I'm having tea with Life,
And his band of Disappointments.
They dine at my expense,
And they're a hungry bunch of guests.

Tea turned into Supper,
Where the Disappointments drank
My finest wine,
And Life wiped his cruel mouth
On my tablecloth.

You can't have supper without dessert,
So they ate up more of my
Food for thought.
And if you stay for dessert,
You may as well spend the night.
So they did
And burgled my pantry of hopes
For a midnight snack.

One night was lovely,
So Life cackled, "Why not stay two?"
And two turned to a week,
And a week turned into
My sickeningly merry guests
Moving into my dreams,
And inviting in Doubt,
To live with them too,
And of course
Pay no rent.

So I watch my chaotic household
Of a skull,
Where Life has made himself at home
And brought all of his friends.
I stare dully at my ruined
Dining room of thought,
Which they have dominated.
And look wearily for a spare idea
In my raided cupboards.

I've never been one
To evict friends,
So I suppose they're here to stay.
But learn a lesson from me,
And don't ever
Have Life over for tea.

And everything
Had happened
The way they promised
It wouldn’t.

See how the sunset liquid
Glitters
The crystal glass,
With lipstick on the brim
Instead of lemon.

Smell the rich foreign scent,
Making itself at home
On once innocent
Young lips.

Lonesomeness
In a burning beverage.

They can prescribe
Pills to make you sleep,
Pills to make you happy,
Pills to stop the anxiety,
Pills to make you
Walk around
In a drunken haze
So that you can't connect
With the world enough
For it to hurt anymore.

They could give me pills
To help me get through work,
To make me smile at strangers,
They could give me pills
To fix my insomnia,
They could give me pills
To drown out the loop
Of anxiety
I'm constantly
Trapped in.

But could someone give me pills
To stop me from hurting him,
Him,
The thing I love most.
I'm like a white hot iron,
Sinking into his flesh,
Making it sizzle and
Bubble,
Making smoke curl up
In curvy pictures.
Can they give me pills
To stop that?

They can prescribe pills,
To stop your sneezing,
So help make your second
Personality
Shut up,
To stop your mood swings.

But can they give me pills
To stop me
From being so tired
From fighting every instinct
Of dysfunction I have?
I'm an artist of self destruction,
My brush strokes are skillful,
And aged with experience,
The colors make it stand out,
When you focus on it long enough.
Can they drug me until I forget
I can't even tell I'm hurting
The man I love
Until it's too late?
Can they give me pills to tune out
The reality that my own father
Molested me,
And that it will haunt my actions
For the rest of my life?


Can they give me pills to stop that?

CAN THEY GIVE ME PILLS TO ******* STOP THAT?

It's a whip that stings across my back,
And face,
Constantly,
It thrashes at my body,
It will always be there,
And if you get too close
You get hit too,
And I have to watch you,
Praying you'll leave me.
Why do they think I don't let people in?

Because they can't prescribe me pills
To stop that.

Images shifting together,
Pretty colors
Everywhere.
You stare into your beautiful
Kaleidoscope.

Spinning around the enchanting
Light,
The memories you hold so dear,
You see the world
Through your lovely images,
Through your beautiful
Kaleidoscope,
Hiding all of the anger and pain.

I tried to pry
The gold plated memories
Out of your hands,
Gripping them so tightly,
Your knuckles are white.
But you're stuck in your realm,
Of dancing colors
And smiles
That never happened.

You love your kaleidoscope,
More than you
Love
Me.

Yellow city lights,
Streaks of red,
Huffing and puffing
Trucks and buses,
Dripping roof,
Cold sidewalk,
Wearing my happy red shoes.

I’d like to take up the earth
In my hands,
And fold it over like fabric.
Then stitch through the grassy weave
And bring your home
Closer to me.
But though I cannot make that happen
You are only a time travel
Of two hours away.

You can measure it in
Minutes,
Songs,
Miles,
Hot beverages
And scenery,
I’ve even measured it in rain,
The space between
You and me.

Here I am,
In my small town version of a city,
Sitting on my duffel bag,
Because I’d rather shiver in the outdoors,
And you’re only a matter
Of Beatles albums away.

A flick of his baton,
And hate fills the room.
Wafting under the doors
Into bystanders,
And passersby,
Ears.

My father was our conductor.

A sweeping gesture,
So well rehearsed...
And love and admiration,
Make the room quiver with sound.

He held his audience in a grip as hard as a scared child's, he'd perfected every move he made.

The stage is set,
The orchestra is ready to play,
Not for the audience,
For the conductor.

He trained us, his family, as a traveling show
All to boost his needy ego.

He raises his hands,
And the pity raises it's volume.
You can taste the salty,
Bitter melody
On your tongue.
You could almost swallow the tune.

If he couldn't use you in some way, he'd leave you,
Whether you were a friend or his blood.
  
A sweet undertone of hate,
So easily made,
And so tempting.
Now a brief solo...
And the admiration blasts full,
And loud,
And bright.

He'd use those who loathed him in his orchestra,
Use them to make his admirers defend him.

The conductor,
And his orchestra.
Like the sun and the planets.
The music revolving around him,
His curled moustache,
And retreating hairline.

He was a puppet master, gaining something from any
Attention thrown his way.
  
Now a solo for the fear,
Clear,
And high.
His hands go down low,
For the base sound of anger.

He was a walking explosion, when he entered the room in our home, it silenced.

Bitterness fills the room,
It's strings
Singing.
And pity again,
Perhaps his favorite instrument.

I hated him for not loving me, and he used my bitterness to hold my sisters closer to him

The conductor,
The abuser,
Conducting all the attention,
Upon himself.
Not any type is unwanted,
All instruments have a place
On his stage.

The only way to escape, was to let him go.

I've dropped my instrument.
Left bitterness on the floor.
The last one I've played,
I've tried my hand at all the others,
But I could never find one
I wanted to keep.
The life of a musician,
Just isn't for me.

“He’s just trying
To
Get in
Your pants.”

“He’s just going to use you.”

“He’s only your friend
Because
He’s going to try and have *** with
You.”

“He’s a bad influence.”

“He’s got no redeeming qualities.”

But he,
He is the one sitting with me tonight.
He was the one to hug me tight
And dry my tears.
Not any of you.

Signaling smoke
In the summer sky,
You could've seen the signs
Miles away.
My parents' marriage
Went up in flames.

I wasn't afraid of fire
When I was a child.
I was brought up
Under the black locust trees,
With dirt paths
Beat with bare feet
Into the woods.
And the smell of smoke
Was normal on my clothes,
I could start a fire when I was so young,
I don't even remember my age.

I wasn't afraid of fire.

So when it
Licked
The bottoms of my feet
As I sat on the wooden bridge
Built across the battle trench
Between my parents
I wasn't worried,
Not really.

When it collapsed
Every child ran to what looked like
The safer side,
Which we each had different
Opinions of.

I walked out
With white ash
On my eyelashes
Like delicate, fluttering snowflakes.
My nose burned, and it sometimes
Hurt to breathe.
My body was covered in soot,
It blended my skin into
The night,
And I felt safer there.

I am building a bridge now.

It's a work in progress,
It will be years before it's done,
But we're building with steel
Not wood.
And I'm slowly
Washing my body
Of the black powdered residue,
And breathing out the smoke.

The only problem is,
First I have to cross the bridge
I lived on
As a child.
See the brittle places
Where it caught flames,
And repaire the flaws left by it
In my head
So that our bridge binding
Him and me won't ignite.

I was never afraid of fire.

But I'm afraid of what it does.
Try walking on a charcoal bridge,
A burnt up marriage,
Divorce,
Still smoking.
Tell me
That isn't terrifying...
Try.
It's hard to know
Where to put your feet
So you don't fall.
And I'm not past that bridge yet,
So sometimes
I forget
That I'm not her,
And he's not him.

I have parts of her face,
I have features that are his.

I have some of their problems.

But I'm crossing that bridge
After they burned it.

My father's hands
were so large
my child hands could only hold
*******.
My high school sweetheart's  hands
were long and spindly,
and soft from lack of work.

Strings run from my mouth,
Held by my toes,
I have a hollow feeling in my stomach
Listen to the echo.

My body is carved from wood,
And my insides are hollowed out,
Pull my strings
And listen to me talk
Talk
Talk
About what matters to me,
It falls empty on ears
That don't want me.

You had a blank look
On your eye lids this time.
You've always kept your eyes closed,
But there used to be a painting
Above your eyelashes,
Of whatever you wanted to see,
So introquet
In colorful make up
To make up for what you muddled up
In your brain,
Older sister.

You've never been pleased with me.
I'm not tuned to the sound of your stories
About our family,
We're not broken
In the way that is most convenient for you.

I feel like you've latched on to my strings
That you're pulling on them
As hard as you can
Trying to tear me apart
Because you'd rather see me fall
Than have me be
Someone who isn't what you want.
And yes
My strings
You won't let go of
Are tugging at my brain,
They're attached somewhere
Where I hold fear,
But they won't break.

You can talk all you want
You can lie all you want
But all you'll get from me
Is an echo
From the empty feeling in my stomach,
Because as far as you are concerned
I'm nothing but an instrument
In an orchestra
Who won't obey the conductor
Our father.
So what is my music worth,
If you won't listen?

You are sunshine
In my life.
Warming, beautiful, tender, loving,
Sunshine.

I'm watching your features fade
From our children's faces.
The pieces of you
Are flitting out
Of their personalities.

I can see our daughter's face,
My mother's curly hair
Framing it,
And your eyes blinking at me
From underneath it.
Her fingers are fast
On frets and strings
Like her father.
And she jumbles up the digits
On her math pages
Like her mother.
I can feel us hold her for the first time,
I can see you kissing her forehead.

The hardest part will be letting this go.

I can see our firstborn son,
Running up to me
For a kiss after he scraped his knee,
With Starwars temporary tattoos
Climbing up his arms.
I can picture the freckles
Sprayed across a nose like mine,
And a brave smile
From thin lips like yours.
I can see you running his dumptrucks
All over the house together.

I'm not just losing you.

I can picture our second daughter,
With fine hair from you,
Colored ginger from me.
I can see her muddy footprints
Tracked through our kitchen,
From staying out in the rain,
Just like her parents loved to.
I can see her toddling
Through our home,
My eyes staring up at me
Filled to the brim with tears
When she falls,
Your nose all red,
And my mouth
In a pout.

I'm losing them too.

I can imagine our youngest son,
Snuggled up on your lap,
With his daddy's scowl
From drowsiness.
Then my smile, and your laugh
As you blow on his belly.
I can hear him crying
In the wee early hours of the morning,
I can picture you holding me,
As I hold him,
Rocking him back to sleep.

I can see our children
Gathered around the dinner table,
And I know,
The hardest part will be giving up
This dream
I built with you,
This future we'll never have.
I'm watching them
Fade away.

The yellow sunlight licked
Our foreheads,
And the grass was heat baked
In the summer afternoon.
A boy with blond curls
Reclined under a tree,
School books scattered on the ground.
The air from 1966 tastes different.

I sit under the tree,
I stare the seventeen-year-old boy,
Who doesn't know me,
And will never want to.
He bats a fly away, lazily,
And inquires who I am,
And why I'm on his father's land.

"Why don't you love me?"
The question pumps through the blood
Roaring in my ears,
He passes me a quizzical look.  

Here,
On equal ground,
Him just beginning his life,
Me fighting through mine.
Caught in a time I've never known,
Him looking upon someone
From a future he's building.
This is where I want to ask him.
When his cheeks still have a youthful
Cheer,
This is the version of him I want to ask,
Here in the New York farmland,
Only gently caressed by civilization.
In his world before all the women,
And all the lies.
"Dad, why didn't you love me?"

There's a pair
Of missing people,
Walking in the rain.

The pavement rough
Beneath their feet,
Scuffing at their shoes.
They walk together,
Through the puddles...
To the rhythm of
Their skipping hearts.

Their joined fingers are laced
With memories,
Happy and sad,
But shared together.
Their shoulders bump
Seeking each other's
Sweet familiar warmth
To guard them,
From the patter
Of the cold water.

There's a pair of Missing people.
You've passed them on
The street.
They eat at your favorite
Coffee shop,
And laugh at old jokes
To the sound
Of sipping lattes.

Their hands know
One another well.
And their smiles
Are always adorned
With thoughts of each other.

There's a pair of Missing people,
He plays with her hair.
There's a pair of Missing people,
As she leans against his chest.

There's a pair
Of missing people,
Who love each other so much.
But they were torn
Away.
There's a pair of Missing people...
Who only came close,
To being born.

There's a wall,
A rather odd wall,
Towering over the trees.

Made of glass bricks,
Giving you the illusion
It's not actually there,
But you can't really
See through them.

There's a portion
Made up of carnival
Mirrors,
And lined notebook
Paper,
And pens.

There's a paper flower vine,
Every few feet.
And a herd of excuses
Here
         And
                   There.

Some half painted
Canvas',
And song lyrics,
And poem verses
Stretching highest.

And a mile of it
Made of nights I held
A cold wash cloth to my face,
So no one could tell I was crying.
And a few bricks of a
Sense of ongoing.
And some cement blocks
Mixed with loneliness
And longing.
All dribbled over
With coffee, mod podge
and candle wax.

There's a boy,
A rather strange boy,
Trying to dig through
The laughs and jokes,
With nothing
But a couple well place words.

There's a fire,
Started by a lighter
In my hand,
On the inside of the wall.
The laughs and jokes,
Giggle nervously
As they're tossed away,
And evaporated.

But they keep
Breeding,
With the smiles
And sarcasm,
And everything I use
To keep people
Out.

And maybe,
I'm not trying.
Maybe sometimes,
We grow to love
Our mighty walls.
But maybe we all need to
Remember...
They aren't only blocking out
What we're afraid of,
But what we hope for.

You words
Curved into a jar tonight.
Your "I love you" is empty,
Your love is hollow
As a jar
Tonight.

I'm a tight rope walker
Accross telephone wire.
I hear phrases,
Anger,
Love,
Grief,
Happiness,
And they've all bled together.

Our future and our past
Stand as two poles,
More wires than I can count
On my fingers
Webbed between them.
And I'm tangled up in the mess.

There are lies blazing through
The wire around my neck,
Love traveling back and forth
Around my chest,
Happiness
Buzzing around my head,
And fear
Encasing
My stomach.

I'm alone on my tight rope,
I don't know where you are,
All I hear are your words,
Jumbled together
In a rainstorm signals.

Once upon a time,
A flame clear and bright
Fell in love with kindling.

He asked her
To hold him
With her burning arms,
She touched the kindling gently,
And left a black mark
On his chest.

She backed away,
But he grabbed onto her hand,
She watched
In horror
As his fingers went up in smoke.

She didn't want to hurt him,
But he didn't want her to leave.

Now she's watching
The tiny fire
Slowly burning
Up his limbs.
Her own love for him
Orange and dancing in
In the dark
Blackening his
Heart.

The grass was overgrown,
And stubbornly fought
Against the clean sheet we layed
On it.
I made you paint,
And the floating haze in the air
Stung my eyes.

I knew something was wrong,
We all did.
We saw your emotions
Doing backflips
And pirouettes.
We saw your sleep
Running away from you,
We saw the music clouding up
Your thoughts
So they couldn't hurt you.

But none of us knew
How wrong it was.

I took two terra-cotta
Flower pots
In hand,
And declared it a lovely day.
You deemed it dismal.
I waltzed into the yard,
With bottles of bright paint,
And soft brushes.
I made you sit
In the oppressive sunshine,
With insects
Whizzing around our ears
To paint flower pots.

On a long dog walk at midnight,
You finally told me half of the truth.
That you were having problems.

The grass was still lively
And springy,
It was after the drought.
You dribbled paint
In pretty patterns,
And I tried to convince myself
This was good for you.

It was the small early hours
Of the morning,
Lit with fairy lights,
And your humidifier
Puffing in the corner,
That you told me the whole truth.

You had given yourself until September.

Printed an expiration date
On your forehead.
And I wish I could say
In that moment I knew what to do.

It's been a while now,
I'd like to think
I don't have to worry anymore,
But I do.
So in case I should,
I love you.

I love you,
And I promise to never make you
Sit in the sun
And paint again.

The grill is smokey and black
Grease sizzles
And pops
Splashing into my face,
And up my arms
Leaving
A seemingly random
Family
Of blotchy red dots.

My lips have met
Many dangerous things.
Burning beverages,
Men’s bodies,
Even once
A slightly illegal herb.
Tonight it’s candy bars
And cigarettes.

I woke up
In someone else’s life.
I woke up and suddenly
I worked at a disorganized cafe,
I lived in a strange house,
in a strange town.

The grease
Sparks
And hits
Just above my right eye,
I gasp in surprise and pain,
And withdraw my hand,
But the job must be done,
And I’m back at it again.

I puff my cigarette
On a strange front porch,
That I rent
The privilege
Of sitting on.
I consume a favorite chocolate bar,
Which is something I never used to do.
Take deep breaths,
And try to forget
This new life
I fought so hard for.

If I had a coffee shop,
I'd call it The Lullaby.
There'd be sleepy yellow light,
And beer mugs full of
Iced tea.

I'd know all of the town
Gossip,
And hug the people who
Need it.
I'd have sandwiches
For rainy days,
And warm pastries
For snowy days,
And Potato salad
For hot days.

If I had a coffee shop,
Old men would sit at the bar,
Sipping their simple coffees,
And whining about the weather,
And the problems
With their cars.
If I had a coffee shop,
Old women would tell me
My cakes are made
The way their mothers used to
Make them,
And I'd serve them tea
In thriftstore
Missmatch teacups.

I'd fill my little Lullaby,
With work by unknown artists,
And strange trinkets I took
A fancy to,
And have books
About old actors,
And books meant to be
Read in a crowd
So you can imagine
The lives around you.

If I owned a coffee shop,
I'd play songs from musicals,
And garnish things
With mint leaves
And strawberries.
I'd have madalines
And my mother's coffee cake,
And her soup too.

If I had a coffee shop,
Maybe I could meet you.

I don't want to be alone with my thoughts.
I don't want to turn off the light,
And bounce around in my head
With the idea of a future
That you're not in.
But it's there.

I used to see a string,
Long and fleshy,
Reaching through highways
Connecting us together.
But I'm feeling it being sawed
Away
By me.
Though I wonder
If you severed it long ago.

There's cold sweat dripping
Down my forehead,
Down my neck,
Down my back,
I wish it could wash away
Your kisses,
And the craving
For your fingertips.

There's a dull sleepiness
Pounding on my head,
If I'm fatigued enough,
My thinking will get fuzzy,
So you can't let yourself in
Or out.
So I can have you
Without the hurt of you.

I don't want to be alone with my thoughts.

Images of your head on my pillow
Smiling up at me,
While the morning light
Bathed your face,
And you smiled,
What I could've sworn was the most
Real
Smile I'd ever seen,
Are scratching at my eyes.

Lies are toxic.
You can't love someone,
And lie almost as often
As you draw breath,
But I wish you could.
I wish you could,
Because that would mean
You really do love me.

My thoughts are mean right now.
They want to tear at you,
The same way you tore at me.
While wanting to fall asleep with you,
And making it harder to say goodbye.

Don't leave me alone with my thoughts.

Say you love me,
Lie to me for one more night,
And say you love me.

Touch her spine,
Feel the cracks
And the bends.

Breathe her in,
The soft vanilla-earthy smell.

Open her up
And feel her softness
Within her bindings.

She’ll tell you stories,
Trap you in worlds with her words,
Paint a paradise out of paraphrasing
History.

With time
Her precious smooth exterior
Will be cracked aged leather.
But loving attention
Gives her smile lines,
And she’ll never lose
Her seductive allure.

She’ll leave you,
Feeling that you’ve finished
With her,
But you’ll be left lonely
In your own head,
Longing for her
To weave you
More wonders.

She’s a temptress,
She’s a liar,
She’s knowledge,
She’s wisdom,
She’s a universe,
She’s a limitation,
She’s an opinion,
Or a truth.

She’s a book.

It's late at night,
I dully stare at the pink glow
Of my lamp,
There's a draft under my door,
And some sort of funny ache
In my chest.

The lazy afternoon light
From my murky glass window
Bathed your sleepy smile
On my pillow.
Your calloused hands
Ran
Around my stomach
And my back.
My fingers found a birthmark
On your ribs
I had never noticed.
Our noses touched,
And breath mingled.

My neck aches
From nighttime worries,
There's a funny taste in my mouth
From things I never wanted to say.
The ocean is a kaleidoscope of colorful fish,
And all I want to think of is you.

Your frame shivered
In the chill summer breeze
Rolling off of the lake.
Tiny round sheets of stone
Stuck to my damp toes.
You tended the small fire on the beach
While I hung on your arm and every word.
On the car ride home
We sang our hearts out
To old songs about rock and roll,
And the wind blew my hair dry
And into your face.

The old pictures feel like yesterday.
They're a patchwork quilt
Of moments with you.
It's the kind of lonely
In the pit of my belly
That needs to be shaken
With strong drink.
My mouth it etched in a frown.

I tried to cook for us
The night of our Anniversary,
What normally came easy
Made me apprehensive.
And when the meal went to grief
And I was close to tears,
You marveled at the science
Of how it had happened,
And inspected it closely,
Until you got me to laugh.

My jaw is clenched,
And my brow is knit together
Like a stocking,
But my head knows where it belongs.
On your shoulder,
Held in your hand,
Talking about music,
And space,
And past pain.

It was the smallest hours
Of the morning,
Cuddled up on your bed,
When I dared to touch
A long scar on your lower back.
I asked you where it came from,
You said your father
Had hit you so hard
He'd left it.
I was quiet.
My angry, protective whisper
Covered the lump in my throat,
As I promised I would
Never
Hurt you like that.
You said you knew that already,
And you'd never told anyone that story
Before me.

You're waltzing through
My thoughts tonight,
And you always danced so beautifully.
Taking my clumsy movements
Into your stride,
And guiding me across the floor
With gentle steadiness.
You're jump roping my brainwaves,
And caressing my consciousness.

How I miss
Your whiskery kisses.

I smile in pictures now,
My therapist says my face relaxes
When we have a session,
I bought myself
Something I liked,
And I didn't feel bad about it.

I can calm my breathing faster,
I'm not as a afraid to
Go back to work,
Talking to strangers
Is easier.
I'm writing again.

It felt like defeat,
Like I gave up fighting
My own brain,
And that was wrong,
But for now,
Even if it's just for now,
This is okay.

You aren't a failure
If you need help,
It doesn't have to be forever,
Don't be disappointed
In yourself.

Unroll me
Like a bolt of fabric
Inspect the weave of my pores.
I am a tapestry
Of tattoos
Freckles
And scars.

Bottled
Boxed
Shrink wrapped
Flash frozen
Angst
And grunge.
Spray on depth
And emotions,
Advertised
To children.
Individually packaged
Insomnia,
Because something
Needs to be wrong with you
For people to care.

In our pre ripped,
Pre faded jeans,
Music
About drugs
And drink,
Sung
By children
Who've never come close
To either,
At the top of their lungs
Into the night.

Because pain is deep,
Pain is real.

We're dumping paint cans
Full of black paint
Over our heads,
Clumping our hair together,
Covering our sunshine
Yellow bodies.
Just to demonstrate
Some contrast
Against the summer
Blue sky,
So we get to be
A little different.

Sabotage
Sabotage
Sabotage
Sabotage

Marketed,
Advertised,
Sabotage.

Do you feel it in the air?
Family value sized
Self destruction?

And pointing it out
Is pointless,
Because my fake nose piercing,
And brand new
First tattoo
Sting still,
You could say I'm the worst.

It's nights like this
That I remember there's
Tinted glass
Between us.
Our lives
Our worlds
Go through a filter
Before touching each other.

It's nights like this
I rememer that I'm the one
Banging on the glass
And screaming your name,
But either you can't hear me,
Or you
Don't
Want to.

Sometimes you glance up
And I ask myself
'What does that look mean?'
Or I internally shriek
'He actually sees me'

I've spent I don't know how long
At this point,
I've lost track,
Desperately trying
To get your attention.

I want to tell you.

I want to walk miles
And miles
To you,
And yell everything
I've never understood about you
And demand answers.
But that's selfish.

Right now it'd be selfish of me
To voice
What is going wrong,
And that reminds me
How trapped I am.

On the other side
Of tinted glass

My wrists are bound
With an old plastic
Rope,
You're dragging me along
The stoney earth.

My hair is a tangle
Of dead branches
And tall grass.

My arms and legs,
Are cut and scraped
From the dry ground.

My mouth and nose,
Are full of the dusty earth,
And I can't breathe anymore.

My clothes are torn,
My lips cracked
From the unforgiving sun,
My wrists are bleeding.

I don't know whether to struggle
Or lay down,
As you wrench me
Farther,
And
Farther,
From who I am.

So darling,
In the moments
You turn around
And catch me staring at you
Wide eyed,
Know that I’m drinking you up.
Carefully filing everything you do in my memory
So I can pull it out
On lonely walks in the park and down the street,
So I can think of you
On cold nights laying in bed.
Because it won’t last,
But I want to remember
Every second.

Room temperature beer,
Petal pink bra,
Grey sweatpants that should be in the wash.

A sip of beer
And then a deap exhale.

Ink smudging my fingertips.

Two pillows,
One person.

One person,
And a lukewarm beer.

Flick of my wrist
And I'll have you at my feet,
If our fight is a conversation
Between our blades,
Mine is shouting
Yours blaring cowardice and fear.

Faint heart never won fair lady,
And fair lady always wins
Over faint hearts.
I'll slip my sword
Between your smart remarks,
And carve myself a plea.

I'll have you begging for mercy
In the flick of a sentence,
Rhymes have never locked me in,
But my rhythm will rattle your bars,
And knock your knees.

If you're looking to battle me,
I may as well weave you a rope
Of my poetry
To hang yourself on,
Because this is a fight I've already won.
Now excuse me,
I'm going to enjoy my lovely mug of tea.

Does she see her face
In his glasses,
And does he see her as his reflection?

Eventually you stop looking at each other
And start looking at this third person
In your relationship named "Marriage".
They're an unconfident,
Sensitive being,
And they demand a lot of attention.

If he reached his hands out,
Would he reach her?
Or would he be reaching for Marriage?

"I'm trying to fix our marriage."
"I want to fight for our marriage."
"We need to work hard for our marriage."
Like Marriage is some sort of pet
In your dysfunctional relationship.

Marriage is a verb,
Not a noun.
I want to see you all push aside this invisible
Idea,
This pet,
This person,
This thing you put before
Your best friend for life.

Fight for him.
Fight for her.
Don't fight for an illusion,
Live out your vows,
And your actions.
Don't just scream them at each other.

At the end of the day,
Who are you spending time with?
Him?
Her?
or Marriage?

There's a woman
Falling from the sky
Made up of graphite,
Begging me to catch her.

There's young girls
With red ink
Streaked accross their backs
And arms,
Pleading for my help.

This is my world
Of condemned people.

There's lines about
Characters without
Redemption
Asking me what happens next,
Hoping I'll pull them out.

There's a soft world of white
Before me,
I tear at it with my pen,
I scratch trauma
And loathing into its core.

Paper is my world,
I am the god of this
Crumpled up planet.
And a broken god
Makes a broken world.

This world I've made,
You may not understand it,
Be fearful, for I command it.
No one can tell me
What to do here.

You should be more careful
Who you lend
Your ears.
I'll draw lines through you,
And rewrite your future.
Welcome to my paper world.

What am I?
A flamboyant distraction,
A toy,
With bright, eye-catching colors,
And movable parts
To be bent into shapes,
And a body to pose
In stop motion photographs
Only when I'm pretty,
All you,
And I,
Want to see.

Who am I?
A dull solid noise
Silently constant in a room
Unnoticed when gone,
Desperately trying
To be pleasing
To the ear.
I'll go over your head
In a whip crack of your
Sentence,
Or straight to the floor
At your
Feet.

Where am I?
In the cushioned rubber room
Of my own scull.
In the closing trap of my ribs,
In the safest,
Most dangerous place I can be
His touch.

I am,
Painted damage.
A plastic surgeon's jigsaw puzzle
Masterpiece
After a train wreck.
But when the lights are out
You can see the real me,
I am damage,
Failure,
A loss,
A handicap,
Left behind,
Unlov-

NO.
STOP.

I am,
Not your mistakes,
But what I learn from mine.
I am,
Not what or who loves me back,
Or a display of funhouse
Mirrors
In the insane asylum
I built to hide in.

I am,
We are,
Incomplete
Works of art.
With not enough strokes of paint,
With much more wonder to add
To our canvases.
I am the person underneath
The problems I see,
I am a student
Learning
To be
Me.

The flowers were a dizzying kaleidoscope
Of orange,
Red,
Yellow,
And purple,
The wine glasses glittered in the lowlight
Easily distracting my eye,
Tempting my mind into a past memory with candlelight and soft touches.

My father commanded the room.
His voice still makes me feel sick
When I hear the beginning of frustration in it.
I begin to cower inside
Whenever his tone is stressed,
I think of him hitting my mother.
It disgusts me that he prayed a blessing over a brand new marriage.

As we bowed our heads in polite resignation,
And I felt alone again...
Cast away by a father who terrifies me,
And again,
By a lover
Who found me too overwhelming.
I listened to the nightmare of my childhood’s voice drone on,
Addressing God,
And the beautiful flowers and gowns faded away
To lonely darkness.

Then,
Pulling me from a fearful stupor,
My little sister’s hand
Held my own,
we laced our fingers together
Under the pure white table cloth,
Squeezing gently.
The words coming from the lips
Of the man who induced my first trauma,
And the memory of the man I missed so much,
Were cleared from my mind;
And all that remained
Were the words of my sister,
“What do I always say? I love you more than any boy ever could.”

His laugh is impish,
His smile devilish,
He seems to have a secret
Behind his eyes.

Musicians have the best hands
After all.

It feels good to have
His eyes on me.
It feels good to look up
At him
And catch him
Looking at me.

One sided
Sideways glances
Are lonely.
To steal a moment
Of drinking in
A person’s humanity,
Catch the laugh,
The nervous chatter,
The awkward adjustment
To his bracelet,
And find him looking back at me
Makes me feel
Alive and present again.

His brief sigh
As the customers all fan out around the bar
Before he launches
Into his traditional speech,
And see him looking at me
Without the same fallacy,
The same false
Flamboyance,
Is an exhale
After holding your breath
Underwater for too long.

To see his body in the night,
To not have to worry
About who else is seeing it,
To just let it be
An art piece on display
For whoever he welcomes,
Me included,
Is so worry free
And calming.

His silver hair
Catches the lowlight.
My youthful skin
Only just of drinking age
Glowing in the night,
And I know
I shouldn’t look at him
The way I do,
But he looks like life.
Like vibrant
Life,
And I thirst for it.
I want his liveliness
To flow through my veins.
I want to wear his smile
On my neck,
Between my *******,
Or my legs...

“It makes me so mad,
Because you’re giving into the daddy issues stereotype.”

It makes me so satisfied,
To just exist
Without consequence.

There's a place
Growing in the back of
My head.
The bricks are watered
By discomforts and
Depression.
The Windows are
Sprouted
In earth composed of a mixture of
Anxiety and PTSD.

I want a home where
Your shadows
Are as familiar to the walls
As a spouse.
Where you can hide,
But feel like you don't have to.

I want your peels of laughter  
To litter my living room
Floor,
Your smiles to stain
My ceiling fans,
And your tears to fill my kitchen
Sink.

I want a home
Of grace and charity
Where I can protect the broken
And pained.
The image is growing in
The back of my head,
The need is rooted in my skull.
The blasting heat
Of your parent's anger,
Is the sun
For it's photosynthesis.

We can have midnight
Conversations
At the kitchen table,
Where you can
Unscrew the bolts in your
Iron
Armor
And let loose the demons
You've been trapped with,
To burn in our
hot water heater.

There's a place I want for you,
A home cultivated by
Your brother and I,
A loving hideaway
For Grace and Charity.

Golden cheesy pasta,
And golden shining hair.
Comfy clothes and cuddling.
Look at us,
Our family's sinners
Rotten to our cores.

We've got painted toe nails,
And colorful vocabularies.
I got the first tattoo in our
Conservative family,
And you're our first
Real
Live
Gay.

I sit in the sanctuary
Of my religion,
And lay in my bed of sin.
You live in a back country town,
Where all the boys want to
"Turn you straight."

We're a couple of museum
Rejects,
Kicked out of the family
Hall of fame.
But it's okay,
It's okay,
Because Goonies
Never say die.

Dust off your hearts,
And your smiles,
Because you're coming home.

Paint your face
Like a China doll,
And cut yourself out
Of your own life
Like a paper doll.
Brush your matted hair.

Make a ginger bread house
Around yourself
For protection,
It doesn't have to be strong
They won't try too hard
To get in.

Wrap yourself
In a package
With a bow to be
Festive,
So they don't actually have to
Invest in you.

There's no place like home
For the holidays.

Hold me against you
While you
Hold me against you.
Take every hurtful thought
That's ever skipped through
My head and out of my mouth,
And use it as a reason
To hate yourself.
But pull my body
Close to yours,
And let me feel your warmth.

Hold me against you
While you
Hold me against you.

Do you think of all of my
Anxiety induced harmful
Ramblings,
As my fingers trace
Pretty patterns on your skin?
Do you hold me
While you hold my shameful fear
In your ears?

Do you feel me loving you
As you embrace me?
Or are you holding
A hot piece of metal,
Against your bare skin,
Letting it
Sink in,
And sear,
Make your flesh bubble
And smoke?

Do you hold me against you
While you
Hold me against you?

Glass shatters,
Chains clatter,
Sparks spray the air from
Steel on steel.
Your eyes tell me
You're ready to run.

The clash of
Iron on iron
Fear my waving fire,
I'll set your rhymes
Ablaze,
But most of all my child
Beware me,
For I am as
The Bandersnatch.

Don your armor,
Lock your doors,
You dare,
March against I, your terror,
Your fear?
I've become a raging fire
In the night,
And you a field of golden hay.

Shy away from my skill
with the blade,
And try to evade my words,
Crafted with a time seasoned hand.
Be afraid, little one,
Of the fury in my iron verses.
But most of all my child
Beware I, the Bandersnatch!

You paid more attention
To your red letters
Than to the colored words of
Jesus.
I guess accessibility is what it takes
To name our identity.

Mean words were accessible to you,
Easier to come by than scripture.
Already imprinted in your head
From childhood,
No need for memorization
Or word for word quotation,
Or chapter and verse
References.
It didn’t matter who said what.

Cruelty is easy.

Cruelty’s simplicity made it easy
To write your own red letter verses
On your body.
After all,
All you had to do to find the right tool
Was to open a drawer and find a razor blade,
Not leaf through thousands of strangely thin pages
And tiny columned sentences.

So now in this new era
Of adulthood,
I try to make love
Accessible to you,
I try to make it accessible to myself.
No more red letters in pale skin,
Just glowing love
Held in the palms of our hands
Well past midnight,
Made of pixelated letters
Typed by nail-bitten thumbs.

I'm walking on
The yellow line
In the
Middle of the road

A car goes by,
                        Lean
                                     To the
                                                Side
And hope that you don't
Die.

Every time I
Try to
Run to the side
Of
The road
A truck zooms
Past.

Here comes
Two cars
Got to
Time it just right
Lean to the left
Lean to the right
And hope you can
Make it
Pray it
Isn't too
Tight.

Hey
There's a turn
Onto a
Quite road
Try to run
For it
But
           You're
                    Trapped.
                      Lean
                  To
          The
Left
       Lean
                To
                         The
                               Right


I'm walking on the
Border
Of two
Directions
Feeling the sting,
Of rejection
From the one
I
Turn away from,
I will never truly please
any member of my split family,
So take turns
Trying to
**** me.

      Lean                        
To                              
The                                        
Left.                                                  
Lean
             To
                       The
                                  Right

Walking on the yellow
Line.

Among stone walls,
And sunlit lawns
With trees that light glosses,
I am a scenery.

There's a fresh new currency
In the world,
But maybe it isn't so new,
We pay each other attention,
And collect bills
From our needy companions.

I lose myself,
In the chaotic storm
Of the attention economy,
I lose myself,
And become a person
I like to keep in the closed room
I go to therapy in.
There's children's art
Everywhere,
So I fit in,
I'm the sculpture of a man,
Who never grew out
Of jealousy and revenge.

But in a mystical land,
Where our property is made up
Of wit, and hate, and chaotic tendencies,
My other side
Comes out,
As hungry for payment as the next
Person.

I try to explain to myself,
I don't mind,
I'm enough for myself,
But we are creatures
With a herd dynamic,
And I fall into
The pyramid scheme,
That is
The attention economy.