I remember the way you were always there for me when I needed you, and I feel now the striking void left in my heart by your absence; in my darkest hours, you were my light, my beacon, the one constant I could count on—

—like the North Star. You sent me a necklace once because it was labeled a North Star, and you misremembered that it was my favorite— I don’t exactly have a favorite star, I’d said with a smile, I was talking about the hockey team: the North Stars.

And I didn’t have a favorite star, not until you died and all I had left of you was that star around my neck, and my tears left an ocean at my feet— and here, now, as my scars read lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate, as I face midnight, I lift wet eyes to the night sky and I hold my breath and I know you’re still here—

—because the stars are bright tonight.

today, in a public restroom,
i give birth

to the only fruit
my womb will ever produce:
a sanguine child, shredded and torn,
shapeless and faceless and lifeless.

the thick black ink of "god's plan"
mocks me from between my own thighs.
i stare blankly at the gray doors
as i hear the cries of the child
whose diaper is being changed outside.
i wonder: is she a good mother?
will that child grow up with bruises,
on his heart, on his face?

i am told, time after time,
to trust god, benevolent god,
and i can only grit my teeth--

for god so loved this child
that he forbade me to have my own.

this morning, i could not get one breath in edgewise
as she stuck her nose in the air and told me condescendingly
how parroted prayer and mass-market worship got her closer to god

and i had to clench my teeth
to refrain from telling her
i prefer the nine inch nails version of
that.

I never understood why
girls cried over boys
until razor blades took
my best friend away
from me.
I drove around
then I bought one
of those energy drinks you hate
and every time
I thought about dying
I took a drink
but it was half empty
before I made it off my street.
So I ran until I couldn't breathe
and then I ran until
I collapsed on my knees
but I got up and somehow
I made it home and
now I'm washing
you out of my hair,
trying to find you,
are you in my veins?
Or should I carve into my lungs?
You have to be somewhere,
I can't live without you.
I think I understand now.

I doubt anyone knows
that my calloused fingers
are raw in their translucence
beneath the scars;

that the pomegranate and magnolia you wear
are in my veins like my very blood;

that your pulse was all that remained
when they stripped the rest of me away,

and that the melting point of steel
is 98.6 degrees.

The bog in my arm pits and my oily complexion are subtle reminders.

I step over three-day-old dog ****, pick up my guitar, play three chords then put it down.

Sit down at my computer.  Watch **** for hours.

Futile.

New idea. Watch television.

Click the channel button a few hundred times and then some.

Finally, a scenario worth watching. A fragile, old man with shaky hands offering his wallet, pressed against a brick wall with a gun to his face, begging and pleading for his life. Without hesitation the petty thief shoots the poor ******* right between the eyes, killing him instantly and escaping with the wallet.

I start to imagine what it would be like to have that pistol in my face, threatened for my life. I couldn't be so **** lucky. However earlier today I did find a quarter with heads facing up...

I reach for my wallet and head out the door.