This light used to stand on his desk.

I can still smell the vanilla bean candle
And it's fraternal twin
Fresh linen
On his rusty filing cabinet
With a peeling red "Employee terminated"
Sticker
On it's belly.

He had a plastic mat
On the floor
So his rolling chair
Could go from one desk to another,
It was clear plastic
Tinged yellow
From age.
I liked to walk on it with bare feet,
And feel the contrast of the cool
Against the ragged carpet.

His files were always a mess,
Even when I had sorted them out
The day before.
I'm told things were better
Before he started working from home,
but I can't judge
I don't remember.

Words still ring in my head
Caught somewhere in his handle bar
Moustache,
And the landline
With his uniform way
of answering the phone.
And his uniform way
Of screaming.

As I write
By the light
Of his gold painted desk lamp,
Which always gets too hot
If you leave it on long enough,
I can't help but remember.
He never really left this house.
His boxes of memory inducing belongings
Are still at the top of the stairs,
And the seventies linoleum
Is still under my feet
With the shaggy gold carpet.

Divorce
Didn't mean
My father disappeared,
It meant his images,
And his voice
Would be wandering through
Our household appliances
Waiting for us to turn the corner
And see,
And have to start forgetting
All
Over
Again.

His Face is woven into
My DNA,
And I'm woven into
A string of lost jobs,
And a wife he didn't love.
And I don't like him
Existing in my new life,
But he dances his way
Through each line I write,
Like a last *******
To the daughter who wouldn't listen.

I wonder if you ever forget
The blood that didn't want you.
Because I haven't forgotten yet

Even if I've mentally buried you,
And left your carcass to rot
In the past years,
You still come back
In late night lights.

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.

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.

Climbing

D
O
W
N

A rope
an ancient plastic
rope

Tiny pieces come off
stick to your hands
to your fingers
and your palms
they itch

Makes a
scratchy
scritchy
noise
rubbing against your jeans
as you
slide

D
O
W
N

here and there
there's a knot
stop and rest
sit
for a second
not the best
but it's all you've got,
start climbing again
You can't stay there
forever.

Lose your grip
slide

D
O
W
N

Too fast
your hands burn
red
so do your legs,
your cheek scrapes against
the rope
it feels like it's on fire.

Brace yourself
for more pain
squeeze
your fingers tight
so you can slow
you scream
in agony
but you've stopped.

You reached
another knot
look down at your hands
and bite your lip
hard
******,
salty,
taste.
One by one
little blisters
newly forming
dotted
across
your palms
throbbing.

Continue
your
journey

C
L
I
M
B
I
N
G

D
O
W
N

A

R
O
P
E

Staying up all night
traveling
is normal now
you've learned to ignore
fatigue

You don't even look

D
O
W
N

Anymore

You've accepted this
as your life
Never ending
Pull of gravity
Calling you to
It

You notice you've hit
A knot again
You sit
But something feels
Odd
You glance down for
The first time in months
Startled by what
Greets you

Below you
Is a hangman's noose

So you've reached
The end of your rope.

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.

I've seen traces of you,
Perhaps smelt a hint of your
Perfume...
Seen your curling
Handwriting,
Other woman.

Did you see the startling red
Of our front door?
The crumbling plaster
Of the walls climbing next to the stairs?
Did you partake of the lingering smell
Of my mother's baking?
Did you feel the bright purple
Cotton sheets
On my parent's bed?

What did he tell you,
Other woman?
That he couldn't leave because
Of his kids?
That he'd marry you if he could?
Did you dream of being our
Mother,
Other
Woman?

Your finger prints
Are somewhere here.
Your ghost is woven into
The carpet,
I bet I could find it
If I wanted to...

Other woman,
I'm sorry he lied to you.

I want to
Sink beneath
The floor boards
Into the world of lost things,
And have tea with fanciful
Hopes
And their finery,
Of golden stitched silk
Purple Table cloths,
And tea sets as silver as
Someone's lost love's
Eyes.

Then I'll dine with a few dreams,
Perhaps I'll run into a couple of mine,
And we'll sit and converse
About old times.
I'll walk the streets
And gaze at miss-match
Barbie shoes,
Lego pieces,
And pocket knives,
Even several pieces of candy,
And earrings
Divorced from their partners.

I'll sit amongst melodies
On the bus
That musicians had fall
From their thoughts,
Playing all at once over the years
They've fallen in sink
With one another.
I do wonder what the great composers
Would say about such a symphony,
At first I did not enjoy it,
But as the bus ride carried on
Toward 'lost change lane'
I began to find them rather pleasing.

Pennies and nickels
Do bore you
After a while,
So I proceeded
To where the missing stories
Gathered.
Each would try and approach you,
Then spew out a bit of a story and
Stop mid sentence,
Such as,
"She ran as fast as she could
From one door to another,
Opening each in turn and slamming them
Closed.
A perplexing face..."
Or
"I wonder if I shall be the villain
Of my own story...
Or if I shall play no part at all,
But I should think I will at..."
And so on.

I strolled on
To lost memories
Which all seemed fuzzy,
So I walked on
And
Let me tell you,
The land of missing teeth
Goes on for eternity,
And miss placed time,
Longer still.

I think I should be content
To stay with the lost things
Forever,
For
Somehow I feel
I belong.

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.

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.

"There's a lot of stories
In every cigarette.
A lot of stories in
The one
Stained with my
Lipstick.
A lot of reasons
For the smoke making
Curly pictures
In my lungs.

"I'm smoking
a childhood,
Rolled in
Domestic violence
Court case
Papers,
And I'm drinking
Hope
For a future
I let go of
Years ago.

"The bags under
My eyes
Are packed with
Late nights of worry,
For my high school
Sweetheart's
Troubled adolescence,
And struggle for recovery.
I couldn't even
Fully close them.

"The slouch in my
Shoulders,
Is from giving up
The fight,
For a better life,
A better me,
It's made from
Acceptance of my
Lowly state,
And self pity.

"The tobacco scent,
Combined with
Other things...
Between my pointer
And middle
Fingers,
Is made of
Many meetings,
And hugs,
From family who
Didn't
Love
Me.

"Who am I?
Look at me.
I am possibility.
The eulogy for your
Battered youth,
And the future
You could have had.
I'm you,
If you let go."

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.

Two brothers
Side by side,
One shining like the sun,
One hauntingly, glowing
Like the moon.

Resentment could've boiled up,
Seeing the extra love
Extended to the elder,
There could've been
Hatred,
And distrust,
But there are two brothers
Bound in love.
Despite their parents wanting
Another
Sun.

I loathe
Watching it happen,
The obvious
Favoritism
Pounds in my veins,
When I'm tangling
My fingers with his,
How could
Someone not love the moon
As I do?

I'll stroke his cheek,
And breathe in
The aching thoughts
In his head,
Until the day is done
And he can shine.

And I will love
With all I am,
The other son.

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.