Katelynn's blog: "MY POEMS!!! PLZ COMMENT!!! I CARE MUCH MORE ABOUT THE COMMENTS THAN THE RATINGS -- I GENUINELY CARE ABOUT YR OPINION!!!"

To All You Assholes You got your hair cut and you grew a ‘stache. You sat beneath the orange lights and bitched about rich people and their excesses, rich boy. You told me what a nice guy you were while winking at Becky when my back was turned and unsuccessfully attempting to subtly insult me. No, your veiled cruelty did not go over my head. We argued about war and pacifism. I still laugh at Ho Chi Minh city and find cities named after dictators absurd. You think you’re hot-shit, don’t you? You, the king of the “I’m-so-smart-and-and-smooth” crew. The one thing you “look at me, I’m so cool” types don’t realize is the cooler you think you are, the less I find you cool. Next time I see you, please do not insult my intelligence or try to make your sappy puppy-dog face at me. It won’t work. And please, especially, do not touch my shoulder or elbow or try to play footsie with me. You’re not my type, bud. Quit my sight, you hair “Bear,” or leave your pompous bullshit at the door. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

Cages I’m tired of being a character, a fool, a jester, a scapegoat, the girl everyone loves to laugh with until she knocks her unopened twenty-four ounce Heineken off the dining room table and the voices start in on her again. Shards of green glass intermingle with the foamy liquid spreading across the tile floor and the girl, the only one cut by the glass can only hear yelling and screaming: Aaron berating her being there – no, for existing in the first place; Patrick rushing her to leave without her cigarettes, beer, cell phones, keys, CDs, and then, of course, there are the screech owls, the howler monkeys, the ‘gulls, and the hyenas acting up in their cages in her mind. They rattle the metal bars begging to be fed some bit of violence, and the girl wants so bad to lash out, to hit blindly, without caring if she actually lands a punch. Instead, she ignores her caged and often cruel pets, tries her best to make nice with everyone, even rushing out so fast she leaves her mama’s cell phone behind. Her best friend promises to bring it to her the next day. She just hopes she can count on something, but the sounds of those incessant caged animals, trapped in her head, longing to get out – poor fools, they don’t even know she’s more trapped than they are. So she goes home, tapes her hands, puts her hair up, takes off her earrings and oh-so-expensive trendy poncho, switches shoes, washes the tear-stained face no one was privileged enough to see. She puts some Janis on the stereo, “Another little piece of my heart now . . .” and all that jazz. She sends her punching bag to the ICU and rages privately in a wood-paneled, book-lined cage. But a hint of a smile creeps into her face at the satisfaction that no one, not even her pets, will ever know what these moments were like for her. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

Boats We talk about change: moving forward, falling back into all the old habits, patterns, cycles of destruction and self-destruction. Every change I make someone, me, has made before. Our days are filled with decisions that a day can reverse. Mostly, we are unaware of the process. We will never be able to claim to have perfected the art of thinking before we act. These days, my decisions are increasingly conscious, and I relish every thought-out action – they are the anchor keeping my boat from drifting out to sea, into the darkness I can’t control, with no captain at the helm. Wisdom lurks in unlikely places. I grasp at every scrap I can reach. I stare into the blackest ocean depths, watch waves capsize so many vessels. I know the ocean is wild, fierce, an untamable beast at the mercy of the moon, but I take comfort in the anchor, and in me, finally the captain, finally at the ship’s helm. Still, I can’t forget her unpredictability, the havoc she can wreak, the power she possesses, so much greater than my own. So I follow the weather reports, keep one eye on the moon, the other on the relentless waves, and when the storm warnings come, long before the danger makes its way to my realm, I will take my dinghy to shore, and find safety on solid ground. After the danger passes, I am not afraid, again I brave the beast’s dangers, board my boat, lift the anchor, steer my ship in the right direction. I always remember to keep one eye on the moon, one on the waves, and an ear open for storm warnings. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

I Miss I miss wading in ponds and the feeling of power when slicing a canoe oar through anything with true current. I miss my incredible strength and wrapping my legs around your back – so hard, so hungry, I was afraid I would break it – the grip of a muscle so unrelenting it would put any beast’s jaws to shame. I miss being able to give you little useless bits and pieces, scraps of paper so meaningful and yet so ridiculous they seemed to reek. I miss you rushing onto the porch so that I would be the first to hear your secrets, and you, always the first to greet me, running towards me as is if there was a race to see who could reach me first. I miss melting. Your arms were so hot – my every pore and nerve ending soaked with a heat that turned everything in its path to molten-golden lava-like liquid emotion, interference. All these things, all this and so much more, I revisit, explore each day, take from it what I will. All this and so much more, I miss. I want. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

why when sunflower suns bloom against blue backdrops dotted by bouquets of baby's breath does a sheet of water fall. no, a wall, a wall I can't walk through, only clearly observe the other side. and steam rises from the pavement and the humid air, so thick you can drink it, reeks of ozone. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

Trying to Process and Purge You put your hands on me And in that moment A small death occurred Only it wasn’t so small How old could I have been – Five, six, seven, eight? Too young to learn too much About touch, and how the laying of hands On skin, can corrupt, destruct, pervert, penetrate Years later I scarred myself externally To erase the internal scars To express the inner gash To protest the destruction of innocence Years later, it happened again Two men forcefully opened me Stole the gift that was supposed to be Mine to give Even then, sixteen I was still a child I never deserved any of this It’s not my fault Today, I am twenty-four, nearing twenty-five And yet I’m still a child Stunted, paralyzed By so many intrusive hands I never wanted on my Flesh. I process and process Try to deal Make tiny steps forward My progress is not minimal I no longer create my own scars But I’ve hid in bottles and powders and pills I’ve lashed out at Everyone who’s made an honest attempt To love me, to help me It’s hard for me to properly love myself Much less anyone else Relationships explode, disintegrate, disappear And though I am not always to blame I rarely play no role The walls I’ve built Not only keep others from knowing me But prevent my own knowledge of self And then I act impulsively Make rash decisions These things are rarely without consequence Sometimes I sleep with men I care nothing for And wake up angry, ill defeated And then, when I sleep with men I know Men I care for or love Some subconscious part of me, intent On sabotage, clings Pushes away Insecurity begets a green-eyed monster And needs no person can meet Needs no one should be expected to meet I give only part of myself And often, that part is not true, real Tangible, recognizable I paste on smiles Make nice, flirt, engage in idle chit-chat And often, I don’t know who this woman is Who says these things Knows these faces and places I seem to seek out, cling to everything That can destroy me And I do this hungrily, eagerly With an unquenchable thirst, an untamable desire A yearning I can’t satisfy or even Name. All I know is there is something more than this I no longer want to be that child-woman Face streaked with tears The “emotional wreck” You, the ones with the uninvited hands and Other body parts You are not the only ones to blame Nor can I claim innocence in this adventure And thought I cannot forgive I have to purge Let go Create calm from the chaos Figure out this woman Whose mind and body I inhabit Truly is Become one with her rescue this drowning child-woman Make her whole Make her all woman copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

I Fall Into Myself Sometimes, I fall into myself, get lost, surface twenty minutes later, gasping for air. Sometimes, I am wholly here, focused on the matter at hand, aware of all that surrounds me. Sometimes, I give myself away. This, too, is a way of losing myself: glassy-eyed and only half-aware at best, too drunk to remember but not drunk enough to forget, I throw peanuts and start fights, wreck cars and moments, always hating the fool inside me who surfaces with a vengeance when I look to lose control. Sometimes, I am clear-headed and almost even smart. I think before I act, weigh risks versus rewards, consider the consequences of my actions. This is when I seem to act intelligently. This is when I’ve almost got my shit together. Sometimes, I forget all this – the real world and its responsibilities, this construct we call society and the world at large. This is when I dive recklessly into the cool waters of the moment, freeing myself of my worldly obsessions, letting life carry on in its odd, unfocused way while I give myself to the cool waters pushing against my limbs, as I almost effortlessly swim out farther, dive deeper, letting the rhythmic waves soothe the savage beast. Almost, at times, at peace. This is when I live for right here, right now. This is when the something more than that I am forever seeking washes over me with such a ferocity that all I can do is sit back and wonder at the limitless beauty of a moment. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

To All The Boys Yeah, you still haunt my dreams. I can see you in my mind’s eye – you, with you combat boots and leather jacket, your Fugazi t-shirt and sock feet, your skateboard and guitar. I can see those sky-high cheekbones and full lips. I hear your words. Your voice resonates in my subconscious. You, singing “Running to Stand Still,” saying “boo-yah,” all thick lips and dark hair. I still want to run my hands through your lion’s mane. I still see you in my mind’s eye – you, young and beautiful and standing next to me. Years ago I was all about you. Now you only consume me when I sleep. Only when I let my subconscious out of its cage, only then do I see you, you and beautiful and standing next to me. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews