Patterns

grandmother, i still have not cried yet. what's become of me?
are you ashamed or are you proud, still proud even though i've done nothing?
i smell you everywhere, in your dishes, in your clothes
enough to make me think your soul has rested in my nose.

remember christmas day when you said he had no choice
from the way you looked at it. it sounded romantic in your voice.
gasps of life that were not there, you sitting there in your grown-up chair
little me, big me colliding with one another, consistently inconsistent.

i can't let myself cry like you couldn't keep your finger from your throat
i can't erase your number, won't give away your coat
i want to keep you alive on my fingers, on my wrist
i want to mimick your beauty with my red-as-blood lips
because i was yours. your blood.

please keep me from falling down when the earth decides to shift
please allow me to love and be loved because it's a fucking gift
if he decides to return this time, please let him have a choice
get these wretched things away from me, give me back my voice

i smell you in my clothes. musky, worn, sensual
linen meant for a woman meets a man.
guide me, hold me, shake me. free me
from the patterns in our blood
i want to change what blooms for us
in that lonely red rosebud. i miss your face.

he had a choice. he chose you.

written on April 24, 2007

(You are going to be famous. -Chris)

(You are brilliant -Jen)

(one of the most controlled and steady coherent pieces ive ever read of yours, tara. you have really come into a place wiht your writing and i am proud of you.-Kaleb)