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Em E Kucera

He moved like black and white.

He moved like black and white.

Like the swaying of the wind perfected his hip swing to the John Mayer song already playing in his mind.

An early 90’s kid who knew the lay of the bricks as well as his Mom’s freckles.

Always Mom, never Mother. He will never be that old. Old school.

 

He moved like black and white.

The way you assume you will reflect on your life when you’re older. Old school rhythm and blues.

Flickering. A film rewatched for the twentieth time.

 

He moved like black and white.

And wore aviators. Just enough leather to promise the daydream of danger.

 

He moved like black and white.

Strong coffee in the morning and whiskey at night.

 

He moved like black and white.

Quick feet and hands that made you laugh in the kitchen. Create a beat for me with the pots and pans.

Seductively removing your apron. Correction, trying to seductively remove your apron.

 

He moved like black and white.

A slow stereotypical montage of laugh lines when the movie fast forwards through the years of young

love and yawned middle age. The meet cute of leather to now picket fences and homegrown tomatoes.

 

He moved like black and white.

The way he moved above you, beneath you, beside you. Positive and negative space, not knowing who is who or

what is next. Shadows and highlights kissing behind the sheets. Sounds like rhythm and blues.

 

He moved like black and white.

A handsome saved for the original James Bond and Indiana. Old school.

 

He moved like black and white.

And he moved for me. Encompassing, let me curl into his left side. Side stepping for my size 8’s.

Move the hair from my eyes. Pull it tight when I ask.

 

He moved like black and white.

And made me feel like my world was on fire. A heat only described as red.

Her laugh was the sound of wind chimes.

Her laugh was the sound of wind chimes.

 

During the summer months, the late nights after the bonfires have been blown out, the chocolate and

marshmallow melted. Just tea on the porch while you listen to the stars and your loved ones sleeping

just south of you. Rocking back and forth, the gatekeeper of their dreams.

 

Just you and her.

And the wind chimes.

The adorably dimpled wind chimes.

These labels are making me mad.

These labels are making me mad.

First two options, now twelve.

I believe in this, am attracted to that, but am associated with blank.

Maybe two labels weren't adequate.

But now there are micro groups adding to the chaos of anti-, non-, also-.

With a difference between every person

how about we drop the namesakes

and just become individuals.

When you are a friend, or ask questions

I will answer.

But I don't feel the need to have it scarred on my forehead that I am

Female

(Identify as such)

Straight

(But don't hate you if you aren't)

Middle class

(My parents are the most endearing, loyalty to tears, beautiful people I know.

Who also have jobs.)

But

I also love baseball, beer, and telling girls they are pretty

when they are pretty. (Always.)

Am I now a five titled body?

This only ends when people realize they will be loved

though not everyone will love them.

No one. Pause.

 

No one has the loyalty of the public.

If you have your family, friends, friends who have become family,

who gives one single fuck.

When labels become so small and wide spread that they are white knuckled and strained

only names should and will remain.

Naive is my title (apparently), but can I just be Emily?

Happy, funny, giggly, Emily?

I like me, my people like me, so why do I, should I, seek out

the care, want, approval

of those who have (most likely) already labeled me themselves.

Kickback.

You were the kickback of a shotgun.

I was a prick of a thorn.

 

I repeat, you had the kickback of a shotgun.

And I was a thorn.

I am a piercing

of a rose bud.

You were, are

a shot

gun.

 

 

 

 

 

“It never would have worked between us.”

“It was never going to work.”

Pain

They say pain doesn’t have a face.

Isn’t tangible.

It does, it is.

 

It’s swollen, tired, and strong.

 

It’s compacted pressure behind the eyes,

a pulse starting in the temples

that runs to the jaw. That stays

either screaming

or silent.

 

It’s empty.

 

A 3rd grade paper mache

geometry project after the balloon

has been popped

and

discarded.

 

It’s crumbling.

 

It’s the pleading, crawling

unwavering open eyes

that happens in the mindset

of a human being’s survival instincts.

 

It’s taut, rigid skin from tears

and pale over plum

when nights are spent sitting upright

instead of tucked in.

 

It’s noise.

 

Undistinguishable noise.

 

Confusing banter and childhood songs.

 

It’s flashes of insanity

that leaves you laughing

in the yard after petty confrontations.

 

It’s labeled “episode,”

and wants blame.

 

It’s the chaos between.

When Asked.

When asked if I have been in love.

True love.

Real love.

Love that has curled my toes and stopped my heart.

 

I smile.

 

I say I have been in love since I have known my Mother.

First touch, skin to skin.

I say I have known the intimate beauty of crying with a friend.

I know the hug, not kiss, from that best first date

of breakfast for dinner and the long way home.

I know the shadows of our park.

The one we drive to before sunrise.

The bench that formed to our backs,

that knew our spaces and the stars.

I know the curve in my Dad's collarbone,

the imprint of my smiling, sleeping eyes.

I know the tedious baking of holiday treats then given away

to the house next door and across the street.

I know the tears of hearing that song.

That one damn song. Finally. Live, and within reach.  

I've known the teaching of blush and curled eyelashes.

The knock, knock, knock, wait

on the shared wall.

Two twin beds, tiny socks, and pruned thumbs.

My name is carved, scratched, written in more places than one.

I've known hide and seek in my Grandparents’ house.

And dominoes until dark

when I was far too young to still be awake with Nana.

I know the enveloped articles from Papa. Shared interests, he would write.

I've witnessed a sixteen hour drive in one twenty four hour day

because no one should be alone. And you cried when you saw them.

Hugged them. Then sat in the pew, holding hands, as the bagpipes began.  

I've known being a bridesmaid.

I know the perfect amount of alcohol drank to be the Maid of Honor.

I know the giggling of running into the ocean

with nothing on but our smiles and drunken eyes.

I have those photos that no one,

and I mean no one,

will ever see besides the seven people that were there when they were taken.

I have the memory of the moment, the very moment

that I looked at those friends

in that crappy college house

drinking cheap beer, Springsteen on repeat,

the knowing, they were them.  

They were the people God intended.

They were the 'until we are grey.'

They were the reason college called me two states away.

 

I know more love than most ever will.

I may not know the love you ask of yet,

but I know love.

For now, and if for some reason, I only know this,

it will be enough.

Insignificance.

You are important.

You are loved.

You are monster.

But sometimes, only sometimes

it is beautiful to reflect on just how small you are.

There is beauty in insignificance.

You are not the air we breathe,

you are not the food we break,

you are not the sun that grows.

You are not necessary.

You,

you are the addition. You are love.

Your insignificance will not be quiet.

You are the continuous echo of a simple and small scream

at the rim of a canyon.

You are the childhood blanket that someone clings to

when the darkness is just

too dark.

You are the reason someone is happy. Living.

You,

you my darling,

my love,

my happy,

You are monster.

Never be quieted.

We've thought

We’ve all thought it before.

After seeing a rom-com

or

in a cryptic way

after having a really, really great day.

What if,

truly,

we died tomorrow?

Not suddenly.

Not dramatically written out of history.

But

what if we

actually

died tomorrow.

Were given 12 hours.

With no option to mourn.

What would you do?

What if it was just you leaving.

Or

what if it was the world.

All of us. Collectively.

Would you drive to your parents?

Hug them.

Kiss them. Then go to the next house.

Would you be too selfish, the need to say goodbye to family, friends,

that each was nothing.

Emotionally.

Nothing.

An assembly line of puckered cheeks and calloused hands.

Would you inscribe your favorite books?

Give a narrative as to why you were giving them away,

specific to the person each would warm next.

Would you assume someone knew you well enough

to brave your bookshelf

before hauling everything to various collectors, donors.

Would you go to church?

Absolve your sins

and still lie to the priest about everything you’ve actually done.

People you’ve fucked. Number of times you’ve fucked yourself.

What would you do?

Would you lie in bed?

Or on the porch. Balcony. Beach. In the sun. Or with the blinds drawn.

Were you oddly waiting for it?

What if you knew first thing in the morning.

Would you pretty yourself?

Put on your favorite dress, lined lips, nails done, of course only if there was, is time.

In case he, she came to the funeral.

Would you go

as your true self?

No hues, white t, favorite baseball cap, vans and joggers.

Would you, knowing it, this perception

of tomboy, of student on the run, of Saturday errand outfit, of the true self you know,

would you be ok with this “lack there of” being the last look?

Are you confident enough to say yes?

Would you somehow break my already stated rule and cry?

Weep.

Why

would you waste your time crying?

Would you tell that person you love them.

Would you fuck that other one. Everyone has that one person.

Regardless of his or her girlfriend, boyfriend.

Because

you’re going to hell anyways.

That at least is obvious.

Would you laugh because it isn’t really that sadistic.

This thought of having a timer. Of 12 hours.

Would you listen to 12 albums

or one song then silence.

Would you think about those who went before you.

Would that give you some kind of comfort?

What would you do?

If it was the ending.

This life.

12 hours.

No tears.

What would you do?

Does someone know you well enough

to answer for you?

Better question.

Can you say the same for someone else?

And if you can’t,

would you even be remotely sad to go?

Secondhand

You are the secondhand smoke

of what use to be a good thing.

But baby, I’m drinking more these days.

The whiskey tastes better on my tongue

than the burn you left in my lungs.

At least this,

this I invited in.

Her stories

Maybe she hasn’t shared her stories because they are not about others.

They don’t deal with other boys or

boys who think they are men

who thought she was nothing.

They don’t involve stale holidays

and mothers.

She has had a loving life.

And yet.

Her stories only involve herself.

 

Her wounds are self inflicted.



 

Her wounds

are self

inflicted.

 

And sometimes

those go much deeper than bitterness.

They go directly into her heart and

mind. And stay.

And sometimes

they come back to say hello.

Ask how she is.

What she has been doing.

Maybe she hasn’t shared her stories yet

because they are still healing.

Not learned lessons.

But present

raw

scrapes.

Bruises

now faded from her skin

but still holding tension between her bones.

She hasn’t shared her stories

because she is learning to love

herself

and you.

Give her time.

They will come.

When you stay.

And wait to listen.

Hemmed.

You hemmed yourself for another.

How tragic

that you feel as though you need someone

else

so much

that you hemmed yourself.

Tied up the stretched, worn, beautifully tangled ends of

your spontaneity and fears.

Love, the unknown was what made you beautiful.

But you chose.

You looked at her in the mirror,

stared at her in the mirror

as she plucked,

and sewed you

in to

the skin you wear now.

She pulled your arms behind your back and folded

your hands,

twisted

the unneeded, unnecessary,

brazen beauty in you

out

until it balled itself into a knot that she then ripped

from

you.

From your splatter paint, constellation, abstract freckled skin.

She stitched you

in to

the one outfit

that she would allow you to wear for the duration of your story.

 

Now I know being alone,

willingly,

can be seen as running the bases backwards.

But you need to be braver. Be braver than that.

 

I am here to tell you, you are beautiful.

My God, and I say that because I believe in him, the one, the only who made you exactly the way you are

because you are meant to be exactly who you are, my God, you are beautiful.

Don’t let her tell you any different.

Do you hear me?

Do not

let her

tell you

anything different.

Fall in love with yourself.

And then wait for the person

who plays with your hair as if fraying

your ends even more.

By choice.

Until you two are unspun

into heaps of tangled hands,

tangled thoughts,

mismatched eyelashes,

and softly stroked cheeks.

How soft

you become when you wear your favorites

down to the unraveled stitching of your first seams.

Become soft.  

Unwind yourself in another. That is all I ask.

Because, my God, just think

of how beautiful you would be

if you loved yourself,

loved another,

and let someone else love you just the same.  

I understand.

As a friend,

I understand

why

you needed to try new things.

Try new people.  

 

As a girl,

I tipped whiskey  

yesterday

and bought more this morning.

The clerk is starting to know my name now,

but she is nice enough to not ask questions.

I have learned to complicate.

When I grew older I learned to complicate.

Nothing fully resonate-

ing in the proper way.

Black and white turned to heather grey.

A whiskey neat with a twist

I didn’t ask for.

 

Like the kid that is bullied and blamed

I didn’t ask for this.

Complications that come from twisted tongues

twisted logic and

calculated missteps to fabricate the story

never told twice the same.

But that is how she deems her glory.  

 

Crowns worn of the pruned thumbs

and baby blankets saved for these ugly days.

Beautifully folded and tagged

just in case you forget where you came from.

Who you came from.

What you came for.  

From who you came for. [God]

And who you will return to

if you live your life like the rhythm and blues

given to you.

 

Bruises hovering under

tourniquet skin.

Your mind under

tourniquet skin.

Bandaged from the outside veins

pulsing from the twisted logic.

Fall asleep love, just use the

tourniquet skin. Fall asleep love.

Cut the supply to the weak, bullied and bruised.

Just fall asleep love. It’ll be easier.

 

Escape the normality that has turned into the

twisted reality

of

this synonym type of conversation.

“No that’s not what I meant love.”

“No, I am telling you that is not what I meant.”

“Listen.----”

“Just fucking listen to me,

love.”
 

Like a waterfall

climbing

up

I can’t fight the bullied and bruised.

Sanded down the rounded and

easy

edges

to the now prickly “fuck you” culture you must carry with you

if you stride the sidewalk for more than 3 blocks.

 

There is strength in the complicated

times you know.

But my God how it has shaped you.

How it has shamed you.

How it has insulted your optimistic, naive, beautiful beyond measure views

that will now never truly be as simple as an easy

whiskey neat.

 

When you grew older you learned to complicate.

Nothing fully resonate-

ing in the consequences

you should know,

operating as a remembrance of what you do.

People remember what you do.

People will remember what you do.

Commit that to memory.

You are the most beautiful.

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

 

You,

are the most

beautiful

thing

I have ever seen.

 

Yes, you just read every word twice and I will repeat it yes,

you read every word

twice.

Sometimes 

rhythm is needed. For a simple sentence to be translated to truth.

But I am telling you

this truth,

I know it in my veins, my lungs, my bones.

You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Have ever felt.

Read it a third if you must on the dark days.

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

 

You,

are the most

beautiful

thing

I have ever seen.

 

Yes, you just read every word twice and I will repeat it yes,

you read every word

twice.

Sometimes 

rhythm is needed. For a simple sentence to be translated to truth.

But I am telling you

this truth,

I know it in my veins, my lungs, my bones.

You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Have ever felt.

Read it a third if you must on the dark days.

Cinnamon

It was cinnamon.

For days now

I have been trying to remember the sweetness

on my tongue

when you told me

you couldn’t.

You didn’t apologize

for taking 3 years.

Just for burning the apples and crust.

It was cinnamon

when you said goodbye.

Fuck, it was cinnamon.

Grandma

Your bifocals

and your Stein Mart button downs.

Your fireplace never used.

I miss the alarm of wind chimes

and pecan coffee cake.

Your lawn chairs on the driveway

with cold Miller Lite and good company.

Your wrinkles and your perm.

Your drawn on eyebrows

and abstract clip-on earrings.

I miss your hand gestures when you spoke.

The blind waving of a knife

and the comical whispers of warning that followed.

I miss your champagne minivan

and ‘jimmy the lock’ front door.  

Your pastel, store bought bouquets

that still, somehow, left petals

in the back bedrooms and foyer.  

I miss your memories of me.  

Your references to my ringlets

and Dad’s nose.

I miss your ashamed affection for Cheetos

and window poker face.

I miss you. And still hear your laugh.

Your low chuckle that sounds like a secret.

It catches me off guard

when I pray, and I hear you.

Like the secret is a reminder of you. Your love. Your grin.

"I love you, too, Grandma."

I always will.

And I smile back.

Hope

Hope hurts.

It rips you into "what now" and "what ifs."

It knows when you're just waking up, or

when you are just tucked in. And finds you.

Makes itself known

by banging on your brain and screaming your sunset memories.

Stating your narrative just loud enough you can't hit snooze,

or fall asleep before midnight.

It knows the hints you left it.

The song. The food. The stereotypical, feminine-upkeep facial hair you use to see 3 times a week for

dinners and tickled-out-giggles you now see on

every

other

man in your favorite coffee shop.

It likes to throw in crash dummies.

Makes your eyes widen and heart drum in public on your first

first date since

that just reminds you you are not ready to be on your first

first date since.

It makes you want to care.

Hope makes you want to care. When you shouldn't. When you know you shouldn't.

It makes you cry 3 months after you should be done crying.

And when you haven't for the last 2.

It knows when you're alone.

It makes you consciously have to turn it

off.

Switch the song.

Try the espresso from the kitty corner.

 

And yet,

you know the memories of that person will be back in hues of pink.

Not now. Fuck not now, but one day. One day they will.

And maybe,

just maybe,

one day

you will see that hair again,

both be free,

get coffee in the place

caddy corner from your new and laugh about what was and what's now. His girl. Your man.

And you will feel free.

 

But don't listen to that memory now.

It's 11:55

and you still have a little while longer before it'll allow you to dream.

Just enough plum under the eyes in the morning to make people question.

Don't listen yet.

Try not to listen yet. It’s the hope talking.

Midnight.

Go to sleep now.

It has the perfect lullaby for you.

And you hear the first few cords of that song

that

song

and zip your eyes.

"I’m not letting the tears fall this time."

"I won’t let the tears fall this time."

I love you

It’s simple really.

There is a time for floral words, floral phrases.

But this,

this is quite simple.

 

I love you.


And that's all I need to say.

 

Just know that I love you.

Bleed.

I have learned you can bleed from the outside in.

Folding and pushpin-ing your way to the middle ground of

plastic contentment and staged crows feet.

Mascara like a scab,

something welcomed to your healed appearance then

picked

off

whenever bored and routinely at night.

 

I have learned you can bleed from the outside in.

Curses voiced to your skin

can leave matching brands on your heart

that lead to more contoured blush on bone

and odd sleeping patterns.

 

I have learned you can bleed from the outside in.

That layers of clothing hung

over collarbone

paired with the hidden arcs of your thigh gap

can be seen as

most attractive,

but only if your audience is the right, wrong people.

 

I have learned you can bleed from the outside in.

That phrases

from strangers

lead to mildewed observations

of yourself.

The mirror enabled watching of your ribs

inflate, deflate

from your back.

The held exhale and fingertip to thumb circumferences you pleaded for.

Sharp,

illegal,

shadows

that lead to tightly wrapped blankets and phone calls home to keep up appearances.

 

Often times, at night, I hug my arms around my chest, continue to my back,

and scratch the skin from my opposing shoulder blades.

Sometimes I bleed.

Sometimes

I think I’ve finally done enough damage

that maybe tomorrow my wings will break free.



 

 

But we all have our funny habits, don’t we?

These rituals

are funny.

Aren’t they?

commitment

You convinced me I had commitment issues.

I then looked down and saw 7 tattoos.

And realized the issue wasn’t with commitment, it was with you.

15 pages

I have 15 pages of first lines.
 

 

 

Then silence.

And fuck it has never been so loud.

find the boy

Find the boy who doesn't lead with his mouth,

but asks of the chicken pox scars on your forehead

and the white on your knees.

Who kisses you in the morning regardless of mint,

and memorizes your mind before your hips.

 

It is innocence that blushes a heart.

Heat my mind before my hand and I am yours. 

My legs

My legs are getting stronger these days.

You see, when the rhymes leave my mind

and my fingertips scratch my skull

I walk the anxious out.

 

I have seen trees go pale

and have measured rain to rust.

I have heard songbirds sing

and am proud to say I have only broken my Mother’s back

once.

But then I remember that season's bark is the color of ash

and that melody will be gone when the ground grows cold

and so I walk further.

 

Now I’m miles from home.

Do you know the way back?

raw

When the world is raw, and stained, and angry

go outside in

it.

Leave your comfort,

get in your car,

and drive for a while in silence. Just awhile.

And let yourself think of all the ugly,

and consequential,

and dirt

thoughts you didn't let yourself explore

between meetings and beers. Listen to yourself without bias.

Then pull over,

step out, away, and look

at every

damn

thing

around you.

And remember,

this is beauty.

Your breath is magic.

And remember to love those true silences.

And when the world is too raw,

too ugly,

too ripped, I repeat,

too

ripped,

remember the beauty of the cell phone and call me.

And I will answer and let you cry

without a single question.

late

“Sorry I'm late.”

“It's ok. I would have waited longer.”

holy hell

You sit between heaven and a holy hell.

A place adorned with your metaphors and tall dreams. Applauded hand gestures

like bulbs on a Christmas tree.

Few and far between

will be real one day.

So I ask you to stay

with me

a little while longer

in the place around the block down your favorite street. With the canopy trees and faint rings

the sun leaves

in the photos you try to take to remember.

You don't need to remember if you stay.

You don't need to remember, if you stay.

But I know you'll go where the scarlet calls.

I'm pale blue compared to her.

But please, when you look to the clouds think of me and the rings

if you can see

them split the shadows the windows leave.

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