Christmas, without you.

So,

today

was great.

No, really. The

tree was lit with

 what seemed like thousands of little

twinkling lights, and the food

 was just like I remember. Everyone laughed

and played games as always. And we still

drew fortunes. We even watched our favorite movie.

Yeah, everything was absolutely perfect.

Except for the drive home. I kinda lost it in the passenger

 side. I couldn't help thinking about you. I would've

given just about anything to have you there with us tonight.

I kept a stoic face and fought with everything in me to

keep the tears from trickling down my face, but I just couldn't.

You always were one of my favorite features of the holidays, and I can't

help but recognize your absence. Your voice still lingers in my ears,

and sometimes it just hurts like hell to know that those 

precious memories cannot be repeated. 

"It wouldn't be

 Christmas without 

you,"the song goes.

I never wanted to

understand those

particular lyrics.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012 

I just wanted you to see.

I wanted you to see my heart,
the one you watched me take apart.
I wanted you to know my fear,
and understand why I stood there.
I wanted you to hold me close,
and fight away unholy ghosts.
I wanted you to be forever,
to be for me the strongest tether.
I wanted nothing more or less,
to stay with you just like this.

Now I understand the wind,
and how it causes things to bend.
It does not know from where it comes,
and sets its course beyond the sun.
I am permanently changed,
undeniably rearranged.
There's no one else that I can be.

I just wanted you to see.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012.

Rain Come 'A Crashing.

how soothing,

how comforting

it would be

for a cool 

rain 

to come crashing

down

on this hot-headed

roof. 

words screamed

in anger

and frustration,
like steam
from a copper
kettle on
my grandmother's
stove top,

rise up 

through the vents

and escape

through the attic.

some phrases

are trapped

beneath sofas,

under tables,

or stuck

between

polyester 

sweaters

in our

closets.

It's grown

too warm to 

fall into a 

restful slumber.

I toss and turn

in this

sweltering

furnace

of a bedroom.

my body,

attempting to

extinguish

the flames,

has begun to

seep. 

Water cascades

down ivory

cheeks.

how soothing,

how comforting

it would be

for a cool

rain

to come crashing

down.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

My God, My God.

Be not far from me
Oh, my God.
Draw me up
into an embrace
so firm and sure
that I cannot
forget.
Cradle me in peace
warm as wool
and strong as iron,
for Anxiety has made
her ripples across
my youthful brow.
Grief has sent her
torrents down my
flushed cheeks.
Be not far  from me
Oh, my God!
My soul is heavy
with the lead weights
of dissatisfaction
and longing.
I am still
waiting for You
here in the same
spot we met last.
If what they say
is true, and You
have not moved,
then when did I?
And although
I've known many
who walked out,
away,
astray,
You have never
been that kind!
I have known You
far too long to think
You would leave me
in this place of pain.
So be not far from me
Oh, my God!
It is a wind
chilled with bitterness
which passes through
the gates of my heart,
across the open courtyard
of my soul,
and into the fortress
of my spirit.
But it cannot dwell
where You are!
Either it will need to go,
or surely You must.
Now I am desperate!
Remove from me
all that is impure,
offensive to You,
and self-serving!
I bolt across the
courtyard, and
sprint through
these gates,
frantically seeking
He who will redeem!

MY GOD MY GOD
BE NOT FAR!
MY GOD MY GOD
BE NOT FAR!
I am calling out
into the immense,
vast space between
You and I!
MY GOD MY GOD!!

Be

.....

not

...

far

..


Christina Sawyer (c) 2012.

Jagged Little Thrill

Misshapen glances

from beneath

fringed, 

disheveled locks. 

Smoggy air,

thick with 

putrid odors.

Feel. 

Experience

the bassline

invading 

insides:

thumping,

punching,

heavy with

purpose. 

Tissues haphazardly

wadded and 

inserted.

Humidity;

a sweltering

realization.

No melody

in the universe,

no bottle of whiskey,

no ocean's depths

can

drown 

you 

out.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

Beautiful, She Cries.

Chance worth taking
heart worth breaking
everything's aching.
"Do you feel me?!"
she says,
arms torn with scars
tears clear as stars
trapped behind bars
she created herself.
"Yea."
But I don't understand
the fist-clenched hand
shook in reprimand.
We sit in stillness
and silence.
I hold her as she shakes,
as her body quakes
as her resistance breaks.
Calling her beautiful,
like no one ever did.
Mascara down her cheeks,
wordless sighing speaks.
Salvation she seeks
in places unknown
to more fortunate souls.
Still I hold her frame,
calling her by name,
as before the trouble came.
And I called her,
"Beautiful."

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

Verbatim Ultimatum.

Would you be so bold?

So bold as to approach me

With purpose and distinction,

That I would not doubt you?

Send my fears to extinction.

Would you be so bold?

Could you be so sure?

So sure that I could see

Your resolve in your walk?

That I could hear it

'Fore your lips part to talk?

Could you be so sure?

Should you be so steady,

In the distant future,

I would welcome conversation.

Attempts at understanding

Not met with hesitation.

Should you be so steady.

Alas,

even I 

am not

consistent. 

Shooting Stars.

Do not leave me here,
shivering with cold;
Every inch exposed
for the universe
to mock and scorn.
I reach up to grab
a distant star,
hoping against hope
that it might not
shrink back from
my tender touch.
Everything runs.
Like my mascara,
or Aiden's Dad.
Like a watercolor
painting with an
excess of water.
Like my t-shirt
I dyed with Rit
my Senior year
of high school.
Predictably,
the star fled
from my open palm.
But it was not
how I imagined.
What I regarded
with such disappointment,
was not a star
escaping from my
greedy reach,
but one that was
in pursuit of that
which I could not
supply.
Taken aback,
I understood.
"Follow me,"
whispered the tiny
celestial body.
It urged me to
Pursue.
Seek.
Find.
Sometimes running
is not a way
out.
It is a way
towards.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

Contentment is...

It is a beautiful night

to be completely

solitary.

I'll bet it's a perfect

evening back home.

I'll bet the sun is 

sinking into an ocean

of magenta waves.
And I remember....

The scent of leaves

tickles my nostrils.

The trees are whispering.

A slow smile plays

on my rosy lips.

My acoustic rests

on my cozy frame.

I am fingering the

comfortingly familiar

chords, humming softly. 

I sink deeper into the 

front porch glider,

kicking off with 

my right foot. 

Swinging,

singing,

swaying. 

My oversized sweater

hangs loosely, and I

feel every current as

the breeze caresses me.

I have caught a chill,

but this would not be

the first time.

Sometimes it is 

refreshing to feel.

As the stars fight

against the city light,

I pause. 

I stare up at infinity,

wishing to be.

Wishing to understand.

Wishing to be understood.

But I am perfectly content here.

A cup of coffee and guitar

are all I need.

I am wiser than last autumn.

I am not afraid anymore.

Yes, I am sure it is a

perfect evening back home.

But it is a perfect evening

in Chicago, because I am

exactly where

I need to be. 

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012 

My "L.O.V.E." parody. A classic standard with a modern twist.

"L is for the way you lie to me, 
O is for the only one I flee! 
V is very very, troubling; unsatisfactory! 
E is even more emotional than Titanic's score... 
'Love' is not to be said til it's true; 
mostly when you're over 62! 
Two "in love" might fake it; 
give your heart and one might break it! 
Love: use carefully, you fool!!!!"

nothing.

Can I be nothing?
Can I be
evaporation;
hesitation;
deprecation;
mutilation?
Can I be something?
I'm so apologetic
in the static
for I don't understand
how all I'd planned
could be so damned
and all I am
is in the can.
Who are you?
Nothing.
Your words of
disapproval,
removal,
gone to the grave
just like you.
Can I be nothing?
Guess not,
because the other day,
he told me I'm
everything.
But that means
absolutely


nothing.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

Cyanide.

A tiny heart;
a tiny frame.
I wish I could
forget your name.
The way we were.
The way we are.
The way it all
became a scar.

I wish for sleep,
solace and rest!
My mind repeats
in its protest.
"I would never!"
How could I?!"
Remembering
how it all died.

You don't know
the pain I feel
because your love
was never real.
You will never
comprehend;
that hurts most
in the end.

I could scream it
til I'm blue.
I would not
get through to you.
Play the victim,
play the saint.
Whatever picture
you will paint.

This is getting
old so fast.
Trying to
escape the past.
I can't trust.
I can't try.
My opium
was cyanide.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

"When You're Broken."

Call me when you're broken,
and the pieces can't be found,
when in the words unspoken
you feel yourself so bound.
I have been through valleys;
I've climbed those same hills.
I understand the torture;
incurable, dark ills.
I know the sleepless longing,
the burning in your bones.
You wish someone was calling,
but nobody's home.
The present seems consuming,
the past a distant dream.
The future now seems looming,
in Its eyes, a sick gleam.
You're afraid of failure,
more scared of success.
You just want salvation
from the cruel helplessness.

Call me when you're wasted,
lying on the floor.
I know the pain you've tasted,
knocking on death's door.
Even when they leave you,
and the rumors start,
I could not forget you;
you'll always have my heart.
Let me drive you home now;
why not stay with me?
We can talk this out tonight,
and end the misery.
Don't you dare deny me
the right to comforting
someone who means the world to me
in their suffering.
I may not always answer
the first time you ring,
but I hope you realize
I would do anything.
Anything at all to spare
from undeserving hell,
the one I've always come to,
when everything fell.

So call me when you're broken.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012.

and i am

when you don't fit
and the colors run
i sometimes envy
everything you've ever had
because you had it all
the friends you could
walk through the woods with
and camp with
or talk about stupid bands with

and i was the fat girl.

you used to play together
all day and into the night
running in and out of
eachothers' houses
and you had a crush
on her since you were
in elementary school
how was i supposed
to compete with that

and i was the stupid girl.

your friends know all your
other friends and you all
have stories about growing up
and doing stupid things
but i didn't really have friends
growing up i was usually
thinking about tragedies
or worrying about
when i would die

and i was the worried girl.

you said the only reason
you picked up a guitar
was because her dad
said you should and you
said ok and it turned
out you like it enough
but the fact remains
that someone had to
tell you to do it
whereas the only
reason i learned
that keyboard by ear
as a kid was because
it would listen
and it would talk back

and i was the hidden girl.

so i suppose you will
never understand
the scars i have
on my heart
nor will you understand
that you put some of
them there and
i cry when i see
pictures of you and them
because you had friends
and you always acted
like everyone hated
you and no one was
ever there and your
life was such a
mess and blah blah blah
spoiled rich yuppie
who doesn't know
what he had or
what he still has

and i am the smarter girl.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

Mississippi King.

Starry country night.

A million miles

into the middle of nowhere.

Mississippi ain't no place

to write a happy song

when your Daddy done gone.

Grandmama does her best

to raise a boy to a man.

Yes, the very best she can.

Mama would've done it,

but money don't grow

like the cotton.

Some things are best

forgotten.

In a cabin in the south,

a King was born.

In the night,

he hears the soft wind

calling through the window;

the creatures in the meadow. 

The bullfrog's on the water.

The moon, the sun's sad daughter.
No one can teach the blues,
it's something in your bones.
it's a callous on your hands,
a chair rocking alone.
No one can heal a hurt,
that's deep within your spirit.
But his guitar begins to play,
and everyone can hear it.

He thinks to himself,

that he is destined.

No one would guess

that in the future's daily news,

the boy from Mississippi 

would be 

King of the blues.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

Shadow Boy.

Broken fragments of a memory,
fading to a soft sepia.
Your hair's in  your eyes again.
We're laughing,
but I can't remember why.
Your sincerest laugh is
like a hundred bubbles popping
in afternoon sun.
Your eyes really are beautiful.
Each iris a vivid blue,
like an ocean just bound
to take me away.
You grab me up
onto your lap,
out of breath.
Somehow, I'm locking
everything in my mind,
because I know it
can't last forever.
We sit there silently,
two shadows in
the dusk.
I could die of
happiness.
I turn around
just to look at you.
I quietly memorize
each curve of your face.
I trace my finger along
the bridge of your nose,
over your subtle laugh lines,
and end up running all five
through your shaggy dark hair.
I smile as I compare my
creamy skin to your olive tan.
You're looking at me
like I'm the only girl
in the entire world.
Like only I could save you.
I wish I could have.
You squeeze me to your chest
like you could never even imagine
letting me go.
You taste like a summer night,
warm and alive.
You tell me all your hopes,
all your fears,
all your dreams.
We talk for hours,
and never seem to
run out of things to say,
or new things to discover
we have in common.
We finish eachother's sentences,
like punctuation at the end
of a phrase; so perfectly
I can't imagine living
without you.
You strum your guitar gently,
singing a familiar tune.
I harmonize with you,
two voices permanently
entwined, and forever
ingrained in my memory.
You say it's your "heaven".
Now it is my hell.
Now the sun has
finally set.
Shadows disappear.
I remember the
last time we said
goodbye.
I kissed you like
I'd never see you again,
like I always seemed to.
You said you were cold.
You went inside.
I drove away.
The truth came out,
and I am left to wonder
what the hell I did wrong.
I am desperately afraid
to ever love again.
Months have gone by.
Half a year, in fact.
Over and over we'd
talk, fight, block...
Try to be friends.
Impossible.
You've turned into
this monster....
I am afraid of you.
I am scared of the thing
I loved more than life itself.
I loved you so much,
that I almost didn't care
about what you did with her.
I almost did anything
just to keep you here.
I don't want who you are.
I want you you were.
I am mourning the death
of my first love.
I wish I could bury him.
I wish I could forget you
just like everyone else
I've had to bury and grieve over.
But you're still here.
You're still breathing the same oxygen,
walking the same earth,
and doing everything you used to.
But there is a darkness about you now.
You aren't him.
WHAT DID YOU DO WITH HIM?!
How could you kill someone so beautiful?!
You wonder why we can't be friends?
You killed half of my heart.
You are an imposter.
If he still lives somewhere
beyond the sun, laughing atop
a roof in the afternoon,
tell him I'm looking for him.
You'll know who he is.
My shadow boy.



Christina Sawyer (c) 2012.

Expletive.

Those 5 seconds

everyday

nearly kill me.

You know,

the ones where I

briefly want to 

disappear. 

They literally

just about

do

me

in. 

One time I was driving

and something in me 

wanted to ram

into a light pole.

But it turns out

I like concerts too much.

Sometimes, 

I just want to be drunk

or high.

Just once.

Just to see if it works.

Even though

I know it doesn't. 

Because in the end, 

I know I'll run 

into you again,

and have to pretend 

I didn't see you

and that everything 

is just f#*&!$g 

great.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

What I Found At The Bottom of My Mug.

You wouldn't know
real love
if it slapped you
across the face.
Actually,
it has.
I remember doing so
quite vividly.
In our world of
recycle bins and
consignment shops,
nothing is treasured.
I suppose being
reused is better than
discarded...
But aren't they the same?
My brain swims
in a sea of caffeine.

I suppose it's better

than drowning. 

Again, I cannot

see the difference. 

I never did learn

how to swim.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

2 A.M. on a Saturday morning.

Let's just pretend
for just a moment
that my friends are okay;
that we're all okay.
You keep calling me,
and my thumb keeps hitting
ignore.
I'm good at that.

I feel like part of me
evaporated
with the smoke
as I exhaled.
It's like it
doesn't even matter
anymore.
Even if I achieve
perfection,
you're still jacked up.

What the hell is
your problem?!
I'm pounding on
the glass box:
your cage.
I'm beating it
repeatedly, screaming,
but you're not
listening.

I don't know how to
help you help yourself.
You're lost in a place
I've never been.
Don't worry.
I suppose I'll
catch up soon enough.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

"Girl, Untitled."

Disproportionate to your frame,
you quiver with the weight
of the yoke you bear.
You are so small.
Why are you struggling,
attempting the impossible?
Oh, you've caught a chill.
I would lend you my coat,
but this is not bone deep.
Why are you screaming?!
Smoke ingested,
Moth infested,
Truth rejected.
Floating away...soft laughter...
What the hell are you doing?
Where the hell are you?
Who the hell are you?
Since you don't know,
They will tell you.
As they slap the label
across your parched lips,
you don't even care.
At least you have a
Name.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

The Glorious Art of Healing.

New belt cinched 'round my waist.
Every hair in perfect place.
You are calling me again.
I forget the answerin'.
I just saw you yesterday
With your arm across her back.
I remember you that way;
I remember us like that.

Can't say I regret a thing.
Can't say I'm still listening.
But those mem'ries haunt my dreams;
Caught up in the way it seemed.

I guess this is moving on:
When both
hope and hate
are

gone.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

High Tide.

Come clean.
Tell me everything.
Let it hit me like a tidal wave.
Slow, steady breaths
As I'm enveloped
By the truth.
I will drown in it.
God knows I've been
Suffocating all this time.
Let it carry me out to sea
In a foamy, briny cradle.
Rock me to sleep in the abyss.
Don't bother to pull me in.
There is nothing for me
On the shore.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012