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

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 used to be a girl that got ****** on friday nights
spilling beer in garages across town, making boys laugh
calculating how many smiles or touches on the shoulder or seconds of eye contact could make me feel like i belonged somewhere, a cigarette for every unit of the quota i didn't manage to meet
even on mornings i woke up with sore lungs, i was alive
alive with meaning, with weightlessness, with two cups of diet coke on a patio table
watching snails climb up the aloe vera plant
i used to be a girl who felt whole on saturday mornings

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

the pendulum swings
t-twice

belladonna berries by mouth
angel's orders

limbs stretched out
backwards embrace to
earth

pupils expand like
spilled anti-milk

last minutes
final comfort of
letting go

my heart beats now
for every cheek blushed
please
remember me
fearless
nightshade belly full
smashing the skull
to fine white dust

chest *****
knocking on breastbone
like gold on mohagony
once
twice

when the door opens
i will fall, in love

fall, in love

spring is a thick, white fog
silence of a room with nothing but a fan on
messed up blinds and paranoia
and lots
and lots
of porcelain

i’m a rotting apple core that you cant put down
i know you’re hungry
i worse than loved you
poisonous seeds will sour your guts
blame me for the temptation
am i a ****, falling out of love, or somewhere in between?

i worse than loved you
i bled for you, i cried for myself
attended my own funeral and you didn’t buy me flowers

i like when someone else sleeps on your side of the bed
i feel less lonely that way

it takes one hour, three glasses of water,
and the breath of morning between first awakened yawn and turning the shower faucet on,
bare bodied, stepping on the plate to present myself to the cold, small, square
an exhibit
a self examination
i'd say that those three numbers will dictate what kind of day i will have, because obviously,
it could only be good or bad,
but i will hate myself whether or not the number is less or more than the one before
and my last good day was about 15 pounds ago

i have nothing but sunny days
for you and i and our top teeth
im walking around this city with you
holding my own curious happiness in my fists and for once in my ******* life i dont have break it in half to share
if google could translate my heart beat to english, it would just be a transcript of alternating “***” and “*****”,
and i’d die if you knew that
however i will find my ways to give you my stiff and stubborn love
secretly make you an emergency contact, making you godmother to my cat
i’ll avenge the undeserved love from all your ****** exes in the afterlife when nothing matters

the truth is that even if i could do this without you, i would never want to

my house feels the emptiest when it's full
the scent of home made food and the sound of my sister's voice both parade out of the kitchen through the rest of the rooms like a new orleans funeral trumpet
laugh all you want, i know you still look at me like i ****** your husband
laugh all you want, i know you'd rather go home to get high in the garage
laugh all you want, just remember to remind your mouth to smile when you do
you smell like ash and misery and leave traces of it everywhere you go and if it wouldn't leave you lonely, you'd look at the cigarette in my hand and say *this is all your fault

my days fill up
like balloons
with forced breath

seeing light
shine through the messed up blinds
like a projector playing a movie across my skin
about something slightly nostalgic
but very far away

when i leave my house
my skeleton is magnetic
i feel nothing
but the push and the pull
the lack of choice
and a deep-cutting desire
to once again
have the world
and my body
belong to me

i said
i’m gonna put down the pen
replace the empty space with things that don’t leave marks

but god there’s so much permanence
in the smell of tobacco and gardenias
wicker patterned skin
coffee pots clanking against iron in a sunless noon

pill bottles rattling like music too distant to hear how sad it is
castles of baby shampoo bubbles and layers of egyptian cotton dismantled by a fan
syfy channel on but watching the curtains dance instead
small pink toes pressed into green carpet
kicking down the door again

it doesn’t just linger, it stains
like soft fingerprints on my mahogany heart

i am a bad artist
my body is a vessel for emotion that nearly never gets opened
and when it does, it's confetti blown from a sawed off shotgun
but for now, the safety is on
and little pieces of colored paper decorate my sleep in the form of nightmares
putting my finger over that trigger feels a lot like losing control
i am powerless
fighting fire with gasoline in a house i live in, alone
i am alone
because the people who taught me how to love do not love me and that makes me
lonely

did it ever occur to you that maybe i'm exactly where i wanted to be?
years and years of self destruction in hopes that i'll eventually be sick enough to take the medicine
sick enough to be bed ridden
mother in the chair in the corner of the room, praying for me
calling all the doctors, saying "she needs help"
but i tell her im sick and she says "i need help"
and i don't know how to get well with a hypochondriac

they told me to use sage
cleanse my soul, my environment, my headspace
and i agree with them because i don't know how to say that i'm already clean without having to explain that i've taken 2 baths today
and yesterday

lately i just can't seem to find my faith
i think it may have gotten lost somewhere between the hotel, three different therapists, and the letters i get in the mail from a team of people that want to know my truth
my truth?
well i apologize, your honor, as my truth is
an ocean, a non-linear mass of blue, only 5-7 percent discovered

i guess what i'm trying to say is

i am afraid
that when you ask me to take the safety off and pull the trigger
i'll forget how to aim

there's three stages of panic disorder
stage one is being terrified, every waking second of every day, if not from symptoms, from the impending doom of them coming again soon
stage two is realizing the only way to cope with waking up every day thinking you're going to die, is to stop caring if you do or not
stage three is just wanting to get it over with

they say i seem different
i tell em it's got nothing to do with anything but the brand new secrets i've been keepin
all to myself

somethin rancid right under the skin
you'd never guess what the sweat coming outta my pores really contains
at last, i'm the true
madwoman

i'm the porcelain doll you have to turn around before you go to sleep
hungry eyes made of glass
a mouth ya gotta break to open up

a still heart in the shape of a girl
watching and
waiting

when i think of holiness, i imagine
my mother layin in bed at night
sayin a prayer like,
"jesus, why did this happen to me"
a prayer like,
"jesus, i know i wasn't a perfect mom but at least i was off the liquor"
a prayer like,
"jesus, if i love my daughters unconditionally, will you make this all go away?"

i've got a face a mother could only love
if that's what she thinks god wants her to do

i want apologies,
not praise
when i say i had a better day today than yesterday,
don't smile and say
"i'm so proud of you!"
then have the audacity to blame
a version of myself you made
for rejecting the condescending look
on your dumb face

if there were words to describe the past few months, i would cut them up, silver knife to granite, into lousy pieces and throw them in a *** to boil
turn the fire down when it starts to smell like bathwater, nail polish remover, and tobacco
if you're asking what it feels like to be nothing, i'll serve you this
abjection by the spoon full

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

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?

a thick fog of hyperventilated breath, microwaved dinners, and nail polish remover separates into two halves as my mother breaks through my bedroom
the creaking of the door always, without fail, pierces directly through my ears and into the part of my brain that knows how to be kind and pleasant

no mother, i didn't hear about the wreck on 288 today
no, i don't know if i can go grocery shopping tomorrow
no, i don't ******* care to be a part of this family

every picture of a sad-looking, round-faced, blonde pigtailed child in any photo album collecting dust on a shelf in my house has "victim" written underneath like a description of a particularly memorable event, photographed to document such a milestone
i never caught any fish
i never won a trophy
there was so much empty space

mother, i could've been a ballerina
i would have enjoyed learning an instrument
mother, i wish none of this happened either

i suppose you can't ask why someone is upset when their house burns down because they left an open flame too close to the curtain
it doesn't matter why everything you own has turned to ash, it just matters
when every birthday cake for every year seems like a post card from the future saying "wish you were here" it feels good to blow out the candles

yes mother, i am the curtains of the family
no, i don't want to be

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?

if i couldve travel throug time
would you believe it

im sorry that your entire life
revolves around why mine can not
kissed by strangers im the happiest ive ever been
maybe ill text nathan
or sam or arthur or anyone
i have so much love
its a chore to bring it back from age 16
when i was texas’ favorite wine drinker

im determined
to find all the love i left in that
ill cry the mascara off my face if it means
ill be yours for a night

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