Comments Posted By Pandatry

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She says you can tell a lot
about a person from their hands,
reading callouses and palms
like gypsies, a sunday full of
esoteric attentions –

or, at least they seem to me.
I’ve never had someone
notice the freckle underneath
my bracelets, the excess callous
above my Solomon’s curve.

I’ve never had someone ask
about all the things I’ve held,
just to know them.

» Posted By Pandatry On 08.04.2019 @ 7:11 pm


I always get off at this stop.
The train whistle leaves me behind
in a smoke cloud of memories.

They always leave me at this stop, too.
I say I understand in a way that eases
the mountain from their shoulders
as I take my landslide out of the train doors,
their hand-made goodbyes waving
without the courage for words.

This train goes so many places,
and they can’t be tied down.
There are so many stops on this train,
but this? This one is mine, they say,
I belong here in this spot,
gilded with my initials, staked-in
plaques refurbished each year
to tell of its founding history.

I’m tired of his name,
his touch, a hot brand
behind my eyelids sometimes
in dreams that leave me too cold
for the summer heat to sterilize my bones.

No one wants to wait for frozen things to thaw.

I don’t think it should be hard
to proceed slowly, to build trust
before you expect all its riches,
but then again what do I know?
Nothing but this train stop in this loop
of suitors and visitors who find the knowledge
of this place too stifling,
who see my shoulders and tell me
I’m just fortunate enough
to be strong enough
to carry it.

Sometimes, I want to nail this coffin shut.
Sometimes, I want its headstone to read
‘it wasn’t my fault,’ damnit.
It wasn’t my fault.

» Posted By Pandatry On 08.02.2019 @ 4:49 pm


Rafters bring to mind memories,
the kind you’d pay someone bury
with a bloody shovel on a half moon’s night:
no one likes to see the skeletons.
No one likes to be reminded of the death
it took to birth you, as you are now –
take away the screaming, the placenta,
the blood-soaked umbilical cord,
because life is glamorous and
you are now as a miracle…
a fortuitous clash of supernova dust
come packaged in a way that won’t chip nails
or turn stomachs.

Just smile and sit pretty – but not too pretty,
and not too boring, and a bit alluring but not too sexy,
and remember that a “real” woman doesn’t have anything
that a man can steal because she owns herself completely.

You are not with the responsibility
of celebration, no mourning your grave,
no wearing your skeleton inside out.

Bury that stuff with a shovel,
to the back of a new moon’s night,
because a miracle is not a crime scene,
and you don’t get to wonder over justice.

» Posted By Pandatry On 07.24.2019 @ 8:33 pm


My joy is a ringtone for your smile.
Don’t pick up. Not all the time, at least.
I want to feel this.

You are a source of wonder.
I pull scratched lottery tickets
from my pocket and wonder
and wonder
and wonder
over winning you, instead.

» Posted By Pandatry On 12.21.2018 @ 3:41 pm


crown like Saturn,
rings laying claim
to something
I can only
wish upon,

a comet visiting
every seven years.

I still climb mountains
to see you.

» Posted By Pandatry On 12.14.2018 @ 7:32 pm


Thoughts create skylines
I try to see the stars through;
light pollution swallows
and burps up a moon
you have to shield
your eyes to see.

It’s too artificial.

Slow footfalls down dead streets.
They don’t live here, anymore.
They don’t live here, anymore.

I count the wildflowers
stroking past my fingers,
and ask them of loneliness.
“Define it, please,” I ask the lilacs.

They sing to me of the absence of stars,
and I confide, “It’s okay, I never see them, either.”

» Posted By Pandatry On 09.02.2018 @ 2:33 pm


Maybe heartbreak
is an edit of the soul.

Something is considered
polished when there is
no longer anything to take away.

I am soft stone, deposited
by the sea, and maybe
it is for the better.

Maybe death is the final edit,
and one’s story will be bare
and polished – a headstone.
Life is simply amassing the experience
to jot down – so you have something
to take away from.

» Posted By Pandatry On 08.17.2018 @ 2:56 pm


Railroads have become compasses
to us. We’ve never loved less
in the valley of these mountains,
never more outside its edge.

I prefer meetings so brief
they already drip nostalgia.
When the audience swoons
and says “maybe you’ll meet again,”
I hope we don’t.
It holds a stronger impact.

Railroads are paths to us.
I’ve been following one, and
while its hidden beneath the earth
my feet know the turns.
I don’t ask how I know.
I just know.

» Posted By Pandatry On 08.02.2018 @ 6:41 pm


The champagne bottle explodes.
We are found in sky, in the puddles;
in the bubbles floating to die on the surface.

But we are golden, sunshine rays
overflowing, falling wild,
tumbling with no concept of the impact,


This moment will not come again.
These selves will metamorphose.
This moment will not come again.
It bubbles, with our laughter, to the surface,


and we are left with pieces in our hands.

» Posted By Pandatry On 08.01.2018 @ 7:14 pm


Impatience suggests I move –
move, finally move –

my feet are making mudcastles.
I’m practicing star-breathing.

“Please,” I say,
“tell the wind to come another day.
I am so very tired.”

I am still in the same place.
I am still in the same place.

I am so very tired.

» Posted By Pandatry On 07.28.2018 @ 9:31 pm


Seattle eyes, pouring daydreams
into the untouched coffee in a café
where anxieties touch like connect-the-dots
on children’s menus.

Stir once. Twice.
What is this?
– It’s called life.
Is this all there is?

Stir once. Twice. Three times.
Can you do it wrong?
Why does it not feel like mine?
– It’s what you make it.
– Or so I’ve heard.

I’m sewing mismatching tiles into a quilt.
What the heck am I doing?

The moon sweeps the dust out of her craters
while the coffee steam billows into organic lines.
Maybe I should try my hand at housekeeping.

» Posted By Pandatry On 07.13.2018 @ 8:39 pm


smile made from gravel
bootstop lips (damn near sinful) –
I’m conflicted over the concept
of ownership and love.

» Posted By Pandatry On 03.16.2018 @ 9:41 am


Glacier tracks up my spine,
migration of sacrificial hope
laid bare on a pyre –
“If I give a little more,
can I reach a little higher?”

If I dropped a match
the shadows would cease
to exist, and perhaps
I’d be reborn of the Earth
by something other than water.

» Posted By Pandatry On 02.17.2018 @ 10:55 am


I’m still static-cold terrified
of December; she’s tapping
her red nails on the table,
but she’s smiling and that’s
a good sign.

It’s not a good sign.
It’s never a good sign
when she comes knocking
at my door, exposing the snowdrift
of her teeth, and lashing out at me,
flashbulb blinding my eyesight as I search
with trembling hands.

She leads me through mirth
and peppermint streets
before she deposits me
down the valley, holds my head
beneath the river
near my backyard
and I’m so close to home,
to everyone I know,
but no one hears me screaming.

There are too many icicles
hanging on the trees of my lungs.
I’ve no more room for her
gifts, her decorations, her reminders
of my history.

» Posted By Pandatry On 11.12.2017 @ 7:33 pm


My fingers are tied in knots,
carried by the winds that intersect
the dead end, midnight streets.
I’m knocking on doors by throwing
my entire body at the wood,
splintered shoulders,
and the porch lights don’t come on.

The street has new tar that glues
me to the gravel, and I’m leaving
footprints under a dusty blue sky
that no one will follow.

No on will follow, but I’m still
circling back to ensure
no curious wanderer gets lost.

» Posted By Pandatry On 11.08.2017 @ 11:10 am


a finger prick
of sanity before
the wave swallows
me whole.

“don’t swim
against the riptides,”
he shouts to me,
and we aren’t
supposed to love
the ships.

anchors are distorted reality,
but he makes me feel
like there’s a beach
that will take me –
there’s a place
I can sleep.

he makes me feel
like I could be happy
without ever truly

even a finger prick
of sanity couldn’t
prepare me
for this wave.

» Posted By Pandatry On 10.28.2017 @ 3:25 pm


You break off the “handle”
and drop it in my palms.

You do not tell me
what I can take.

I want to beat you
over the head with it,
throw it on the pile
of handles people have
handed me in the past
and create a gravesite.

I will not visit any of you.

You do not get to tell me
what you think
I should be able to take.

» Posted By Pandatry On 10.27.2017 @ 9:47 am


Even numbers cannot surpass
single digits without addition.
I don’t want to think this, because
I am a force of nature by myself;
I am a puzzle, but I have all of my pieces.
I am all I need, or should be.

Even numbers cannot surpass
single digits without addition.

Evolution and the continuation
of a species is not possible
without procreation and a partner.

The passing of ideas cannot be
completed without the presence
of someone to listen.

I don’t want to think this, because
my existence is not pointless
when there are no shadows
to befriend my own.

There are things which do not
come in pairs, surely: the night –
oh wait, that comes with day.

Trees, perhaps – though those
come with the association of bark
and leaves and oxygen. Perhaps
they’re all just associations in our head.

» Posted By Pandatry On 10.21.2017 @ 6:28 pm


Miserable people are everywhere.
The dental hygienist sees my tattoo
and launches off into her couple’s therapy.
A 45 minute check up crawls
into the skin of a toddler
who continually stops to stare and stare.

“what does it mean?” she’d asked.
“it’s a reminder,” I’d tried to smile.

Misery loves company.

» Posted By Pandatry On 09.16.2017 @ 2:44 pm


The space under
the bed is too small;

emerging, teeth bared,
and searching for an ankle.

» Posted By Pandatry On 07.30.2017 @ 5:37 pm


The days are matches to my skin
and I melt like witches into a future
that inevitably will end.

How do I accept this?
How do you?
I can’t understand it,
but maybe some
only greet death when
he comes knocking.

For those of us who dance
precariously with him
under the moonlight
and a bottle of liquor,
perhaps we just want
to know why he’ll
never love us back.

I’m okay with melting –
no, really, I am.
I just need to know
that the way I went
out burning will salve
someone else’s soul.

» Posted By Pandatry On 03.26.2017 @ 9:55 am


depression crafts this one-way mirror it only
flicks around when I think I’ve gotten away with stealing

feeling high, one leg out the window –
swivel: reality breaks down the door
and I’m standing in the flashlight beam,
redhanded. “GET ON THE GROUND”
and I have never crashed so hard.

the tricky thing about this depression isn’t just
“I’m low,”
It’s that I’m the highest kite in the playground,
it’s being able to get out of bed and talk to people –
smile, shine, positivity sun – and checking my watch
to realize it’s 12:56 only to be gunned down
in the middle of the street in a 12:57 driveby.

The suddenness prompts gossip columns
and they’re not the only ones feeling tricked.

» Posted By Pandatry On 02.01.2017 @ 8:35 pm


Death is a couch I sink into,
sleeping life away but still waking up;
I imagine sleeping is test driving his couch,
in a way. But I leave his arms in the morning,
and that’s something. That has to be something.

» Posted By Pandatry On 01.05.2017 @ 11:10 pm


a fence
between me
and everyone else
because I can’t
feel outside of this box;

hurricanes strike
only the center
and it looks like
I’m just throwing
It looks like I’m just joking,
because I don’t know
how to confront my own
disassembling without
laughing the severity off.

Do not make the mistake
of thinking I’m the circus
master of this ring:
I’m simply the clown
who fills it.

» Posted By Pandatry On 12.26.2016 @ 11:51 pm


a staircase
I even get tired
of climbing,
so I sit
and get tired
of sitting;

is not giving up
but giving so much
that you have nothing
left to run on.

take time.

» Posted By Pandatry On 12.22.2016 @ 9:30 am


I put my hand across your chest
but I couldn’t stop the collision;

in memory, the air has learned
to knock itself out,
and we lay in the alleys,
bruised ribs and bags
so large beneath our eyes
we will probably need to
put them on luggage carts,
next time.

Next time?
More “begin again”s
that end in tears frozen
to our faces, so when you
try and kiss them away
you just get stuck.
This is only why you’re here.

Recalled airbags.
That’s what we were driving with,
and maybe our notice just got
lost in the mail, the river,
between the couch cushions
or under your mattress.
We could monologue ifs:
“if we only knew what we know now”
“if we had paid more attention”
“if we could start again-”

but there is no again.
There is no next time.
There’s already been a crash
and I don’t want to be
the survivor that gets with
another survivor
simply because we have
living in common.

I do not want to get
with you, because then
we’ll have dying in common,
and everyone knows
you die alone.

» Posted By Pandatry On 12.14.2016 @ 8:55 pm


here’s to scargazing,
to looking into each other’s
craters and kissing every
darkened corner.

here’s to humanity,
and the life vests we make
our arms to those struggling
to stay afloat;

carry me, pacific blue.

remind me why people
are treasures I want
to cherish, and fit man
into a box I can understand.

illuminate purpose
in the pasts we splint
and bandage on eclipses,
ellipses hanging between
us like stars.

constellate us into brothers,
sisters, kindred;

I’m tired of singing the hallelujah
of “how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya”

» Posted By Pandatry On 12.13.2016 @ 12:09 pm


your hand was the eraser
on my cheek, leaving
behind the handprint shavings,
and I forgot i loved you.
i forgot you loved me.
i convinced myself that
love was pain, and that without it
we couldn’t grow closer.

belt buckles, blunt palms,
fingers in my hair as
they tried to steal the roots…

don’t tell me we’re not how
we should be: mother and daughter.
you were the eraser, and you cannot
just draw me into the complacent
girl you wish.
you cannot just erase the bad parts.

and if you can, give me the
stupid pencil, because i’ll
be damned if i ever let you hurt me,
him touch me, them leave me.
i’ll be damned if i ever
cry myself sick over things
that weren’t my fault.

» Posted By Pandatry On 12.06.2016 @ 7:40 pm


broomstick hands
cleaning the pieces of myself
off the tiled floor.

manifesting care
that no one else would give,
but the Mother holds me
while the Father watches,
and for once I feel a part
of something bigger
than my mind.

» Posted By Pandatry On 12.05.2016 @ 2:24 pm


Ivy-fingers, covered face,
and the hope that time
is not a man who runs.

Cherish me.
Kiss me until
I’m breathless,
and remind me of all
the things I have yet
to see — the beautiful
memories we have

I have wanted to die.
Sometimes, I still do.
When I run until my lungs
turn blue and morose,
a coroner’s dream,
run towards me, not away.

But I am not a girl
who stays in one place,
and my eyes are hidden
in the foliage.

» Posted By Pandatry On 12.03.2016 @ 10:05 pm

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