its good to be not dead

i am like the plastic bag that flutters in the tree above me

somewhere deep within the bones that case my widest shape, there is a pulse not unlike the plastic bag trapped at the tallest branch of the tree hovering across the street. It quivers fitfully from the gushes that breathe through its piercings; an echo of mourning or, perhaps, a celebratory squeal from atop the neighbourhood's tallest. Often I find I'm trapped in my own hole-y casing fluttering against the elements that oppress the man-made inklings of freedom, yet frequently I feel more barked and rooted underneath the cemented floor that ensures my noble stance. Too often I feel like the former less celebrated, but panicked. A want to escape, but knowing if I do, i'll be picked up by the outdoor vacuum and discarded like my brothers and sisters who sit atop the pile of mulch. Countless times i've handled sticky six-pack bindings only to rip the holes before finding a container that the birds can't open. This started as an obsession to save the seagulls. For them my temples have always pulsed as I fed them crumbs of blue mould (we'd always buy too much food on holidays), feeling like a whisperer of sorts, they'd circle around me while my lemon-streaked hair blew against the pink on my shoulders; I carried a yellow fur puppet in my spare hand, or a plastic bird balancing on its beak at my fingertip. My love of them is not unlike my love of the place I fed them. Like the uncanny smell of the sand, and the learning that I was smelling Cigarettes, like the many Eagles and Wings that litter the strip, To the pistols that are condoned as long as they aren't disclosed, like the colours and the green paper and the only natural element being the salt in the water, I was in love with something that wasn't ever there, or rather, only existed in my mind. I am sure (100%) that i was scoffed at despite my age, despite the size of my hazels glowing from underneath my bifocal'd retinas. I'm still amazed at her ability to stand there with me, glistening bodies baked brown, marinated in oil, hunched bag ladies hiding with the lizards in the lush. Even throwing the crumbs with me. I seem (and still to this day) to be the only with a spot in my own red pump for them, I have never quite understood why something thats resorted to eating garbage could be so hated, after all, I know of a few beloved four-legged's that've enjoyed a bloody garbage snack. To this day even, not a single one has ever felt the need to soil my sweater or hair. I've heard its supposed to be a sign of good luck when you're shit on from above, but I like to think its their personal choice. I, (like everyone, at times, i am sure) long for my six year old self, void of the knowings of the elder, creating my own ideas for that scar on her neck. Convinced that the cures for the terminal were there if we just removed our glasses and looked beyond our near-sighted shortcomings; the therapies that i'd concoct in my own funky corked dollar store bottles. Food colouring and hand soap with water. The other night was something, I could tell by the way he said my name he was convicted. I am sure for him its hard not to be. For him its easy to announce his admiration. For him its easy to be liked, and to like. And with him she's become more buoyant, if thats even possible. She's always had a way of balancing which I've always admired. She's always been convincing, too. Similar things have been said to me so I'm not sure of the shapes in her head, but then again, I'm not even sure of mine. I miss her, though. We are all just fluttering atop the hardness void of colour. I'm not sure why it takes that much distilled sugar for me to admit certain things, to feel my strings reach the ceiling again - I am just so scared that someone else will do the tilting. I want to be around only when my mind is forcing me out of the house, yet your confessions of truth for one another, while special - i know, keep me locked up in this closet for longer than i'd like to admit. So badly do I want to be rooted, barked, be the one to have trap the flutters - More often than sputtering around in the breeze. I'm afraid of heights so much so that me knees buckle if i so much as imagine a ledge and I will scream if you walk too close. My body breathes naturally (thankfully), unlike those dolphins that chose their end, I just wish i knew how the tree keeps its brittles from breaking, and how that bag got stuck up there in the first place.

Confessions v.1.5

If I want to be truthful I can say,
In this moment:

He was just born
She just died
He just fell in love
She just lost her mother
Her father
Their brother
She just lost her friend
Her dog
His cat
He just made a life
She ended another's

If want to be truthful I can say,
in this moment:

None of these things have happened to me

Things I Should Have Said

Orillia

Watching frost melt
Being grateful for its mild

seeing a ground bare of such this time
Last week
A body of water unfrozen to say the least
It's amazing to feel any gratitude at all
At least for the weather
For them id be shocked if it ever ceased
Now there is something
So tied and all-encompassing
Something about that invisible string
That binds us tight enough so
I don't even need to be around to hear
I want you around for a long time
And
I want to be around too feel it's weight
In a pile in the hardened parking lot
Passers- by unburdened by the loss of sight
Nor sound
Yet they kept on walking
Anyway

years