They asked us to write a poem
in class
I thought about my B2 yellow pencil
and the way it used to
move easily

It was like if my words
would flow submerged in a labyrinth
and come up to breathe now and then
to show off in front of my face
that I would never place them in paper again

I knew I had to find another source of thoughts
and I asked
I was told that they'd seen my poem
hidden in dead end streets and alleys
where most of the best stories
go to die

they told me that Vincent Van Gogh
used the street as his canvas
and that Nicholas Copernicus found his passion
within the streets of a starry sky

I found my poem
with a case of severe amnesia
lost in an alley
snooping between the leftovers
of the things that he once saw me living

He said he got lost
a few months ago
when he started to feel unwelcomed
around me

I convinced him to go back home
and fed him
and asked him to return to my hands
or at least
to let me place him in paper

But he decided to leave
he grew arms and legs
and kicked down my door
and he was gone again

I knew there that everything that comes back
never does it not even as remotely
as how it was

and I'm here thinking
why did he leave again?

I think he found his color and shape
in the streets
far
too faraway
from me

when I was six
I asked God
to let me fly

I didn't think
I would be lost and high
on saturday's night

when I turned seven
I asked God
to help my mom with the counts

Now I trade "love"
for people's bills

when I was ten
I wished on a shooting star
to bring a guy
to fill my heart

I never imagined
I would be sweeping the floor
looking for the missing half

The day I blew the thirteenth candle
I told God to let me grow up

nowadays I only beg him
to let me go back

while september cicadas
were singing my neighbors to sleep
i was up walking holes in my shoes
over love once lost
so many poems ago
that the only thing i remember
about the house at 38th & bluestone
is that it reeked of alcohol and is
as i'm sure of it
still saturated in perfume
and abandoned laughter
but that's not the point
give me a minute
what i'm trying to say
is i always thought god
enjoyed watching things leave me
it makes me wonder
what was on his mind
that night in september
when i stooped to cough
or tie my shoelaces
i no longer remember why
but i recall their trajectory
the way gravity cradled my hands
and brought them crashing back to earth like a 747
they landed inches away
from a scrap of crumpled loose leaf
folded in half like the smiles
of my relatives on a holiday truce
you see, lately i've been looking for scars in the newspaper
i find myself checking the obituary
for my former selves since the day i found your suicide letter
maybe that's why i can never explain my obsession with history
maybe archeology is just a funeral
in reverse
maybe hell is just rewinding home movies
or watching confetti
turn back into photographs
i never told anyone
the reason the doors to the gun cabinet in my family's house are locked not because they are afraid
i will take my life
but because sometimes
i sing them birthday songs
on the day you died
it makes me think
of how rooms only echo
when they are empty

*you know
i never echoed until you died

you say you're hurt
yet, you keep on cutting

you say you're isolated
yet, you keep building walls

you say they hate you
yet, you've already killed them all in your head

you say they don't understand
yet, you show no signs

you say you want to change
yet, you do nothing about it

you say you'll go far away
yet, you don't know it is always like this

you say you'll be an artist
yet, you only paint in red

you say you can't wait to live
yet, you're already dead