the artist is gone, part II

the artist is gone, part II

a year since my grandmother’s passing

these mercenary words cannot hold

all of the feelings that I contain about this date

they do not carry the weight of my grandfather’s tears

my brother’s sobs.

they cannot hold all of my guilt and grief,

the lifting of a great burden off of my father’s face.

The artist is gone,

but I know what she would think about the mercenary words

that I repeatedly have to sputter out and sell to my friends and professors,

words that are like swords, for defense against enemies that are unseen

but unemotional.

The artist is gone,

but I know she is inside of me,

and it is the oddest feeling,

tracing her handwriting,

learning from the words she wrote years and years before,

when she is sitting in front of me in an urn.

The artist is gone,

but her paintings,

her prolific collection remain in our homes,

on the wall of my apartment next year, in my future showroom.

The artist is gone,

but I look like her,

in a way that is uncanny,

my face is a tessellation of hers at my age.

Her clothes quietly exist in my closet,

and I wear them feeling my grandmother’s hands on my shoulders

guiding me with our shared fashion sense.

Her thoughts about being an artist,

tracing her handwriting,

tell me how to be my own artist,

because she was truly her own.

I love you, Grandma Judy.

red popsicle in the sun

red popsicle in the sun

marble stairs,

grassy quad,

classes sit in circles

leisurely learning in the sun.

I walk past

licking my red ice,

strawberry lemonade,

yum!

My lips are red

from its cold kiss,

painting my smile strawberry.

Alas, now it is done,

but my quiet enjoyment of

such a simple sweet treat remains.

warm weather

warm weather

all the girls

with their long skirts

colorful clothes

blowing in the spring breeze.

bright spring,

dark in my room.

she is sad,

won’t let in the light,

wants to go home to

the sunnier place that she calls home.

It will end soon.

I’ll be able to open my windows,

turn on the lights soon.

all the girls with their smooth legs

hidden under their long skirts

blowing in the quiet breeze of spring,

while walking to class in a hurry.

of age/ twenty/ two years.

of age/ twenty/ two years.

I turned twenty recently,

in the past,

I would be “of age.”

No debutante, am I.

I don’t feel more adult than I did

a week ago,

but looking back, I know I am.

two years ago

this blog began as

a place to

vent my spleen,

show my poor, lacerated teenage heart

to an anonymous and unknown audience.

Unbeknownst to you readers, I am more adult now.

Two years ago,

or even a year ago,

I would agonize over text messages to boys who ultimately did not matter,

composing them scores of love and affection that could never be reasonably returned.

Now I agonize over emails to recruiters,

and currently I am more anxious about

gaining a job this summer and a lease for next fall

than my nonexistent lovers.

I loved the balloons,

they were perfect when I chose them at 17, when I turned 18, and still good

when flew into 19.

19.

Brick wall, mountain to climb.

Window to jump through,

doors to lock.

Chances to take,

friends to make.

People to meet,

hands to shake,

hands to hold.

Felt abject terror,

love, grief, and compassion

after I turned 19.

Good bye 19.

I turned 20 recently.

Thank you for reading Poems by her.

Today is the two-year anniversary of its birth,

and I want to say thank you, whether you are a first time reader

or have followed me through the rollercoaster of absences and depression and pure joy and poems.

Thank you!

unexpected lemons

unexpected lemons

lemons that I didn’t expect

occurred this weekend,

sweet and sour with Everclear.

poorly poured margarita mix,

swaying on my feet not quite sick.

You grab my hand, we might have danced;

then all I remember is tongue in my cheek,

lips shifting and margarita mix

that suddenly wasn’t so bad.

Lemons that I didn’t expect

occurred this weekend.

i went home alone, i had an 8 am class the next day.

I’m a good girl (during the day).

the rest of the weekend i cannot say the same.

i didn’t expect for the lemons to be sweet.

So far no sour aftertaste.

I forgot how much I

missed the feeling of

another body on

top of my

body.

Lemons I didn’t expect to receive,

were graciously given this weekend.

I thanked him for his gift quite kindly.

lemons so surprisingly sweet,

unexpected, but right.

winter is vile

winter is vile

Winter snuck up on me

upon me

up ominously

on me.

No snow,

just cold.

I can feel the oil and dirt trapped in every line of my finger prints,

Every molecule of crap like dry skin and makeup hiding under my finger nails.

Flaking dry skin on my lips, waving like a flag in this icy wind.

Winter is vile,

sweating inside in this boiling dorm,

shivering down the stairs.

Winter is vile,

with it’s dry skin and static hair and itchy scalp and sticky fingers.

Spring was always my favorite season.