Do not stretch your fingers in my direction;
I am not your ******* or your heroine;
I am no drug to be addicted to.
My body is bruised and I am bent out of shape;
My ankles are all ninety degree angles;
And my knuckles are caked in golden hues.
The callouses on my heels are peeling;
And your spitfire attitude is exhausting.
"Simmer down, firecracker;
You lionhearted girl."
I'm flying at the speed of light;
I am going to crash, a beaten down piñata;
And nobody will pick up the pieces.

Simmer down, firecracker.
I'll simmer down when I'm dead.

*(a.m.c.)

have you ever had your torso treated like an ashtray
all cigarette burns and flaky ash
twist and turn and go deeper until the fire is inside your brain
the guy that's doing it is laughing, drunk
and you're twisting in your sheets
after a couple nights of pain you begin to wait for it
anticipating
not fearing
the fire that once burnt you now consumes you
you don't feel alive unless it's on your skin
turning you into the ashtray
you now wait to be

*(a.m.c.)

with rain soaked fingers
i ripped you apart
godzilla and sirens and all things nightmare
could take notes from me
i could write a handbook
about breaking people like breaking glass
it's simple when you stop caring about yourself
when your pearly white teeth rot and tear
when your shotgun heart and poison dart eyes
**** and break and destroy
you'll recognize my coffee-stained breath
hot on your neck
and next time you'll run
and run
and never look back

*(a.m.c.)

do you think that astronauts get homesick and claustrophobic
or do they never miss their brick wall houses because home is always in sight
maybe they don't feel closed in because they are in the most open area
i am afraid to explore the galaxy
because i don't like to be put into a box
but isn't space travel breaking out of that box anyway

do you think that firefighters are afraid of fire
or do they breathe it in like oxygen
if they get so used to being warm
can they still survive the cold
maybe there's liquid fire in their veins
maybe they're unable to get burnt

do you think that the dreams we have as kids
are always ingrained in our spines
do we ever truly forget the things we wanted
when we were six years old
is there really any point
to our hopscotch romances
and fears of monsters under our beds
because even now
we still run to our sheets after the lights turn off

*(a.m.c.)

when i think back to the first punch
the nail and sting and two-week bruise
i don't think about the pain
or the sound of your fist against my ribs
i think of your face as you swung your arm
twisted and red but that was only layer one
layer two was remembering when you coached me in softball
layer three was my nine-year-old embrace
layer four was whispering, "she's your little girl."
layer five was your confusion as i grew up and became quiet
layer six hated yourself in that moment
as well as layers seven and eight
layer nine was your anger again, which caused you to hit
but layer ten was your apology
i forgave you one thousand and sixty eight times
will you ever forgive yourself?

*(a.m.c.)

I am as hard as a diamond,
my edges are cut sharp into cubical quartz.
I harden and I process; you can strike me against a rock
and I will not shatter.
I don't shine like a diamond, I'm as dull as an old razor blade;
the remnants of sharpness are there
but who wants to shave with an old razor blade.

My dandelion hair flows with the breeze,
and the salty sweat from my head
makes the fragrance drift
like tentacles into the air.

I sit in corners and sift my brain,
searching for gold that is not there,
but constantly thinking and thinking and thinking;
I go crazy and turn into liquid,
I am the ocean turning and the high tide crashing into the shore.
I drift until I'm calm,
until I'm a rainbow fish in the sea,
swimming under sail boats and sea gulls
and wrinkled fishermen upset with their love lives.

My hands are question marks,
punctuation that I cannot answer, I cannot understand.
My toes curl and I cringe as I remember who I am,
the person that cannot be saved
or brought in with a lasso around my neck.

I am a half-finished metaphor and your deja vu,
you must be a sorcerer if you can make me love
like the old-fashioned movie screen.
My voice is raspy from the attempts at screaming my own name
in order to hear something,
to feel something in this empty cavity of a body.

I will dye my hair aquamarine and magenta
and all the colors with the fancy names,
before I make up my mind to understand anyone else.
I will fold myself in like a thousand paper cranes,
and paper cranes do not fly.
I will write on the walls of my insides that I do not need anyone,
until my brain memorizes my own handwriting.

*(a.m.c.)

i wrapped myself in caution tape
but you didn't listen to my warning
you're dying on the side of the road
and i'm flying to space in my rocketship for one
if you could die by hypothermia or drowning,
which would you choose?
the blue hair dye staining my fingers is proof
that i don't have to explain myself
i filled my bathtub with scalding water
and pretended to feel something
all i have left are burn marks on my thighs
and a puddle on the floor

*(a.m.c.)