Eleven-years-old should be bold and boyful
Joyful, jelly beans and snow on Christmas
Robert Frost’s birches, swinging on branches
Latching to hopes that have yet to become.

Seventeen should be dreaming, dress-up as grown-up
Growing and grinning and racing the time—
Sprint to the finish, and then look behind
Hours to minutes and seconds to breaths.

But his face had roundness that gave way to edges,
Glittering, forged from the weight of the press
How much can you take away from the boy?
You take and you take until there’s nothing left.

He howled at night, at the stars and the sky
He’d have pulled down the moon, if only he could
And he should, he ought to have clawed down the heavens
For the hole gaping wide, for a god who deserts.

And still, though he trembled, sweat slicking his skin
When he saw you watching, he gave you a grin.
It was tender, titanium, tenacious and thin
And tremulous, breaking apart in the wind.

His fingers pressed into the dirt and the dice
Then he gazed at you, O Fate, like a vise
His heart made of gold but his eyes made of ice
And he told you, O Fate:
“𝑵𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏.”

Today, I cried at a funeral.

But it wasn’t sadness that did it—
Sadness lounged on the horizon
Too distant to touch.

No, it was the
White-hot, scalding of the spotlight
The eyes, the many eyes, the
Hands pressed to mine, stamping in a
“Sorry for your loss.”
A tattoo, or a brand.

And then I felt it, familiar friend:
The tightness rising like bile, wrapping
Its serpentine fingers around my windpipe,
Around my vocal cords,
Squeezing, squeezing, until nothing but a
Whisper
Remained in my chest, my throat,
My lips, my teeth.

Sadness floated in my periphery, like the
Sun, too bright for me to gaze but the
Tightness lingers close enough to murmur
In my ear,
“You should be.”

i imagine you sprawled across your bed
ankles crossed in the air, hair
falling in strands out of your neon
ponytail, bent over some graphic novel
that looks like it’s seen the bottom
of a backpack far too many times.

i imagine you have one of those smiles,
the kind that blooms soft and slow
across your cheeks like a lily, Louyse.

Lily Louyse, i see you upside-down on the
monkeybars, grinning like it all means nothing,
like the fire is long-gone, no smoke in the
air.
not anymore.

but the fire once was, we both know.

it burned your eyes as you shook
body wracked with a million papercuts
a million scars only you could see.
it licked your palms as you
clawed
at the darkness, wishing for some answer
some semblance-of-self.
i see you curled in a ball on the floor
silently begging the world for—
oh, i don’t know.
all I know is i’ve done, felt, screamed
the same.

but i have this strange feeling that
you peeled yourself up and gathered
each scrap ripped like a banned book
and taped yourself together
with shaking fingers.
and then you floated downstairs and
let the television drown out those
stupid, stupid thoughts and
smiled as kate winslet embraced the
sky—“i’m flying!”—
and i have this strange feeling that you will be
okay.

When I was kid,
I’d look up at the sky and wave
At the airplanes passing by,
I’d wave down from an airplane
Hung up high,
I’d wave and think myself seen.
I remember being seven years old and
The hot air balloon operator said
To keep all limbs inside the vehicle
And my parents kept nudging me to the middle–
Safe and nested.
But I didn’t stay there for long, no
I pushed out to the edge, on tiptoes to
Look down at the great big
Everything.
Only half the thrill is fear of falling.
The rest is how it feels to float.

oh, don’t worry, you’ll find them.
you’ll know them by the stitch
in your side, bent over shaking with
laughter,
the day you miss the bin and
the carton sails straight
into some poor, unsuspecting soul.
you’ll know them by their side-eye,
that single-second, inside joke—
hair-braiding, thumb wars,
secrets whispered in the dark.
and one day, a boy will break
your heart but they will roast that boy
like a marshmallow over a fire.
you’ll know them by the
unbreakability
of a pinky promise,
by the knee-****, camera-flash joy.
you’ll know on the nights so late
that even taco bell is closed,
by the three-hundred bad pictures
of you on their phones.
it’s sticky leather seats in the summer,
all mess and love and side-by-side.
and when four years are past,
caps tipped, turned, and tossed
and you’re standing in a football field with
a runny nose and wet-streaked cheeks,
you’ll know them by the way it
aches
to wave goodbye, to go home because
you’re not 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 home at all—
you just left it.

black spores on the mildewed walls
peeling over the wood
rot that even the vultures shun
it grows in cracks and in dark places.

the disease sticks its spiny fingers
down your throat, so you can’t
scream…
silence, silence, it wants
silence.
it wants
absence,
no self left to 𝘣𝘦.

outside, it has been night for years
babes born bawling, not knowing
what stars, moon, sky, sun used to
look like, nothing but the concrete
sea.

and yet, though Purity
has her headstone with the
rest, though there are no longer
prayers
to be blessed
there is good,
there is GOD in this
God-forsaken world,
there is GOOD
there is GOD—
you.

nothing but a scrap
of paper from a make-up catalog
saying,
“Real Flawless™”

but here i am,
unable to stop
thinking
about what it markets to me
what it asks of me
what it stipulates to be
true.

“Real Flawless”

modern day doublethink:
“my body is mine but
Yours
to look at and
Yours
to judge and so i shape it
to the eye that is
Yours—
i am proud though i make myself
small”

“Real Flawless”

mandatory affirmations, prayers more like,
repeat repeat repeat
how much i love myself even
as i consume comparisons
and then calculate the calories.

“Real Flawless”

the only reason
beauty is pain is
because it tears
us in two.