Once Told

Once I told my partner 

that I do my best writing 

under the cover of night, 

because the twinkling stars  

shining through my bedroom window, 

straining to be seen  

against suburban streetlights, 

were there to cheer me on. 

In truth, it’s the only time I have 

to ruminate on everything 

I’ve ever said, 

that’s been said to me, 

or some strange amalgamation of the two. 

Once someone told me 

that I was too afraid to make it, 

that every opportunity 

would pass me by 

simply because I was too hesitant 

to close my fist around it. 

Once I told him he was right, 

with a too-tight smile. 

Now I sit at my old wooden desk,  

knees knocking, 

knuckles white, 

not clenched in anger,  

but wrapped around stars and opportunity. 

~~~

Refrigerator’s Lullaby 

Night after night, 

I wake in the midst of 

tossing and turning 

under suffocating sheets. 

When the frustration 

becomes worse 

than the struggle  

of hot breath against 

haphazard blankets, 

I slip out of bed and nestle myself 

on the old, uneven staircase, 

right where the banister meets the wall. 

I can hear everything: 

the way the stairs creak under my weight, 

my roommate’s gentle snoring, 

and the hum of the refrigerator, 

endless and persistent, 

until she lulls me back to sleep. 

~~~

Half-Baked 

I’ve written through the night again  

with nothing to show for it. 

Just a collection of 

half-started, 

half-baked 

drafts 

upon drafts 

crumpled in the corner. 

Words left unsaid. 

Dreams left unfinished. 

The posters on the wall, 

the stories I love, 

mock me. 

“Look,” they say, 

“We’ve done what you cannot.” 

I stare at my ceiling  

for hours on end. 

A poem cradled in my hands. 

What will they think? 

What will they say? 

A quiet part of me fears  

that they’ll agree  

with everything  

I believe about myself. 

I fall asleep with a 

half-started, 

half-baked, 

poem  

cradled in my hands. 

I’ll try again tomorrow.