the sky pulls its downy clouds
eastbound, up to her horizon,
for the spring is cold and
she is resting.

the sky, as cool as ice,
filters through the feathers,
hints of her just beyond
her night-darkened blanket.

Dead rose stems,
papercuts from love letters,
and discarded gold

Grayscale summer memories,
the chill of a touch once warm,
and waterlogged eyelashes.

Yelling, screaming, LONGING--
voices with the chalky grit of sandpaper,
spitting leaden insults.


This is the end of love.

You call me bitter.

Yes, I am bitter.

Why wouldn’t I be?

The taste of your

failure on my tongue

burns from how you

taught us that our

creativity tastes of cough

syrup and fear and

that failure tastes of

our very own blood.


You call me restless.

Yes, I am restless.

How couldn’t I be?

I dance to the

exhaustive rhythm of discovering

that I identify with

test scores and not

by the rhythm that

stirred me from my

forceful and deafening education.

Scream into the
starless, polluted sky--
she won't forgive you.

Like banshees,
we shred our voices
with our horrid cries,
hoping to be heard.

So rip apart the skylights above and
shred the asphalt below
so that our mother might hear us.

Hear what?
                           our terrible
                                                apology.

I stole the words from her throat
the ideas of a
far more brilliant
far more innocent
far more gentle                  
        
mind -- the shattered memory.
The polite inquiry of someone with
a recollection of broken glass,
gathering the shards in hope
of recalling that
passing
        
brilliance--something she's told to be;
smart
smart nice smart nerdy smart gentle smart
violently capable smart
tearing at the seams smart
not knowing who she is besides

smart--whip shot fast
got through high school but
but what now, she just
justifies jammed memories
with things she used to do.

I am uncertain of my body,
how strong it is, how little it appears that way
having hurled itself into danger several times
and coming out only with a few hand scars
see its muscle
see its fat, unneeded storage,
look and don't touch, please.

The soft thrumming of my heart
in my throat shows how strong it is,
sneaking its way up
to where it shouldn't be
see its battle scars
see its healing wounds--
still festering, a little raw.
look and don't touch, please.

I've got a strong jaw and a chin
with an irritated red galaxy on it,
an odd contradiction between
soft and hard--
see the constellation in my scarring,
a rude connect the dots you shouldn't be playing,
look and don't touch, please.

I look out from hazel glass,
flecked with hidden gold foil
you see if you stare long enough,
but staring would be rude--
see the one way mirror,
so that you stare at you and not me,
look and don't touch, please.

My fingers are long and spindly,
artist's hands,
the webbing in between makes them seem smaller--
see the raised marks,
see the wearing nailpolish,
my hands are an artist's hands too.
look and don't touch, please.

Where is yesterday?
He is young, he is small, he wishes the world had more secrets
so the world supplies them all.

When is tomorrow?
He continues; I stifle laughter through smiles as I haven’t answered his first question,
yet he has already paraded forward.

How big is the sky?
I tell him it’s infinite, that it’s as deeply blue as the sea is deep,
and that, any day of the week, he could wish to soar through it-...

Can I make my wishes come true?
I pause, for I want to say yes, want to see his eyes light up like fireworks, want to feel his joy,
but for this, I must say no.

… Can you answer all of my questions?
He is curious, careful, cautiously dancing around the idea that I don’t know it all;
I eventually find my way to say, “No, but one day you will answer them all."