I remember so much that I wish I could forget.  

This is a poem about Psalm 23 choked out through tears.  
This is a poem about astro vans and
                                      tractor lawn mowers and
                                      driveway car washes and
                                      small garden spaces and
                                      digger wasps and
                                      three wolves and a moon.  

This is about the Backstreet Boys and
                              Def Leppard and
                              Kenny Chesney.  
“Dreams” by The Cranberries.

About waterparks and
            swim lessons and
            the smell of chlorine.  
Fresh cut grass.  Bonfire smoke permeating through the house.  

Grey diamond tiles on white linoleum.  
                                                                Hands clenched down on washcloths.

Muddled.  It’s all so muddled.  Stuck beneath
                                                           brain­ matter and cerebrospinal fluid and
                                                              down, down, down beneath the lake.  
How can I dig it out while also digging it down deeper?  
I want to forget it all.  No memory, no pain, no ******* problem.  

Goldfish life: a pipedream.

pressed strawberries into my skin
to have a permanent bite of a younger me
who plucked sweetness from vines under coastal suns
and wore freckles far from faded —
still hot from the burn that drew them

poked asymmetry into my face
dressed it in tiny, shiny silver spheres
like ornaments on a christmas tree mid-january
a sharp contrast to the dying pine that no ones thrown out yet
that no longer carries the same cheery scent

painted orange through these tangled locks
to revive a youth with shortcake hair and not a single qualm
before it all faded to ***** blonde
the cheap dye smelled like nostalgia:
grape otter pops at waterparks in summers

put on colors with turned up saturation
a palette like that one july — before he drained the flush in my cheeks
and made rainbows look like oz before technicolor
all grayscale and dull when i was promised magic
and music and marvel and memories — the good kind

peered at the lightning bolts on my hips and thighs
that i know i should appreciate — how they’re a symbol for growth
how they’re like little paths that lead to a better me
but i can’t help but hate the way they remind me of earthquake aftermath
no one likes to think about that or see that

played around with pretty eyes
needed something to cover what’s broken behind mine
but he couldn't find any value
in trading his clear blue ponds for these sunken
deep polluted seas

so i

pulled what little i had left in me
and put it on my callous skin
salvaged an old scrapbook full of visions
and said i’d turn them into deja vu
a shapeshifter that shook those who followed along

rewriting everything that was wrong

no, I'm not looking for recognition on this road without an end. Lights flash behind my rear view sight, my stomach drops into my gut and I'm afraid. It slowly passes by and the relief drops me into an ocean 3,000 miles deep,

I have these dreams of different memories
sidewalks without ends and a
cranberry taste lingering within
reality doesn't exist because this
isn't real to me
-

justice isn't a word- a fragment broken off our people, the ones we are supposed to trust like storybooks read as we daze off
freedom isn't a word- it's a memory of something that didn't happen
a cold honest truth
of a wish no genie has found the power to grant

if there is such things tell me; where do I find waterparks of pride, or a place called freedom other than that gas station on left maple drive

is this not what we all want?
being mixed in this cycle, having our parents not sign that permission slip;
not have the knowledge of the feigned confidence they led would someday catch them

I put my faith in pinky promises
and astrology apps.
It isn’t our mistakes that first come to mind
when I think of us,
Though they certainly do.
Instead, I remember the French cafe
From where I can no longer bring myself
to buy hot chocolate.
Instead, I remember curling up in a plastic chair,
feeding two quarters to a payphone
dropped them more than once
in my excitement for ten minutes of your time.
From Winter Beach Weddings to
Three months of “missing my calls”
I’m not quite sure how we got here.
High school rock music shook my skull.
I thought my kneecaps would pop off
and leave me sprawled on the auditorium floor.
Her angelic voice made my ears bleed.
A colossal, though unintentional, “*******”.
First heartbreaks are like golden retriever puppies:
They contain infinite stores of energy that somehow manage
to refill themselves after only a few hours’ rest.
Their blonde hair is everywhere.
You are everywhere.
We were like George and Lennie:
“clinging together in the face of loneliness and alienation”.
It was never going to end well.
And I could write (have written)
so many bitter, hurt, apologetic heartbreak poems
a million stanzas that are essentially
paraphrased Waterparks lyrics.
But none of this will change the fact
that I likely won’t receive an Orange-Crush soda
on Valentine’s Day.