When I was 5 years old, my best friend moved into the house next door. I spent as much time at their home as I could. Did you notice? Could you tell that it took me longer to come back each time you called my name? When I was 6, in my tiny body, legs dangling off the countertops to block the silverware drawer, You used a glass of water to make a whirlpool and an almond, to show me how my mother was sucking me into her side of the story, turning me against you. Did you know then that you were talking about yourself? Do you remember that? Did you see the empathy in my eyes, even then? Even then? When I was 8, growing up in the church had meant a baptism. I asked my mother if someone else could do it. She didn't want to hurt your feelings. Dressed in all white, I felt as clean as blood. After it was over, I couldn't sit still and when people came to congratulate me, as if I'd done something they found me outside playing football with the boys, in a white dress and small white heels. Were you proud of me then? Could you feel me shrinking, my wrists tense in your balled fists as you took me below the surface? I did not come up the same. When I was 10, when we moved the first time, mom stopped going to church. A few months later, she was carried to the mini-van as she talked about the tree stumps in California that reminded her of giant smarties, ants crawling up and down the stumps, the pieces of candy. We sat in the waiting room, surrounded by the sick and injured silent tears forever staining my cheeks, my shirt, my soul. They told us it was an accident. Do you remember that? Did your heart stop dead in its chest, the way mine did as I saw her eyes roll back in her head? As my world crashed down around me? Did you see the reflection of you in her glossy eyes? When I was 16, I drove as much as I could. I even rode to school while you yelled at me, from 5:30-5:47am until you went in to work, smiling and laughing with coworkers and I went into the bathroom before class turning on all the hand dryers so no one would hear me try to reconcile with being, allegedly, the source of all of your problems When I couldn't drive, I rode my longboard like I was surfing through the ocean of my thoughts, often drowning beneath the waves. Do you think screaming at me helped? Do you believe that it really was all my fault? When I graduated high school, I had two ceremonies, and asked you to come to only one. I knew you'd ruin one of them, so the other I kept for my self. Your seat was empty both nights--so much for setting a healthy boundary. I moved out the next day. Do you wish you would've shown up? Do you regret it? It wasn't new, but it still stung. When I was 19, I called you and told you that I missed you. As I pressed the red button, I told myself that I would never call first again. Do you recall that call? Do you even care? Did you mean it when you said you wanted us to have a better relationship? Pretty words do sound nice, in the moment. When I was 22, you and Mom came to visit me for the first time since I left, and you yelled at me (about car tires). I told you that you could meet us separately and that I'd drive my Mom to dinner. You didn't talk to me the rest of the night. You screamed at my mom for an hour on the drive home. Do you have the capacity to look in the mirror? To see yourself, and not react the same way you treated me? My family? So much for The Golden Rule we were taught growing up in your household. I am now 24. I had to put my dog, my best friend down three weeks ago. I didn't tell you, but I know you had heard--because my mom drove 13 hours straight with my siblings, through the night, because she needed to be with me, to be there for me. You haven't even sent a text. Honestly, I wouldn't care if you did. Did you feel anything when you heard the news? Are you able to let yourself? I begged you to treat me like a person, once. When that was too much to ask for, I resurrected myself Put the pieces in a suitcase, to bring to a garden in a new place, and I walked away. The front door in my rearview mirror will always be one of the most cherished gifts I've ever given myself. And how good it feels to set that down. a.b.

I felt as though I couldn't move an inch because if I gave but one, my Grief would take four and keep taking and taking until there was nothing more to give So I stayed completely still crouched in the brush waiting for the Animal to go by But the more I sat, the more i noticed And oh, how wrong I was. The remembering is a gift the pain, a blessing the grief, a mercy. Often, it can feel far too much. But it serves as a reminder of how big my love for you is And I would much rather feel all of it every single inch of it than to have never loved you at all. <3 -a.b.

I almost put my head Through a window, today But I'll tell them I was birdwatching And the clouds got in my way I almost put my self Through a window, today But I hope that by tomorrow I won't feel this way So I'm looking out the window And I see a shade of you Wishing that I could feel something Other than black and blue I'm looking out the window And I see your beautiful face, The only pop of color In my washed-out gray Now we're looking out the window, You've put some water on the stove And although my tea's still steeping I already feel half as cold Oh, we're looking out the window And I ask, "what do you see?" Just to turn my head towards you to find You smiling back at me So baby, let's go birdwatching To see what we can find I don't need things or money, I just wanna share your mind And when we go out birdwatching They say, "leave your valuables at home" But every time that we go out I'm with the most valuable person that I know I almost put my head Out the window, today Just wanted to go birdwatching And the clouds, well they've gone away I almost put my head Through the window, yesterday But now that it's tomorrow I'm glad that my baby's gonna stay -a.b.

My Wanting is often the local library cat, sunbathing in the corner of the floor-to-ceiling windows My Wanting is also the North Shore of O'ahu a wild tempest of waves, of things I may never have but want My Wanting begs for the hole in my chest to become a lens, a kaleidoscope to see the world through instead of an empty, insatiable void it begs for the things that make me a woman on this Earth to be a blessing rather than something I silently curse on occasion; as I make my way up the ski lift as I make my way down the mountain, carving a path in the fresh powdered snow while clutching my lower abdomen that is carving a message into the walls of my belly, written in a language that I cannot yet read written over my want for relief. My Wanting wants to connect and r e a c h o u t and touch it all but recoils slowly as if it might fall into abyss into old habits into the wrong hands My Wanting is an earache you get on the plane from diving too deep into the ocean and now being so high that it hurts, but it is bringing you home I want for the impossible, the magic, the too-good-to-be-true's because sometimes it is possible sometimes the magic is real, the too-good-to-be's are true My Wanting wants me to wish on life like it is a shooting star; a spark a blaze a fading a darkness a miracle and isn't it all a miracle anyways? I sure do want it to be... - a.b.

(Inspired by a title-less poem from The Book of Moons [Insert author name here], and Bree lol) Pen. Doesn't. Leave. The. Paper. This was a really beautiful poem. Inspiring, some might say. But not much is coming up right now. My feet sink to the deepest depths of the ocean and my brain is orbiting the sun with the rest of the planets. My body is the heavy space in between. I feel everything so deeply-- the wife of a friend's cancer diagnosis is a gunshot wound in my chest. my sister's blended family life being torn up in a blender hits my jaw like a balled-up fist adorned in brass knuckles. the loss of a dear friend's companion and service animal and pet felt deeply in my own beating heart. the alcohol burning a hole in my aunt's liver (and relationships) burns my throat like the words that just won't come out. I feel everything so very deeply; but I don't see it as a curse anymore. I just have to remember to take out the trash, donate what is not mine to own. Have to remember that we get bursts of magic, moments of peace reminders of what its all about. I have to remember that when I accidentally picked up a familiar hitchhiker on my drive home-- that darkness, the hollow weight, the feeling of heaviness that I had gotten so used to so many years ago-- I have to greet it as an old friend because my dear, we are not full moons all of the time. Most of the time. We are not suns or stars or lamps without an off-switch and neither is life; if it was, we'd blaze right out of it. And besides, I much prefer a squiggly line to a straight one an occasional rainstorm to a scorching desert heat a winter cold enough to freeze bones and settle deep within me because I know that a thawing spring a warming summer a peaceful fall are on their way. Besides, it tends to come back, doesn't it? -a.b.

Hi poetry peeps! In honor of Anxiety and all it has to teach us, and the opportunities it presents for truly experiencing the depth of living that life has to offer, (even though it is indeed a pain in the ass sometimes): I am sharing a little song I wrote. A friend of mine said she had never experienced anxiety like I had/do, like so many of the beautiful people in my life do, so it inspired me to attempt to put my experience into words and melody. So, here goes nothing!! With only a small amount of anxiety ;) https://www.icloud.com/photos/#/icloudlinks/0b7vfoJ49JDHmBXD1KXT-kM7Q/0/ All my love, Aydia

In all of the healing, in all the work I've done I realized one big thing; By trying so hard to be anything other than what I'd experienced, I became the very thing I vowed to oppose And worst of all, I became this for myself. No knowing where to dispose of The agony The punishment The rage; I buried it deep within my garden And was one day surprised To see all of the weeds that had grown in. I learned that you can pull, chop, burn, drown, and starve them all you want But they will grow back until you stop planting them. Until one day, you decide to let go. You may find that, sitting in your open palm, the wind carries them away quite nicely. You may find that the river floats them to another place. A bird will bring them home for breakfast Or the sky will drip rain into your hand and splash them away one drop at a time. You may not yet know what to do with your open hands, but at least now you can tend to your garden. -a.b.

When I miss you, I draft a text I know I'll never send. Sometimes I even take a picture, eyes wet behind the camera searching for just the right angle because I know you wouldn't listen to any more than a thousand words. When I miss you, there is no trying to decide what flavor of coffee to get that day because I know you'd get something with chocolate, caramel, and coconut. When I miss you, A few positive memories find their way to the front of my mind before they are pushed aside by the rest because I know that it all really did happen, and that it really did hurt. Sometimes it still does. When I miss you, I'm reminded of why I even left Because I know that you'd never truly understand the "why" ... Do you know what it is to grieve someone who is still alive? -a.b.

Yo do not hold them anymore; you are strong enough, But you deserve better. You are made to hold more, hold different. You put them down, don't pick them up again. Holding yourself now, your arms soft and strong Your heart, an orange; protected until you peel away the layers, Careful not to break open the squishy thing in your chest that does so much more than pump blood Sweet Soft Bright Filled with so. Much. Love. Use my layers and waste to make something beautiful; Fill the pot on the stove of our home With cloves, sage, cedar, orange, cinnamon, the beat of my heart. Boil it until it smells the way I feel, A gift to the senses and something to truly delight in. (Plus, you get vitamin C) Open my doors and windows until the dark embraces the light, Being held for the very first time Despite being touched many times before. -a.b.

Because I already love you. Because every time we get sushi, I will do my lil’ happy dance and share every roll, never leaving a table with leftovers. Because I still catch snow on my tongue and dance in the rain and pop every bubble before they are able to hit the ground. Because I may not understand yet how to make a “five-year plan”, but I do know how to open new doors and windows, and go from there. Because when I look at you, I do not see the stats–the way stars and shadows dance in your eyes speaks too loudly to miss, the way you hold yourself up to fight gravity or to keep from floating away lets me know exactly how tightly to hug you. Because, if you let me, I will read you story, leaving pages dog-eared and highlighted and re-read until the tear stains begin to blurry my favorite lines And because when we write our story, I will gladly take turns holding the pen. Because I had to learn how to love in this world more from nature than the people who tried to show me; as a wolf, loyal and always have your back. Like a whale, migrating through seasons and singing your praise with all the love I've got. Like a bird, celebrating your flight. As the night, moon and stars and darkness and all, here to hold you silently when it is too loud, too harsh, too much. As a mountain, here to ground and support and challenge you, here when you leave and here for when you return. Because I celebrate the Earth and her seasons the way I will celebrate every inch of your soul, a garden in its own way. Relishing every single flower, beautiful rock, growing tree, every kiss of wind and rain and sun that greets me. Because I will love you the way I am learning to love myself, the way you may not yet know you need. Because now, I am here and grateful, and excited. Because I have much to give and I am finally ready to receive. Because you will always have a choice. Because we are already whole, but like calls to like and opposites attract, we are not meant to be alone and together, we can build beautiful, devastating chaos that will rattle the stars one day. -a.b.

I hold here in my tired arms an angry jar of bees. Carrying it around with me, I travel as I please. I cannot set the jar down Or let the bees go free, For doing so would bring my loved ones A painful sting of misery. The bees have been livid for ages now, Stuck inside this jar Buzzing their wretched grievances Heavy and sticky like tar. You see, the bees come from inside me, A hopeless void within. They represent my fears and longings, Disguised by deadly sins. The secret they are keeping though, If you look closely enough; If you see past the sharp edges and venom, Is that they hide a disguised love. The bees know who have wronged me Who helped me put up walls, And encouraged me to bring out guards with crossbows And set locks on every door and hall. They know why I sleep with my door closed And keep it locked at night. The bees know who did this to me And that it wasn't right. All they seek is vengeance For my shaken, weary soul, To inflict the same pain on these people Because no one should feel this way alone. But I do not let them out anymore, Not for the purpose they wish to fulfill. I know what that feeling does to people, So instead they first serve my will. I set them on the table As I write and sing and paint. They love to see the bright colors, And for a moment they forget their angst. Red is their favorite color though, They buzz loudly when it hits the page. For it channels what I am feeling And translates my own hidden rage. So when I am at a level Where I cannot keep myself calm I take out their favorite color And let them sing their song. After a while they settle, And I decide to let them bee. They are free to do what bees do best; Make sweet, golden honey. So now I give out jars of sweet amber, Everywhere I go Leaving behind sticky-sweet smiles And sunshine for when it gets cold. -a. b.

It is here, Seated at the dining table The chairs around me empty, Bathed in the golden light of the evening That I am learning-- to Be Both sunlight and shadows, Fire and ice, Joyful and soaked in misery, Rib caged and heart liberated Brittle-boned and nerves of steel Chaos and order Desert and oasis Neon and grayscale Symphonic and silent Scattered and still. I am learning to be whole; For one cannot be as such Without every beautiful piece of the mosaic That tells our stories, Speaks our truth, Guides us home Begs us to be Here. -a.b.

If you are what you love, then I am The sunset that hits the mountains, setting it ablaze. The trees and all their branches, the moon in every phase. The smell of baked banana bread as its scent warms through the house, The way your eyes shine brighter when you let the truth come out. I am the water, the fire, the earth, the air; Flowing, ever-changing, grounded, everywhere. The colors of a piano, every note flooding the room The passion that takes hold of a person, their old life consumed. I am the adventure, the light between the trees. The known and unknown, I am everything in between. -a.b.