He doesn’t understand that everything I take from him is a story, every word floating through the air, another line. He doesn’t know that my open mouth is the pen, my rolling eyes, the style. It doesn’t occur to him that he doesn’t know a thing about what his daughter might be thinking, because if he did, he would know what kind of novel she writes.

She is hardly a professional. She cannot fully comprehend metaphor, symbolism, allegory. For her, it becomes like another soul's voice, a trembling thing filled with a measure of ambiguity and a touch of wisdom, but still distant, still muddled. A lovely concept existing solely for the purpose of distraction.

No, for her, poetry must make sense from the beginning; it must make sense to everyone. If it doesn’t, then it is only words, a mishmash of thought and action made to look attractive. It is simple: if she hears a work is bad, it is bad, if she thinks a thought is stupid, the thought is stupid. Her reality is the true reality, thus, words are only a reality if they are hers.

So she writes underneath Bohemian pillows for now. The papers crumple in her hand at the slightest creak, lest the scrawling letters find her out.

Sometimes we have dinner together.

All she can do is talktalktalk about food and her family’s obsession with food and how much she loves pizzaicecreambeefchocolatepastadonutscheese while she stares at her plate as her fork twirls the spaghetti around and around and around until it’s only particles, only dust, and somehow there will be a little less there than there was before but she'll be saying something about how it's notasgood as back home, back home where she must eat fifty meals a day with all the food she’s tried.

She isn’t fooling anyone and she knows it, but it doesn’t matter because it's the pretending that keeps her alive.

They call you ****
I call you ****
But Gay would be a better name

So I’m keeping my mouth shut.

Glasses hiding Bright Eyes
As he tells his tale.

Narrow eyebrows, such skepticism
What magic tricks entail?

Tanned skin, nearly brown
Etched upon pale light
Such hands, Bright Eyes, such hands
Give motion to the night.

Just kiss her, Bright Eyes, kiss her
And wake the dead alive.

When I open my eyes
I know he’s gone.
It’s desert ground I’m standing on.

But only the wind may say
“Lord, you spoke I this way”
As for the rest, well
We have our narcissistic prayers.

Don’t worry, girl
Just when we think it's good-bye
He comes back for a little dusting.

See it with open hands
Letters two or three
The answer that I need

Eloi, Eloi
Where is Your voice?
Where is Your tongue?

If you’re not the storm
a gloom, a light, then judgment

If you're not the earthquake
a deception black and white

If you're not the flames
consuming all that follows I

Where is the whisper?

Eloi, Eloi

I’m waiting for a whisper

Will it ever come?

I never held his hand, in truth.
I never felt his eyes on mine, I confess.
I never walked beside, nor brushed past

nor fell with

nor kissed

nor hurt because

I only love, as I have ever loved.

I am but a half-closed eye
An almost, yet hardly there.
I am but curled fingers and scattered anger
Only waiting for a dare.

Though hardly innovation
-as some might disagree-
Futile long has been my search
For naught the sun can see.

So I will stretch these arms and scream
Unravel every thread of skin
Twist these toes 'til they cave in
And all falls apart.

Yet even then, that is nothing
Not a feeling will I exhaust.
For the soul has no emotion
To satisfy the lost.

So I will lace these emeralds shut
Spin a web about this heart
And brace these shoulders for the weight
Of never-ending dark.

Have you ever gone from feeling so alive to so dead all at once?

Just from one action, one choice.

It makes me laugh.

I’m so stupid.
So disgusting.

Less of that making of eyes, please
I’d rather a smirk.
Your lyrics hardly help
slipping through dollar store teeth.

Still, I like your one-second hands

no, the fingertips

ever so asking

if I will.

Accuse the sky
Of giving no sign of the fear
That savors you
Holding fast to your skin

Accuse the trees
Of whispering every word you cursed
As he took you
Holding fast to your skin

Accuse the sun
Of straying to the moon you missed
Leaving darkness for you
Holding fast to your skin

But for all they are
For all you are
The blame lies on his wicked finger
Holding fast to your skin.

Oh, gravest star!
Such a wary little lighthouse
watching in the dark
our miseries and poignant pleas

how bored you must be!

For so sat I, embattled in a café
these grumbling bones in order stowed:
first old lovers, with naked buds
makeshift friends dancing upon their nose
second, young Thomas Toy
his hands tied, his feet cold
a warning melting in his mouth:
"This verse," he told me, "remember the key."
"How so?" I dared ask.
"Remember the stumbling block of sleep.
Remember, and let it keep.

With so much hope, I can near see it:
of friends already fallen
their paths of his design
of a life, or least, a feeling
its colors undefined
of hands unused, though worn
furrowing with waste

If so, I couldn’t blame you
for drowning in the sea
in truth, I would near desire it—
just to light the dark
yes, light the dark
and meet the world beneath.

But jealousy aside
you cannot long to die
in hindsight, even worse—
we’re all a second gamble.

Oh, beloved star
just a laughing little lighthouse
watching in the dark
our miseries and poignant pleas

how happy you must be.

Her smile, so weary—
So weary of a word.
Waiting for a king
To make her less absurd.

And there, still—
There still she stands.
Still waiting

Waiting

To abandon or destroy
As he enters softly
To wake her from a choice.

Are you breathing?
Do you live as I live now?
Are you thinking as I thought
so long ago?

Are you worried?
Do you wonder where you are
why you are
for whom you’re made?

Does it justify the games we play
the hearts we break
the love we take
to hear the sound of the unknown?

Little child, have you found a home
in a world I was never meant to know?

'Cause I'm aching for this hallowed day
when the sainted sinners see His face
but I cannot call for saving grace
with my only thought

your absent name

put a bullet in my brain
for a change
the little earthquakes
all we need for the meltdown
spilling guilty

those of Them
the creatures begging you to believe
leave all but us asleep
the chosen

So to the ground we go.
But with fingers digging deep
and heads downcast
the world will never lack for martyrs.

Open your eyes

stretch these threads too tender

stop the sunlight

start again.

I wonder sometimes, where to go
what to do.

A slender spirit may oft appear
his teeth as yet crooked
the eyes a piercing blue.

He never smiles, only seethes
and asks but a simple question:
why must he stay still?

His arms are long and wicked
but a touch, and I am frozen
with thoughts of all before.

Across his palms lies "HERE THERE BE MONSTERS"
his fingertips, each a word:
Suffering, Ridicule, Betrayal, Loneliness and Decay
such lovely friends I've made.

All memories, my knowledge
the better senses bid me leave.

Still I wonder where to go.

There's a certain moment when you have to cry.
A certain word, a certain tone, a certain *******
who can't wait to say how everything has gone to hell
whispers in your fragile ears
and then it's over.

You could shrug, you could laugh
rubbing those tell-tale torrents away
claiming allergies or dry contacts
and you'll know, they'll know
and pretend together.

You could try cowardice and run
finding safe haven in fuzzy socks and tired pillows.
But what you won't do is two-fold:
There is no holding back a broken dam
nor is there drowning its heedless audience.

But today it's me
not you
and I need your half-hearted hugs
your awkward comforts.
Anything, really.

I don't care if you suffocate.

I won't tell you particulars
you won't give me advice
and that way
we'll never disappoint the other.

No waterfalls
just a pond
the perfect inaction
of soul and body.

I like to make grand statements in journals
Of things I’m going to make myself do
Make myself say
Especially as a last entry
With dramatic defiance.

The reality is that I’ll never do them.
But once upon a time, we all had a dream.

It's so hard to be what our parents want.

I can't stay.
To recite these prayers
to wonder why
to smile and support
while a word tempts me
worries me
controls me
behind this locked door.

And they'll never even know.

I am their "last hope"
molded in empty promises
broken from the moment my feet met concrete.

Even now, they pretend
over and over—
just a girl, just a grade, just a drink, just a word.
They see the boy
the boy playing Christian
and they smile.

Can they be so blind?
He is the fruit of endless correction,
the consequence of imitation,
a complete absence of true desire—
a mere service for them above all.

But to stay
to let them open these doors and try to love a prodigal who can't change...

Impossible.

Dear God, may they never find me out.

Girl who shreds the stars in August
Trading taxis like radio stations
Fire in her eyes, sharp like diamonds
Who knew she’d be the sellout?

Just roll the dice

Boy who marches to the drummer’s beat
Holds the truth upon his knees
Breath all he has, death all he needs
Who knew he’d be the sellout?

Just roll the dice

We'll die another day
Running all the way.

Share with me
your words

Make me know the face
The gaping hands
the sunkissed skin
The unwashed hair
the broken feet

Though not enough
(my will still evident)
There is another way-
Make me Thomas
and ask but thrice
That I may explain a doubt yet compromised:

That a fancy took a man
To pardon villains and condemn the saved

Adopting eleven (add a twelfth for foster care)
then spurning more
First the rich, then his junkies
And any prone to bore

He demanded death to dare refrain
Not from himself, but from the dead
To leave the weary to his hands
and the broken to his feet.

And the rest is simply religion.

So I must question (my doubt detailed)
That such a man as this
could praise your name
and call you Father.

That he would tread Calvary alone
To claim you goodness, kindness, self-control
To be the scapegoat for your sins
To be the price upon your head
and die
and live again.

And still, you let the world devour itself to darkness.
And still, you suffocate this faith.

This mustard seed.

So I bargain this:
Let also the diffident move mountains
Let also the lost find shelter
Let also the dead have hope
As once was promised.

And then

only then
will I call upon Your name

and wait.

5:48 you saw me
crawling on a bed
moving with these creatures
desperate to be fed

I am the beginning of my own end
I know.

I am afraid.

I am afraid of who I was
who I am
where I go
with these hands, these hands
your hands.

Just let me go.

But you grasp these fingers tight
and keep me still.
You taste these chapped lips
and give them sustenance.
You betray me, break me, slay me
all to save me.

And I know, somehow.

You are the beginning and the end of me
and it's a dangerous road.

Don’t let me go

I’m almost there.

Don't.
There's a word for you, a word I like, a word you treasure.

*****.

A five-letter fantasy of brute force,
a word too appropriate for a girl like you.

You say it's for the laughs
a "term of endearment"
only true affection could contradict.
Yet with it, you can shut me down
convince the world I'm wrong
spin the story as you like—
all with a smile on your face.

Naturally, I do the same
with a tone that seems sarcastic
the word itself less frequent.

I like its flavor
so effortless.

We think ourselves clever
hearing others call us "cute"
but of neither term are we deserving.

We're still ******.

For neither of us is beautiful,
neither of us could hold the weight of the world,
and neither of us is worth ****.


At least I admit it.

I don’t want to sit here anymore.

I'm done.
I won't come back.
There’s no one to wait for.
Call his name—
I dare you.

See?

Let me go.
Wash those hands clean.
And twenty years hence, take my place.

And if he comes—
if he dares—
swallow your pride
and smile.

Wait 'til the last breath.

Just.

Overcome the angel
and wonder.

Oh, for the sea
ever weeping for the darkness.
Beneath its taunting skies so scarlet
let the blame lie with the dead.

Let it lay there, let it fester
not a soul would dare refuse
not a soul would lift his head.

The blood drips from their fingernails

Not an innocent remains.