i made you
turn the doorknob for me
me
me with hands full of squishy pumpkin guts
wash them clean to get them messy
again
sculpting a friendship out of a fractured romance
you, with your broken shovel still planted in my backyard
sliding your hands over me, no friction
like a pool stick in between our chalky fingers
the thunder of knocking down bowling pins
sounds like atom bombs in an empty arcade room

how dare you

the story of the mechanic's hands that only knew how to break things
starts small and quiet


a feverish night in june
reaching out for the first time
in balled up fists
then palms opened to the world
in demand

then, pressing into linoleum
then, gripping the handlebars of a bicycle
then, wrapped around yellow number 2 pencils illuminated by fluorescent light bouncing off white brick walls

then, for many years, nothing but the cold metal of a rusty wrench

i said, i like your filth
teach me how to be grimey
you're only allowed to touch me with dirt underneath your fingernails
i said, i'm young but i know what it's like to be covered in black grease


these hands have touched many
held onto some
left none clean and pure, or easy on the eyes
in their calloused glory, lifting the pleated skirts
two parts of a whole that's only purpose was to destroy

i wonder in the time i have spent
hands under sink
body in bubble baths
fingers down my throat
purging a gasoline stained, black grease, mangled-with-wrenches childhood

were the mechanic's hands pressed together in prayer

did they ever get scrubbed clean?

i wish i had figured out earlier
that it was not my secret to keep

you could tell me anything
tell me that you love it
or you can't stomach it
it won't make a difference now
as my imagination is gluing feathers to
anything and trying to call it an
angel

sometimes i want to find you
and tell you everything since the last time we talked
sometimes i just want to clean my room
sometimes the clock turns 11:11 and
i
wish
that i could paint you in those feathers
that i could grab the knife by the handle instead of the blade
that i believed the witness stand unspoken apologies
that i never made it out of you alive

26 years is a long time
i can't tell if i love it
or can't stomach it

i want to know
who is more sorry
out of the two scared voices in the microphone, echoing through the court room

your lawyer clicks his pen
i don't know what to do with my hands
or my words
when they ask me how it feels to be a victim of the man sitting in front of me
man with rottweiler grin
man with my innocence wrapped in plastic and stuck in his pocket for later
man who's gun i've held in my hands but never shot

i watched you beg
but who's asking who for forgiveness?

i am living
a sleep paralysis nightmare
can't move or scream
just let them do what they want with me

there's a darkness
never understood until the light fractures
either coming out of interrogation lamps or from helicopters

suffering like a blister in the making
silent digging
terrorized unapologetically

there's a mess in the kitchen
an urge to fill the bathtub
a pack of pall malls emptying one by one by the hour
a display of constants, i wonder
*how do i sit so still?