When I left I was a footnote in a thousand stories;
Perfectly crafted literary tomes in green and white wrapping,
With black bindings, and authors’ names in red.

When I arrived, I became my own story;
Chapters of me unfolding on an old, rust-traced typewriter called depression–
Paragraphs perfectly indented through disappointment, and betrayal;

I forged a character who at once had her own voice,
And the voices of many.
She spoke in her own tone,
Discovering there was a bit of strength hidden
beneath those mountains,
And that there was such a thing as plot,
Hidden between the books another Author had penned for her.

And in writing her, as she read those books,
I became adept in dissertations on self-loathing,
Leaning uncomfortably against hot ink, until it almost burnt my skin–
For I was an expert doctor already,
In the subject of my studies:

So I wrote my own biography,
Carefully including you, and her, and them,
In the wrinkled pages of my bibliography.
Then, I ripped out the index that led me back
to pages five, and six, and thirteen, where I’d
Highlighted everything, but the grainy pictures I still
quiz myself on when the world feels too good.

Now, I’m no longer a story locked ‘twixt meaningless citations, and the dictionary no longer defines me
As merely the seeded sins of a few others;
I’ve earned myself a place on the shelf,
Because every good writer learns in time,
That even the most secondary of characters,
Is more than a temporary foil.
They learn with age, and clear ink,
That a simile is not quite the same as a metaphor,
The hare has a story, although the tortoise is the tale,
And their friends told that story, ‘though
You don’t hear much ’bout their tails.

I am volumes in Anger, with an encyclopaedic collection in Defense,
But there is a stock over there in Love,
And a catalogue on “How Not To Lose Your Smile”;
The only footnotes I will be assigned to,
Are the ones that say, “Don’t stop here, there’s an excellent
story, behind that story.” or “Check Volume XXI, where she shows you this was only a minor lesson.”

Kadeen Nichelle Oksana Waldron
Friday, June 26, 2015. 05:20-06:36 hrs.

Sober Shots.

When you confessed of a love for the game,
It all came crashing back to me,
With an unexpected clarity;
Finally letting me see,
Through the sober shots in my glass,
That nothing at all had changed,
Including how well I fooled

And now a few days later,
With my glass all
But empty,
My head full, and clear,
I know that I no longer want
This emptiness that comes
Of chasing ghosts.

This sober shot’s
On me.

Sunday, April 26, 2015. 4.51 a.m.

La Petite Mort

The French speak of a little death,
The likes of which I have never experienced;
A fact, I think,
I’d like to remain unchanged.

Perhaps, it is because the only little deaths
I do know of,
Did not come from a body attaining the
Crescendo-ing peaks of pleasure, nor from
A mind wiped blank,
By a kiss across my lips;

Rather, the deaths I know of, are
Anything but pleasure—
‘Though they say, and though I know,
That in pain, there can be
A certain type of pleasure.

Instead, they are the little things—
Not like when you forgot my birthday,
Nor when my mother once asked me for its date
(I’ve asked for hers, too, you see).

No, these little deaths
Are nothing like those moments.

The deaths I have lived, came from
The months of contemplating,
Just quite what was wrong with me,
When everything I said, and did
Was never right enough for you.

They are the days I feigned smiles,
When you hurt me, because you were
hurting too,
And when I taught myself not to cry,
And learned how to rage,
They became the anger that consumed me,
And stole my smile from my lips.

So when you tempt me with your soul in your eyes,
And lull me to an inexplicable peace with the sound of your voice;
And paint the smile on my lips back on,
With the stroke of your words,
Forgive me, but I
Shall not indulge in the funeral of little deaths,
With you,
Until you’ve learned to kill your fear.

Kadeen Nichelle Oksana Waldron
Friday, April 24, 2015-Sunday, April 26, 2015.
10:27 hours