Close to Me

I long to kiss your mouth, your hair, your ankles

Not with my lips but with my eye lashes 

Because something so delicate

Could never feel itself 

Eyelashes rarely kiss other eyelashes 

So please baby, let these light bristles, labeled protection kiss you

I am seeking for the perfect measure of delicacy 

You hold it in your finger tips 

I crave the nourishment of your midnight fits;

Come closer 

Hold me closer

I need you closer 

Baby stay close

Stay close 

Stay close 

To me, to me, to me, don’t fucking let go of me.

I want to swallow you 

The way a barber shop smells, 

Of sweet and sleek, slippery slathered sun beams

On the hard wood floor of my grandpa’s closet

That doesn’t even have windows 

Barber shops always smell like sunshine 

I want to fall into the cave of your kisses 

Keep me inside of your mouth 

Let me use your tongue as a blanket

Your gums as pillows 

I sleep so soundly,

The tickle of your eyelashes,

Reaching down your throat 

I am slipping down your throat 

I am so close to you 

Close to you 

Baby stay close to me 

January 5, 2012

I have an oral fixation
For the grinding of your bones between my molars.
Tripping over cerebral nets
That form a staircase beneath
Photos of you and I
That I can't seem to shake


Shaking off past damage
I can't say we're holy,
but God dammit
I prayed for someone
Who has hands like you.


I'd like to fold up every night with you
And save it in an envelope .
I'll mail a thousand kisses,
At the end of every year
I can taste you on my teeth.


There is a beautiful tone of forgiveness
That slips beneath my skin
Every time we scream at each other.
Im sorry wouldn't suffice on either ends of our shared spectrum--
But the hands you place between
My shoulder blades
Are the same ones I squeeze tight
Both on the mattress
And in the car,
We'd drive for hours.


I have an oral fixation
For your eyelashes
As floss.
Cleanse my gums of
Each time I left
I always came back.


I traced sentences with my fingers
On the back of your hand
In your basement
Where alcohol has stained the counters
Where our voices splattered the walls,
I wrote,
"I am still in love with you."

4:27 am

My feet 

Have been placed onto grains of an unfamiliar salt 

That don’t sting— but salivate 

For the step of your heel, and the kiss of your 

Eyelashes that you wish on 

Don’t dare to let it slip, or it won’t come true

Have you ever seen the animals when the moon is up?

Like the wind,

The fish do not sleep

And the fins that stretch 

From the spine to your 

Gaze, 

Seem to reflect onto your chest

In the form of a beating drum.

OneWord.com "Crouch"

Bent
And forward
With a neck leaning down
And a spine sticking out
Slouched
And covered
With a hand reaching out
And a heart falling down
Crouched
And beneath
With a foot falling down
And a shoe sticking out

9/11 Speech "Words"

I used to breathe with little lungs,

But I took big breaths 

For a seven year old. 

Today marks ten years- 

My lungs have grown a little...

But I still take big breaths 

To remind myself 

That everything is beautiful, 

If you learn to breathe easy.

It must be recognized that 

I am not the only one 

Whose ears miss your voice,

And whose hands miss yours.

Your heart was a suitcase-

Packed with so many other hearts,

And hands,

And minds.

And you loved so many things,

And so many people.

They loved you all the same 

And with your suitcase heart

That you never closed, 

You created a beautiful set of luggage. 

Home

I can’t compose a personal, and clear definition of what home is. 

It isn’t on a street, it doesn’t have a lawn. 

I guess it’s the first sip of coffee every morning, or the stranger that says hello to me when I’m walking into class. 

It’s the man at the store that tells me everything is going to be okay. 

To me, home is when I am safe, and smiling. 

The Heart is a Planet

I counted thirty four white windows
I counted twenty four moon sticks
Twelve on either side of the planet
That is inside both you and I

The heart is a planet
The blood is a galaxy
And I suppose
The stars
Could either be blood cells
Or your freckles

Night Town, Night Owls

I like it 
When the sunlight drips onto your freckles

And you seem to make even the tulips smile

I’m headed down to the night town 

Down beneath the night owls

There’s a contrast between the red lights and

The break pedal 

I like it 

When your purple lips are pressed against floors of air 

And you don’t understand how beautiful

You are when you’re rushing 

I’m headed to the night town 

Beneath the night owls

There’s a contrast between what I say 

And what I mean

Lunch Alone

There is an untouched guidance
Beneath the fingernails
Of a bartender
In a flannel shirt

Do not think of a black
Night and lots of voices
There aren't any short skirts
Or screaming drink orders

Baby blue tile creates a back drop for the glass
Bottles lined along the wall
From the simple print of Effen Vodka 
To the detailed scripture
Of its grapes and vines; The bottle of red
On the other end of the shelf

There is a soft consistent
Drip of rainwater falling
Off the edge of the bumper to my car,
Parked in the lot

The brighter, yet lucid lights
Distract the dripping, and
Makes its way to the
Center of my glass

Shining a maroon port
Pomegranate juice and ice
Not a scripture on the bottle

Diner

There is a plastic film which kisses the edge of this table
More than likely to protect it from coffee mug stains and
Potentially written messages from dragging and digging of forks and knives

I've sat here for about an hour
Two glasses of orange juice
A cup of coffee- which is now cold as I take my final sips
And scrambled eggs are the items which have traveled far
All to end up in the throes of my screaming stomach

There are two Asian girls sitting in the booth in front of me
Taking snap shots of each other while they share a bowl of sweet potato fries and a strawberry milkshake
I fiddle with the peeling plastic on the far left corner of the table
My eyes dart back and forth from the tower of little plastic cups of preserved berries that sits in a metal contraption at the end of the table-
Back to one of the girls

Whose skin reminds me of a manilla folder
And eyes that flip from open to closed faster than the bite of an angry rottweiler
The white moon of her nails were waning to a crescent
She nibbled away
At both the fries and her nails

The awkward gravity freezes in front of me as I paint an ugly, oversized mustache under the nose of my waitress
She snatches up the crumpled dollars I would've wasted elsewhere and I begin to gather my things as
The bustle of keys to black Range Rovers
And wedding planners sipping diner mimosa's
Gives the air a salty taste of constant dis-satisfaction
The Asian girl with her moon nails takes a close up of her BLT

Heel Stompers

We are fragile, but this is not a tragedy 

Described as the softer gender 

We are the ones with the gentle touch

Who have done the most hitting 

Our lips are a specific red 

Not a crimson or cherry 

Centimeters away from the microphone 

Staring at our mouths- not hearing words

The doors of corporate America only remain open so wide

Let’s just hope that is enough 

For our lace covered legs to walk right through 

So we can stomp our heels onto the soil plowed by the other kind 

A monument to commemorate the differences between the stick figures on each public bathroom door

Cold stone, constructed with the proper curves and clashing corners 

Standing only so near the statue it sits next to 

A monument to commemorate the differences between just us

I am a she, but I am not like her 

Her sharp stilettos may be red like my lips,

But my Chuck Taylor’s aren’t as black as her lace

I am not one of those angry feminists 

I am a she, but I am not like her 

We are whole, though 

Softer, but not afraid to strike

A scrape from her manicured nails 

Or a dirty punch from my uneven knuckles 

We are not afraid 

Her Real Name is Eleanor

There isn’t much more than pairs of dry elbows which rest on this table 

They are white and grey and cracked 

No, I am not talking about Gabbie’s hands 

I am talking about the elbows 

Gabbie is my Grandma

She refuses to be called Grandma 

So she asked my mom to have her grandchildren refer to her as Gabbie 

Even though her real name is Eleanor

As if it was a Sunday morning,

Grandpa set a plate of scrambled eggs onto the table 

Where Gabbie and the rest of us sit 

He doesn’t mind being called Grandpa 

The bookshelves behind this table are full of Gabbie and Grandpa’s collection of literature 

From his favorite- Dickens’ Nicholas Nickleby to hers- Gaskells’ North and South

I cannot say that I like eggs,

But they are edible

Home is this apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan 

On the corner of 100th and Riverdale- over looking the Hudson 

The street is on a hill

Where cars park on a slant- but their tires wont roll back into the river

Once Connected

They were all gathered together
Trying to lift the wooden legs of the table which had been the largest accent in my kitchen
My roommate said it needed to go
I suppose she has a point
Its wooden legs were broken
There was only the stained table top on the floor of my kitchen
The legs were in the lawn
Their struggling
Trying to lift them into the dumpster

Letter

Dear Dad,

          It's been almost ten years since you died. A decade. Can you believe it ?
I remember when mom and Uncle Burns took Biz, Jack and I outside in the backyard of our Maplewood house. Jack wouldn't really sit still, he was only three so I wouldn't really expect him to. I remember Mom said something happened to you, and I knew right away. "He died, didn't he?"
I knew you were gone.
I don't remember much after that.
Little things like being angry that there were so many photographers at your funeral. And the big reception with a white tent in the backyard.
Mr. Galante and a few other people were in the garage smoking cigarettes. At the time I knew it was bad. I now smoke daily.

People treated me differently after that. I was in third grade. Mrs. Ryan was my teacher. For some reason, the rest of third grade I can't remember.
I can recall bits and pieces of fourth grade. Like going home early because I couldn't handle being at school. I still have this picture I drew of you and I while waiting for mom to pick me up in the Jefferson Elementary School office. It hangs below my television, right next to the collage mom made for you while you guys were in college. The one with the polaroid of her as a child in the middle of it.

I don't remember fifth and sixth grade. Seventh is when I started growing up. I got my first boyfriend, started wearing make up. I became close with this girl Haley Burniston. She was wonderful. We had sleepovers on her trampoline and fought over who got to sleep in the green flannel sleeping bag, 'cause it was cozier than the red one. We had water balloon fights outside with her sisters and went to Joy together. The youth group at Memorial Church.
Slowly Haley and I drifted apart. For no other reasons but the average. I became close with Caroline Lynott at this point. Our big thing was "going into town". Which basically consisted of a bunch of seventh graders walking into Maplewood to hang out at the Trattoria or on the corner by Bagel Chateau.
Caroline's Dad called town, "Mecca". Because everyone our age seemed to worship it's small streets and local shops.
After seventh grade, summer came around and mom made the decision to move us to Chagrin Falls, Ohio. I guess she grew tired of the "9/11 widow with three children" title. Plus, Columbia High School had its reputation for fights and bomb threats. Mom googled top 100 high schools in the United States, and Chagrin it was. I left Maplewood and went to sleep away camp in Vermont for the summer. After eight weeks of canoeing and sailing, I went "home", but not to Maplewood.
Chagrin was something foreign to me. Aesthetically pleasing, yes. Welcoming? No.
I began to change. I started tanning, and dyed my hair. I wore fake nails and changed the way I dressed.
The details of eighth grade I'll leave out. I just wasn't me, Dad. I wasn't your emmabean.
After eighth grade I knew I couldn't return to Chagrin Falls High School, so mom and I began looking at private schools.

 After a long process of looking, we found Andrews Osborne Academy. At first, things were really good. I became close with a bunch of girls, but I got involved with the wrong crowd. I started smoking cigarettes and drinking. I fell into a whole new mind set. Sex, drugs and rock'n roll at the age of fifteen.
Soon enough weed wasn't enough and beer didn't suffice. I started selling drugs and getting in a lot of trouble. I became everything I was ever afraid of, Dad. Again, I guess details aren't needed. People say you can see me while you're up there anyway.
Sophomore year was pretty much the same. However, that was when I came out to mom. I told her I was bisexual. Which I was, but I knew there was something more.
I guess I've never really came out to you.
I'm gay, Dad. I know it's probably not what you wanted, mom is still accepting it too. I mean, I am still accepting it in a way as well. I still believe love has no gender, and I could fall in love and marry either a man or a woman. However, all I know is right now, I am a lesbian. Most people think that's permanent. They think the word "gay" sort of means, forever. But to me, that's not true. Love is ever changing.

I'm now a senior at Montessori High School. I was asked to leave Andrews, and I knew I needed a change. I came here junior year, and it changed my life. I'm sober now. Have been for a year and 2 months. I'm now a published writer... my art has been in shows. I've broken people's hearts, and mine has been broken as well, but I'm slowly becoming who I want to be, but I've never been so scared.
I started writing this letter because I need to know what to do. I was rejected from my top choice of college, which was Bard, in New York. Although, I got accepted into my second choice, Eugene Lang The New School for Liberal Arts. It's in New York City. It's a beautiful school, dad. But I can't help but think you would be disappointed in me if I didn't go to Ohio Wesleyan. Fourth generation... you were the head of your fraternity. Mom was the beautiful liberal arts woman. It feels wrong of me to go elsewhere.
I knew I wanted to go to nyc for college. I wanted to go back home. But now since I actually can go, since I have those acceptance letters on the fridge, I don't know what to do. Would you be mad if I didn't go to OWU? Would you be disappointed?
Are you disappointed in me? For not staying on the swim team like you did. For not treating our family the way I should have? For losing my self respect and dignity. For becoming the disgusting person I was. I can't fucking feel you, dad.
I've been trying to feel you for ten years now, and I still can't.

I'm falling in love with an amazing woman, dad. I know you'd love her.
I'm graduating a prestigious high school.
I've been accepted into four out of the six colleges I applied to.
I've been published in a book.
I've won awards for my writing and my art.
I'm sober.
I have a job.
I've made amends to the people that deserved it.
I've tried to make amends with myself.
I'm trying dad. I'm trying so hard.
Please help me figure this all out. I need to feel you.
Write back.

Love,
          Emmabean

P.S.  I left out so many things.
P.P.S. I'm sure you already know that.

& You're Still Dead

A river beneath these bare feet
A coarse surface among the webbed feet of screaming beaks
There is nothing left behind the wings of a broken bird

A theatrical verse is being sung with orange lungs
A splattered oil of apricot tears
There is a gym full of high school hearts waiting for you

A pair of father hands are burning on the stove
A yawning daughter so tired of being 7 at 17
There are no pictures of you, Douglas

A bed with dirty sheets is only slept in so much
A room you never saw is where I sleep every night
There can't be any more of me left for any one