurus,
I could describe the redwoods
as
our elders, our protectors. 

But if I were to speak from
my heart, 
I would rhyme
orange
with 
California.

When he left

When he left, I cried, 

I was ten or eleven or theoretically 
too young to recognize loss. 
But I felt it. I knew its name. 
I inhaled and by the time I could
breathe again I sobbed and,
and they told me it would be alright. 

When he left my, oh my. 

I entered that match and
being a fighter, a survivor, a
sheer force of god damn will, 
I fought loss with loss. I grew
up with unavailable love, love
too tired, too busy, too demanding. 

When he left my heart, I moved. 

I didn't move on, I didn't learn
to accept that sometimes good
people make bad choices and 
bad people will find the ways to
pave the sidewalk cracks with poison. 
I gathered my bones, and I moved. 

When he left my heart leaked, with confusion. 

I wasn't prepared for the silence. 
For the first time my black hole
excavations went too far, too deep
into caves and caverns I wasn't
prepared for, trained for, armed for. 
I learned that ghosts were real. 

When he left my heart leaked through, into everything. 

Hell hath no fury like a heart scorned,
because believe me when I tell you
its tar suffocates all in its path. 
Sometimes he still visits, but its
... hollow. It's frankly just not the same. 

When he left my heart leaked through my, my words. 

I sharpened my tongue and spoke
truth to how lost he was to
how much he cost me to
how broken and ashamed 
and cautious he left me
unavailable to myself. Honestly,
I didn't even know that was possible. 

But. 

When he left my heart
leaked through my eyes, impaired my
vision of love, life. 

Midnight personified, my tired hero, 
he ruled over them all with 
soft words, masked by joyful tears. 
We found each other in the dark, 
two, unavailable hearts feeling
for what felt like the very first time. 

When he left, I cried. 

Too Much

While tidying up my apartment on a rainy Saturday afternoon, I came across a letter I received years ago. Woven into the content was a description of a woman who took on the world to distract herself from what was in front of her. At the time, I read it as a criticism. 

It seemed to imply that I 

did too much, 

committed to too much, 

was too much. 

Fast forward to last year, I found myself still receiving this "feedback." It was no longer in writing and instead was sprinkled throughout conversations. 

It seemed to imply that I 

asked for too much, 

cared too much, 

was too much. 

So, in the spirit of self-development I spent some time reflecting on my life thus far. On competing in the final round of Olympic Team Trials, on traveling to oh so many different pockets of the US and the world to spend time with friends and family, on doubling my salary in tech in under four years, on loving people so much and surviving my heart shattering repeatedly. 

It seemed to imply that I 

lived too much, 

loved too much, 

was too much. 

For all the women who've been told they're too much. 

For all the womyn who've been told they're too much. 

For all the femme who've been told they're too much. 

For all the butch who've been told they're too much. 

For all the sisters who've been told they're too much. 

For all the too much. 

To live life in explosive color 

is civil disobedience. 

We don't lead with warnings, 

we move straight to the threat. 

Like thunder we bellow, we tumble, 

before we spark fire across the skies. 

We are marigolds and sunflowers, 

precious petals absorbing life

directly from the source. 

I, too, would be in awe of our 

graceful curves, sensing 

the power lurking within. 

We serve as touch points, 

foundations for weary feet

and restless souls. 

We literally grant life, 

figuratively nurture it as 

beacons of our communities, 

physically return it when we

enter our final slumber, for

god knows we get too little sleep. 

We feel the tears of the ocean, the

sighs of the rain, the intoxicating

hope of the sky. Our hearts are 

bird calls, we know what it is to fly,

to have our wings reflect hope and 

our bellies shine with radiance. 

We dress in our own skins, coats so

fine even royalty is compelled to

recognize power. They'll respond 

with cages, with lotus flowers, with

ever shifting rules and laws and 

regulations to contain our witchcraft. 

For all the too much. 

For all the sisters who've been told they're too much.

For all the butch who've been told they're too much.

For all the femme who've been told they're too much. 

For all the womyn who've been told they're too much.

For all the women who've been told they're too much.

It is you who taught me to accept the compliment. 

I live too much, love too much, am too much. 

It is you who taught me to accept the compliment. 

I ask for too much, care too much, am too much. 

It is you who I say prayers to, arms folded,

hands clasped, head bowed in acknowledgment. 

I do too much, commit to too much, am too much. 

I am yours, full of gratitude, 

with love, and in remembrance.

I humbly follow the path you blaze. 

And I will strive to be even more 

than,

Too.

Much.

Untitled

What happens when Time tires
of the demands for more, of 
the cries for her to move to
the beat of someone else's drum.

Did she learn to so deftly slip
through our greedy fingertips
as a measure of self-protection?
Has her greatest escape been 
preservation this whole time?

Friends are soulmates too.

He broke my heart but
they remind me to breathe and 
tell me to come home.

Oracle

When Time tells you
who loves you. 

Believe her. 

When Context tells you
what they are capable of. 

Listen.