of the tongue
               and body
           as it beats
              the demons
                 of my own silence to a gentle hum –
  a drunk laced
   representation
    of what the watching eyes
                                        desire,
            ­                            crave,
                              ­          emulate
                                          in their sacred spaces –
      center stage
     with every performer
         abroad this conditioned
               disillusion –
     how it masks
      all the confusion
       for those that
         jumped in early –
   the lights
    look so friendly
   when you need them,
      but it's you
        who feeds
            them –
          and you die
    without knowing it,
                 you cry
    without showing it –
    mourn, in distractions,
      what could have been;
      what could have been
          if you didn't have
             to keep on
                       searching –

    the pen marks
   rely on the same security,
       lost in its
        contrived purity –

           the light is blinding,
            but it keeps us from
  rewinding,
  reminding
    our hearts of the pain
    or the game,
all the same –

wanting too much
for no good reason -

Let me be a child once more
as I uncoil this scratchy length of rope
and fashion it into the likeness of a lasso
that ensnares the necks of imaginary villains.

Allow me this one moment
of childhood as I scale this tree
reliving dusty memories
of skinned palms
and bad falls
placed in family storage.

Can we play make believe,
perched atop this mossy branch;
legs swinging beneath us?
I want to pretend
this is an execution.

It’s a struggle to fit the
loop over my head then
tighten the knot near my pulse.
I tie off the other end
*****, black toothed smiles
grinning underneath my nails.

Do you have any last words?
Yes, but they will be written
and safety pinned to my shirt.

Deep breaths, steady nerves, steely guts.
The familiar lurch in my stomach
from free fall rises in my diaphragm.
A snap, an involuntary spasm
and then the rediscovery
of blissful, childish ignorance.

Prep me for surgery.
I don’t know what’s happening.
This is an emergency.
A medical mystery.
Here’s my consent in writing.
My heart is gone, picked up and left.
Find me a new one.
Then sew it in my chest.

I am the Tin Man.
Colored hearts on my sleeve.
Drinking from an oil can.
Empty as can be.
With a map of misguided direction.
And the burning of my isolation.
I am the Tin Man.
Broken like you see.

I no longer have the heart to love.
Of course you refused and denied.
Wanting the things I couldn’t give.
You kicked me to the curbside.
How sad it must be.
Being the name no one will miss.
But I’ll mark you down on my list.
Even if it hurts to reminisce.

My joints are rusted through.
The hinges scream and grind.
Damage was all we really knew.
Tearing through body and mind.
The things that were stolen.
We now must replace.
At the bottom of the stairs.
And in the lines we erased.

Put me back together.
Give me back my skin.
I’d rather die from a broken heart.
Than live as a piece of tin.
Send a pulse to the vein.
Tune the drum at my core.
I am not an empty frame.
The Tin Man is no more.

I think I'm finally ready to shed off my old skin

I think I'm ready to remove the bruises from my heart and the scars in my mind from the memories that were tattooed there almost permanently

I think I can finally look at a warm day and smile, because I don't have to see you every day

And I don't have to see any of my mistakes anymore, for they all have gone

I am ready to open my heart and marry the pavement outside my door, kissed by the lips of the sun that didn't shine during our harsh winter

I am ready to dedicate myself to a single airplane and fly far away from here, to divorce old feelings and date new ones

I am ready to stop sulking over any of them, because they do not sulk over me, and I'll be ****** if I let them ruin my summer.