Mom is sweet,
only likes candles that
smell good enough
to cause cavities.
I make sure to get her one
every year.
Become supplier when
her warm vanilla sugar habit
burns down the last wick.
She says it makes the house
smell home.
Turns bitter taste of argument
into something she can swallow,
wants to be able to inhale love.
Says that when candle smoke
feels more like a lover's arms
than your actual lover's arms
there's something about her that
burns out too.
When warm vanilla sugar//mom
cries
she melts.
Divorce making the cavities
in her mouth rot
faster than she can burn out
this flame. Her bedroom
the wick and my father spitting lighter fluid
while swearing he loves her.
I'm sure he does
but this wildfire of a marriage
cannot be contained in this house.
Needs to branch out,
call in reinforcements.
My policeman of a father
was never a trained fireman,
can only call in a blaze when he sees it.
So I stood by and watched while
their marriage burned
but never kept the house warm.
Now I cannot light a candle
without feeling loss. The memory
of my parents slow dancing
at my aunt's wedding
sits shot gun in my car.
It's the four lighters I carry
around with me at once.
It smells like ash.
But my mom says she'll buy
me a candle for christmas,
one that smells like family dinners,
one that smells like coming home
to both parents.
She says I can burn it in my new bedroom,
says we don't have to live in
the memory of a house,
can live in the parts of us
that go home for the holidays.
The parts that smell like
warm vanilla sugar,
a lover's arms,
a wedding's slow dance.
And maybe one day
every day can smell like that
too.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
I am not
tall
not jack and the
giant growth spurt,
been small bean
tiny roots my
whole life.
I am
adult child
tippy toes to kiss
those who turn
their cheek every time.
I am not
sunny enough for
anyone to live off me.
I am
9:30 pm
blacked out drunk
photo in front of
my universities chapel
because i never remember
when i find god
or if i ever
really did.
i am
that last bit of
cough syrup you saved
for the day you
got better,
the autosave
on google drive
before your laptop ***** you
and crashes in the middle
of your midterm paper.
I try my hardest
to make you better,
keep you intact,
but i can’t change
why you needed me
in the first place.
I am not
made right,
cookie crumbles
instead of melt in your
mouth
i am hard
to swallow.
151 christening
the back of my throat
while you whimper
after one shot of
strawberry lemonade svedka.
That’s sangria to me, that’s
water
to me.
I promise you
I will teach you how
to chug,
how to make wince
look like wink
look like smooth
waterfall thunder
crashing into gut
as long as you
are willing to open throat.
I am not
batten-down-the-hatches
outdoor basement lock
i am
panic room
all the food and drink
you need in me
i am plentiful
i am enough
sometimes
i am too much
i am the
over drinker the
too ****** the
too much fight
too much love
not enough balance
i am
clumsy
not enough equilibrium
between my ears
maybe that’s why i am
queen of miscommunication
queen of misunderstandings
queen of “can you
say that again? i
didn’t quite hear you.
I am drowning
through waves of
something that looks a lot
like water but it
burns good enough to
quench”
I am
********* disguised as
train wreck
i needed an excuse
to be in the hospital
just to check out
of life for a few days,
lay in bed for a few days
feel too small
to go to work for a few days
because i am
tired of having to act big
seem tall
when i am
small bean
tiny roots
have been my whole life.
But i am
starting somewhere
i am growing
going somewhere
i am
just waiting for
the next rainfall
to wash away these
pesticides.
I am waiting
for the day i become
balanced and
i can stand up without
bumping into some
other clumsy part of me,
i can look at her
and ask her why she’s still
here because
i am
here now.
i am
plentiful
I am
enough.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
I slid down a hill
on nothing but a tarp and hose water
in the middle hick town new york
with a family i didn’t even know
because my best friend thought we would have fun.
We did.
But the next day we got so high
we thought we could make dub step from our mouths.
When we tried it sober
it sounded nothing like dub step.
Just kind of like a beat up basement home
and not enough people for a party.
Kind of like the soft music you play after a panic attack,
everything sounds so
forced.
This one time,
I kissed a girl so hard on the mouth
that she took a step back and just said
”…thank you.”
I have no idea what she was thanking me for,
but i learned to thank her body
in more ways than just prayer.
She sounded like an orchestra,
Bach or back but god ******
if she didn’t leave scratches on everything instrument.
One time,
I got thrown into a mosh pit
and some big dude carried me out
and punched the person who pushed me in
so hard in the face that i swear
i saw his mothers veins give out.
It was like an amtrak railway collision,
fist and apology, metal and music,
the kind of rock you get stuck in-between
next to that hard place.
One time,
I slid into my best friend
because we thought we would have fun.
We did.
She had to take a step back
and said nothing but Thank You.
A broken body prayer healed
with blankets like tarp, claiming her my new york.
It was like being thrown into a mosh pit
but there wasn’t anyone there to carry me out
because it wasn’t an accident.
Just a mistake.
Now we don’t talk and last night
I got so high that I tried to make music from my mouth,
replay her symphony, echo it
in my beat up basement of a chest.
The hollow wind chime of organs or intestines,
ragged breathing from the smoke
she snake charmed down my throat.
She was so smooth. Soft.
Kind of like the music you play
after a panic attack,
everything feels so
forced.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
Last week I got a call from
one of my friends. He sounded
scared, like he just got caught
5 yr old with hands in cookie jar.
He said, “I gotta tell you something,
gotta get rid of some weight off
this heavy burdened chest. Will
you listen?” So of course I told
him to hand me his hurt.
But when he told me that his
cookie jar
was a sorority girl with too much
liquor and not enough consent,
that his hands took dessert before
dinner, I had to tell him
to take his hurt back.
I couldn’t stop seeing the small boy
from a big town who’s hands
shook at the thought of talking
to strangers. How ironic it was
that no part of him trembled when
he spoke that night because she
couldn’t hear him.
I though of his midwife mother
and how devastated she’d be
to know her son is now building
graveyards in the bodies of
drunk women, how she may be
the one to have to remove this
tombstone.
I thought of the times
i’ve been decimals away from
unconscious in his dorm room.
How party
turned blackout
and I wonder if his hands
stopped trembling then too.
I wonder if he thought
of becoming the 3rd man
to make me his midnight snack.
He came to me to find solace
but instead he found me repeating
the word “no”
because he needed to hear it
because no one taught him that
blackout meant “no”
that if you can move their limbs like
jello, that is not ***
that is a puppet show and you are
just controlling the strings.
No —> Adverb; used to express
negation, denial, or refusal.
Example: No, I’m not going.
Example: No, don’t touch me,
Example: No, I don’t want this.
Example: No, she didn’t want this
but you gave it to her anyway.
How do I tell someone who has
lifted me up from my depths
to take this weight on his chest
and let it crush him.
Gyles Corey yelling “more weight”
as we press boulders on his sternum,
bone-crushing pressure.
Maybe then he will finally
understand “no”.
Two weeks ago, I got a call
from a friend. But last week
I got a call from a ****** who still
wanted to be called my friend.
Who has seen me shattered bottle
over my own cemetery of a body
and still wanted to be called
my friend.
But yesterday, I deleted a contact
from my phone book,
told my parents not to answer
if he knocks, but to be careful
because he may try to enter anyway.
Just so they know
that they have other hands to worry about
besides my own
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
Baby ever since you left,
i couldn’t be
happier.
i’ve felt compelled
to shout to strangers
how easily i fell out of love with you.
Baby i’ve been fine.
and i mean the
shower-singing,
curtain-opening,
chinese-food-because-it’s-fucking-delicious
-not-because-i’m-depressed fine.
Speaking of which,
ever since you left baby,
i started eating again.
Not because i’m trying to
fill up this space but because
you stopped demanding so much of it.
I wanted to be skin
and bones for you,
expose every inch of my
flesh-tight ribcage, laying out
the pieces of me like showing you
all of my cards.
But you taught me the meaning
of a good bluff. Always pokerface,
always blank stare and
hoping i translate that as “i love you”
instead of “i’ve got more cards than you think.”
Baby you left me elbow deep in my
red dye 40 spill of a dorm room shower,
grabbing a mop
instead of stitches.
You’ve never been one to get
blood on your own hands. Baby,
baby ever since you left
i’ve had wind chimes in my bed springs,
i’ve never heard music
begging me to get out of bed before.
Brass wind instruments
making symphony of my footsteps,
creating keyboard music sheets
with each imprint.
Baby, i feel good.
Feel like that first paycheck
after a month of drought,
drinking in all of my wealth.
Ever since you left
i’ve been rich, the
juicy bite of a fresh picked apple,
the sweet lick of warm brownie
that needs milk to keep the taste from
owning you.
The whiskey glasses that kiss
the red back into my cheeks,
now that you’re gone baby
that
no longer owns me.
I can doll myself up rosacea
without having to put
a decimal point at the bottom
of my cup. Getting sober
has never felt like holding my own hand.
But baby ever since you left,
getting sober feels like my own hand,
letting go of
lipstick stained bourbon glasses
and picking up the
fingertips to the rest of my life.
it feels like nail polish
dipped in tomorrow
i have no other choice than
to keep painting myself into the picture.
and i am not sorry,
baby,
but with each brush stroke of my future,
i keep blurring you out,
making you unrecognizable.
baby, the next time you see me
i will be singing good mornings
from the soles of my shoes,
standing spinal cord straight
with a full stomach
of proud. and i will eat,
and you will wonder
how such a masterpiece
could fit onto my finger beds.
and i will wear my sobriety
like a promise ring
instead of handcuffs.
baby ever since you left
i couldn’t be happier,
even the strangers know
i will be fine.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
do not call me tweaking off of some back alley coke asking me where i’ve been all night. i’ve been trying to mix the messages you’ve been sending me into some cheap low-tolerance whiskey and coke. Slurring you into existence. i’ve been struggling to tell the difference between “i’m so high, i love you” and “i’m so high i love you”. You begged me to come take care of you, so you could hand over your burdens, place that white powder in my finger tips telling me “it’s not so bad, just take a hit”
Dear boy,
when you crashed your car at 2 am because the ***** in your blood stream got so tired that it needed a place to rest, i drove four hours to pick up your ****** dress shirt only to wash it and you never asked for it back. It hangs in my closet like the last memory i have of us in that restaurant on carry street. we ate dinner and you were picking my bruises out of your teeth, asking me “hey, did i get it all out? i still feel like there’s something in there” i tell you, no, there's nothing left of me. Your broken jawed apologies barely have enough force to break skin. I guess i’ve always been the brave one in that way.
Dear boy,
when i have to beg you to look both ways before crossing the street, please just tell me that you’ll make it home safe.
Dear boy,
when we were talking about the different kinds of slang in our states, you told me mid sentence that you missed me and i had to look that up just in case that was some kind of slang i had never heard of. So I told you that i loved you, because i’m sure you had never heard that either.
Dear boy,
i love you.
Dear boy,
I’m so high i love you. I wore your shirt to bed last night. I think that’s why I woke up early morning afraid of the street lights.
Dear boy,
you are probably stumbling through someone else’s doorstep right now, begging for them to take care of you because that’s what you think love is. And i’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Love isn’t so bad, just, take the hit.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
Bill Wilson sat down for his 10th
and 11th drinks tonight,
drowning out World War I
with shots of top shelf
bullets.
Pulling the trigger on his own body,
satiating the burning in his gut.
He almost forgot what a
sober night
tasted like.
This kind of alcoholism takes
patience, practice makes perfect.
Months of one drink as too many,
and one hundred as not enough.
Written off as a man destined to die,
Bill downed bottle after bottle,
leaving the shelves heaving for
company, wonder how he drank himself
solitude, empty?
Or was he full gut war,
bodies stacked to his brim,
leaking post-traumatic stress into
everything he touched.
Each ****** drink a reminder
of too many sober deaths he caused,
each granite countertop
the cold touch of tombstone, the silent
wish for his own, not sure when he started dying
but determined to make this pub
his own battle field. Metal of honor turned
Jack Daniel’s bottle top, wearing it noose
hoping it won’t slip off, needing to
cap his own demons.
This kind of alcoholism takes
steps, 12 to be exact.
Bill created AA for people just like him,
Each meeting pouring out
unquenchable thirst, trigger warning written
inside the door next to the exit sign.
Trigger warning: real life
Trigger warning: you’ll wish fire hydrants were taps.
Trigger warning: communion wine looks devils blood,
looks so good.
Trigger warning: the small girl who wrote this
is shaking from withdrawal right now.
The creases of her palms ache in absence,
in remembering what sobriety tastes like.
5 days sober and her mouth waters
at liquid death, her own southern comfort.
She is daydreaming of the three years
she spent intoxicated, sitting down for her
10th and 11th drinks of the night.
Her expertise in lower-spine life
has recovery seem dishonorable discharge
with no health benefits.
Seem loaded gun, cocked in mouth,
brain matter saying brain doesn’t matter,
saying swim in the trenches of this
World War between Russian *****
and German schnapps. Would take this
over the war in her own head.
This kind of alcoholism takes
patience, takes steps,
practice makes perfect.
Bill Wilson made AA for the nights
I would drive by the meetings on purpose,
trying to trick myself into entering.
Bill Wilson taught me that the need
for liquor is laying dormant in my bones,
a monster who i know is only sleeping,
waiting to make me eternal dirt nap.
And i am just
so god ****** exhausted.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
Last night I was
experimenting empty body with twin bottle.
Spewing colors out of mouth,
like it's a god **** celebration.
Whispering "happy birthday"
for every friend I've had to put in the ground.
Whispering "happy birthday"
for every time I've wished I was one of them.
I was mumbling existence
until I became unconscious scientist,
collecting data,
hoping if i continue to announce births
that we'll all be born back to flesh
that feels like home, that sings
like porch light wind chimes
that stops the announcements of deaths.
Or at least, strings together
those who want to cut their ties.
Happy birthday.
Research shows my edges
were strung a little too tight,
holding needle in hand,
i plucked away the stitching
until I was all unraveled, stay spilling over
at the seam. Everything seems low.
6 feet under, making poppy flowers
out of freshly turned graves. Happy birthday.
My vice is bath tub overflowing with drunk bodies,
leaking love into the crevices of laughter.
Testing out the theory that arms
can be used as medicine.
Turning experimental phases
into investigations. You know,
people can be placebos too.
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
i. Metal cannot protect you. Car frames can distort just as much as bodies when heavier things get placed on them. Maybe the pole splitting your car in two is some kind of metaphor for the way you keep driving into your thoughts head on and they never seem to budge, only you do. You will twist and break open just to accommodate the sturdy burden of yourself.
ii. Locked doors sometimes keep out the ones who are trying to help you. I know they always tell you that it’s safer to be selective of who you let in, but when you can’t reach the door handle, not everyone will have a crowbar to pry your locked doors open. Sometimes, they have to wait for someone stronger, someone better equipped to deal with what you have to offer. Sometimes, they just keep driving.
iii. Seat belts are necessary. Some days, people stop without warning, break lights broken to test your reaction time. Only, I don’t think anyone has ever had that fast of feet. Maybe you should start taking walks.
iv. Checking 6 times for cars before you drive through an intersection can become a ritual. You would prefer the sound of impatient car horns behind you than be made a memory, made black tire tracks and pieces of glass right before the point of safety, made the definition of almost – the type of grave that you can’t keep visiting at after a while. Is that why you stopped coming over? Did my tombstone body pull the click of your trigger and turn you into lowered eyes and choked laughs?
v. Even if it’s not your fault, the other person will not hesitate to put the blame on you to save themselves the trouble. The cost of both your repairs is detrimental to their wallet, and they would rather watch you scramble to pick up all the pieces of their own apologies to make it seem like you’re forming your own. But don’t not be tempted to put them back together if you don’t have the money for it and they are undeserving. Never suffer more than you have to.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
Chinaski licked his tongue over the opening of the whiskey bottle, knowing that it wouldn't stop me but he knew it would delay the use for someone else. He kept repeating his poem "she is dark. she is dark. she is reading about god. i am god." and the whiskey label suddenly turned into a lullaby, the only thing able to keep me under water and i heard it with blurry vision. she is dark. i am dark. i am reading about god. he is god. he is blood alcohol content whispering numbers too high for decimals, hoping i'd be my whole self tonight. waking up fractions of a second too close to consistent unconscious, wondering if i could even make it home with muscles meant for the sea floor. I have no legs when i am around him, and He as in Liquor, as in The Only Thing Keeping Me Up Right, The Only Thing Keeping Me Above Ground. I am sinking, slipping under waves crashing over my lungs like the wrong pipe. But he promises he's got the right one, Chinaski blowing O's over my bed frame. He is dark. I am dark. We are reading about God. He is God. Asking where is God? We are sullen prayer folding over the pew, removing shoes to show how raw we are, or are we removing soul? I've got no time to play in the second coming, Chinaski drowning himself in women promising their second coming, I've never admired him. Or Him, making hymn out of moans, telling everyone i am dark. i am dark. i should be reading about god, he is god. I never knew god. I don't know how to read a book considered fiction, running my tongue up the necks of the sacrilegious whimpering out Christ's name like he will know how to sacrifice the hands that tame the unholy. I pray he will learn to split time or bible, explaining truth from love. Chinaski never loved more than once, and that was with the glass in his hand and full gut of scotch. I am dark. I am Chinaski. I am reading about God. He is God.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:40 PM UTC