Sincerely Jordan

A dedicated romantic

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

If I ever become super-rich, or ultra-rich, or any other type of rich, please please for the love of god tax my ass off.  Thank you.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

Can we pretty please start taxing the significant amount of wealth that has stagnated in the pockets of a few?  I mean, it's not like it's going to anything important, anyway, just personal vanity.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

Be real.

Remus isn’t a jam.

He’s a relish.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

There are Positives and Negatives to dating a Noble Gas:

They are the most stable, 

But they’re almost impossible to bond with.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

Them: You're in your twenties, you've gotta start making plans. You can't sit around forever.

Me: Ok

Me: *Makes plans*

The Plans: *Go to hell*

Them: Well what did you expect? Life doesn't always go according to plan.

Me: ...

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

Nothing in my head Empty, vast — Infinitely  regressing in a shrinking straitjacket Claustrophobic, Immensophobic — very well, I contradict myself. Something heaving, something ticking Is that me twitching? No?   Okay. I don’t think there’s a name for the sucking feeling, and I can’t tell if I’m being drained away or if everything else is being drained away around me. The answer to which fate would be worse depends on  what’s on the other side of the drain; Claustrophobic, Immensophobic. Hollowed out Except for these words like the tick tick, must come out like a skeleton tearing out of the flesh, Claustrophobic, Immensophobic. There’s something else supposed to go here but it’s gone from my mind.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

How do all the Northern Elves qualify to work in Santa’s workshop?

They have to pass the ELF-SATs

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

A figment of imagination, held together by their belief in this breath — only sitting here because my mother in the kitchen thinks I am.   I breathe, and my heart keeps beating on and on  because someone somewhere wills it so. I’ll blow away in a gentle breeze like a vapor of breath, break apart when children grow up and stop believing in magic.   And in those moments between glances, what am I then?   Do I succumb to stasis, or do I solidify into a statue like the little angel that someone gave you many years ago that sits on the piano? You don’t remember who or when or why.   Her wings are ceramic and she has no face,  and her hands are clasped in an unending prayer.   Maybe it’s a plea  for something we cannot see behind her absent eyes.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

The Words are Rattled

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

Day gives way to night, and I die

all over again - death before dying - sleep

is as close as I get to my freedom, yet the blinding light

keeps my mind wide awake. The dark

encroaches on my body, the stars bloom,

while around me all things decay.

My body lies in a state of decay

and my mind plays a game of chance with life - I cast the die

and I lose; out of my hand, it plucks the bloom.

Sleep -

take my hand and lead me into the dark

so I can mourn my time in the light.

In my battle, I become light.

my skin recedes to sharpen my bones, and I decay;

the skeletons come crawling out of the closet, out of the dark -

I walk a line as fine as my bones as I taunt death, but I am not afraid to die

so instead I gamble with sleep

as out from my body my bones bloom.

My skin is soil where roses bloom;

arms, thighs, red dims their white light.

I am not afraid to die, because sleep

is far more terrifying and cruel. I decay

as I stray further from sleep's embrace, like some of us may die -

slowly, then suddenly, alone in the dark;

I am not afraid of the dark

but of what it hides; monsters bloom

in the shadows - will these demons plague me until I die?

Dread causes the mind to decay,

burning like a beacon of effervescent light.

The devil will never sleep.

I am used to nights of rough sleep,

days in the dark,

and the feeling of my flesh as it decays.

In my chest, the apocalypse will bloom

like a morning glory in the first light

Before it fades - I am not afraid to die.

And when sleep at last begins to bloom,

the kiss of dark sucks the light

from my lungs. I decay, and I'm afraid I might soon die.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

I look to those - Earth-shattering -

and try to learn to shatter the glass

I am pressed up against.

The precipice before me,

I don’t know how to break the chains

and fall.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

Sing me awake,

a song to scare off the monsters under my bed.

They lust for my blood they call for my head,

and they prey on my every mistake.

 The friend of my youth that once was my guide

reared a new head and demanded a prize -

I gave them my blood and I gave them my sighs

and they took yet still, til the day I died.

 They buried my body under a stone,

and kept my heart.  They thought I’d n’er be found

and so they left me for dead beneath the ground.

For who would want a collection of bone?

 I fought and I clawed and I flamed and I burned

and I emerged.  I brushed off ash and earth

and faced the demons who trembled at my birth.

The war was won.  My life was earned.

  Since what my demons didn’t foresee -

If they wanted to win, they shouldn’t have killed me.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

A response to my previous poem, The Invisible Woman.

I live like a flame

at the touch of the sun to the sea;

You may see a ghostly figure

by the light of a single star,

then I die with the twilight.

I am not your insomnia

though you may find me in its ache

just as in the shine of your tears,

the effervescence of your laugh,

a gasp for breath.

You want to touch me,

but you can never bring yourself to reach.

I know things only an Invisible Woman could know,

but I do not know if you are afraid that

I might be yours,

or you might be mine.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

There is a woman who can only be seen

by the last light of the sun

as it glints off the sea;

You will think of her in the last moment 

before you sleep, 

but you never will dream of her;

You will think of her between two whispers of a prayer,

but you never will whisper her name.

The Invisible Woman is cursed

to count the retreating footprints on the sand

Though she leaves no footprint of her own.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

Night blooms and light dies

I beg you to stay - 

I am invisible in your eyes.

Hope for truth amidst the lies

like sand-grains in the hourglass, the stars fall away - 

Night blooms and light dies.

A lovely smile is the best disguise

smiling lips silently pray -

I am invisible in your eyes.

Blind in your eyes, deaf to my sighs

black and white collide to grey - 

Night blooms and light dies.

I stand beneath falling skies

under the weight of the stars, you fall away - 

I am invisible in your eyes.

My hope is that you won’t despise

me, as we stand at close of day -

Night blooms and light dies

I am invisible in your eyes.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

Don't tell her it'll all be okay,

and it'll all look brighter someday,

because in the shroud of this pain

she's not going anywhere -

so she might as well get comfortable

right here.

She promised that she'd try to hold on -

she gave it her all to be strong.

But there's no point in denying

anymore.

She'd only be lying -

she knows what she's got in store.

She's too far gone to keep trying -

the battle's lost,

there's no more sense in crying.

And as the dust settles from the war,

she looks around

at the death and devastation,

and she salvages what she can,

puts the broken pieces back together;

but she's lost too much to keep fighting this war,

so she's learning how to be

a Patchwork Girl.

Don't tell her it'll all be okay,

and it'll all be fine if she just kneels to pray.

It's been so long

Since she walked out that door,

and she's not taking

that bullshit anymore.

So this can never be okay,

and there is no other way.

And as the dust settles from the war, she's lost the battle for her soul

and all that's left is ashes and debris -

remnants of who she used to be.

But that girl is gone, just a shadow now -

an echo of a long-forgotten song.

So she's learning how to be

a Patchwork Girl.

Pieces that don't quite fit,

cracks she can't quite fill,

and nothing feels the same.

She's battered and she's bruised,

broken and abused,

but most of all, she's confused,

because she no longer knows

who she is -

so she sews herself into

a Patchwork Girl.

She's too far gone to keep trying.

The battle's lost,

there's no more sense in crying.

[jordanmiller-writerbitch]

She slips me on like an old coat

and whispers “I’m home.”

She breathes once more the air from my lungs.

Her heart masters mine

to the beat of the familiar tune

as she plays me

like a silent symphony