when my bones are aching to be turned
to dust and blown through
the beautiful,
please remember this:
i am not here.
i am everwhere you are and all the
places i dreamed i would be
i am silently laughing through dandelion
dream-breaths
i am awkwardly tip-toeing past your
conversations with God
i am butting into your memory, planting
seeds of happiness like New Orleans
gardenias and Bloomington wildflowers

Remember
that i am one part saved, two parts
redeemed,
and three parts redemption's last living testimony
your breathing is my homecoming
revival, my last hope of
leaving this life unweathered
we are tethered at the soul, you and i.
and if that sounds scary, we are moreso joined
at the simple act of laughing
aloud

keep this close:
i once gave myself away
because i thought i owed something.
now i give myself to you
because i know that i deserve

this light is so fragile.
i have never said that
i could go alone.
but i am here, present most
when you aren't listening
creeping in and creaking open
the door to your soul
you've always had a thousand lights shining through
like a replica of
never-ending Orions
and i have strived to make
your soul reside in mine,
your heart give up some room
to let me inso i could tell you
while it's still beating
that your matter makes up my essence
and your core makes up the strength in me.
the courage to stay and say
i need you to remember me
when i am silently begging your forgiveness
when i am convinced
that i am untouchable
when your patience doesn't
seem like it's enough

i am that deliverance
you are the deliverer.
without you, i cannot be moved.

© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved

circa 9/18

we always want something in return
not a reflex, but a reverb
but i'm tired of asking your bones
to come back home
soon
i will be waking up knowing that i'll always be alone
even when everyone i know is around me,
reassuring me that my voice and my footsteps
will never echo in hollow hallways
i'll never call an answering machine
i'll never have to keep myself company with insanity
my breaking point will never come
my fists will remain unfurled
i won't curl into a feral ball
wont call my mother hystericallyto tell her i can't handle shit
i cant handle shit...
i don't run. i can't catch.
not even my breath as i'm trying to get this down
it would be so easy to end it all
but even at my weakest,i've learned to respect the fact
that endings never change things
and happy is just a five fingered rope of last hopes and gasping breaths
that split second of frenzy when your eyes
flew open and you gulped down screaming my name
and now i'm screaming inside my head again
i'm punching cushioned curtained walls
of suburban comfort
and telling you i knew all along that
life didn't revolve around my loneliness
but it damn sure doesn't depend on
cul-de-sac's cut from the american dream
there are so many things i dreamed i could be
if you listened and took me seriously
if you opened up your chest and let my true self pour through
like liquid heartbeats

© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved

circa 9/16

What you need to know:
These aren't poems for any of you. My uncle needed to hear some things before he died so I had to break my heart to let him know what love was.

leave me one hand to cling to.
i am vividly remembering scenes i'd rather not have seen at all.
i knew it was your dying breath.
i knew that your eyes had seen god and you were ready to stop moving so much.
i knew.
but i'm selfish.
i couldn't be the one to say it's over.
i couldn't be the one to say it was ok for you to go.
some things you missed:
gregory put his needle down.
i noticed that his eyes were red only because of the worrying.
my sister defended you heart.
she screamed, so everyone could hear her say that nothing could stop you from taking your 3 mile walks every morning
my mother didn't cry.
even when she'd pounded our chest nonstop.
for four minutes.
i was sure you had taken your last breath.
you could have mine.
i would gladly give my twenty plus yearsif you could tack them onto your lifeline.


your next birthday is not up for discussion.

© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved

spirit points.

there are things that should remain quiet,
hush-hush
like that first time you snuck her in
and you begged and bribed your little sister
not to tell.
like the fact that you know your mother doesn't really feel anything
anymore
so she makes herself busy,
unavailable
to pretend she feels too much

my grandmother kept it hush hush
when i kissed her
and told her that's the way women loved each other
she brushed it off because i was only six
and what could i know?

we kept it hush hush that things were falling apart
and that we were falling, all falling,
under the pressure of a crumbling roof
and crumbling finances
we never told anyone
until the last minute when my uncle caved from the pressure
of loving a son who never loved himself
enough to love his life
no one saw the decay
even now we cover it up
keep it quiet
for sake of saving face.
but my mother said to day
that words were my expertise
and that was the exact moment
that all my words and every thought
became a mute, hush-hush bunch
of calligraphy on a page
and every person who ever believed in them
was lost completely
in a false prophet who couldn't find it in herself
to ever speak again

tomorrow, my voice will catch on
words i haven't had the heart to write yet
because writing it down just makes it louder
and more real
and i've never been a fan of reality
i've never stayed still long enough
to see anything but blurred edges
my words have been nothing
but apathy rewinding itself
to the point where i felt the most real
my voice has been on fast forward
so that everything i say becomes meaningless
i don't enunciate what i feel

my feelings
have become raw,
scratching up my throat
like an epidemic of last hopes
that all of us will just make it out
aloud, alive

© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved