I’m
       Picking you
                 Picking you
                           Picking you out
And
                          Bleeding you, bleeding you, bleeding you dry with
The
                         Sharp sheers of my too clever coffee-lipstick-stained
Lord
                          And the garden variety scorn you Rose-hipped hipsters
Said
                          Your rosy glasses and tinted cheeks proclaimed, and:
               I’m
                         Casting you
                                     Casting you
                                               Casting you out
The
              Immortal, infallible garden of meaningful
Man
            And his poetry-stained bedsheets and love bites
Has
            Taken to candle lit vigil nights and too tall pedestals, has
Become
            More or less himself, of himself, for himself, for nothing, really,
One
            With smug sadness and the proud self-aware death
Of
            Self-proclaimed martyrdom sold to
Us
            Twenty-five percent off at Walmart.
                      I’m
                                 Taking you
                                              Taking you
                                                       Taking you down
To
                     My level, (game over, hit restart)
Know
                    That you were always player two and
Good
                     Intentions are nothing more than fancy dress
And
                    On your sleeve sit a collection of hearts,
Evil,
                    They pave the way to hell.

I once thought it imperative to write
As if my voice should be heard
Echo lisp revelations
Now I jot down despondency
On my phone
Now I lapse echo lisp
By myself
With ***** teeth
And lies wrapped around the ache drop gasp in my stomach
This experience of mine
This fetid decay of flesh


What pain are you killing?

Instinct tells us to
grip something
when the ride gets rough.
Then, lights flicker
and a moment becomes
fight or flight.
Our guts wrench,
our souls double down,
and we listen for it.
Music has got to be proof
that this isn’t our last stop.
We’re all on this train
until we get off.
Might as well get caught
dancing this journey
to a beautiful halt.

Burn.
Step onto the embers of my
Secret weaknesses and
Impersonate the
Sword of Michael.

This longing for Valhalla
Won't see me alive much
Longer.
Take me to the nearest battle.
Let me die slaying a terrorist

Or intending ******.
Or should I pray to gods of a more
Peaceful nature than
Odin?
Love and let live.

Nah, this is in my Norwegian
Bones.
I'll die wielding blade.
I'll die laughing, opened up and
Spilling.

I'll "not go gentle into that good
Night."
So burn.
Be bonfire to my innermost of
Darknesses.

There are shadows there that
Demand chasing.
Make me proud to be
Midgardian.
Burst into flames and remind me:

Sticks and stones are feathers.
Buddha and Baldr.
Enlightenment and love. Well,
I'd rather be a warrior in a church
Than a priest in a battle.

Odin's one good eye
Is mine.
The other weeps for the weak.
May they find
Comfort in the daylight,

While us
Others sharpen our
Weathered hearts
In the cold, uncertain night we
Belong to, like water to snow.

paranoia of the 3rd degree
in 8th grade
when the boy i liked IM'd my friend
and said the shirt i wore to church made me look fat.

shaking nervousness in a 12 year old body
overweight
moving a fork from my plate to my mouth --
a true horror
listening to girls read calories
off a box of vanilla wafers

pinching my stomach fat
wanting to tear it off
an 8 year old who asked her older sister
to help her get thinner

decades i've wasted looking so close at every piece of me
i know how i look from every angle without a mirror
i've memorized every defect.
critical sections studied under a microscope:
i am not anything but scientific in my process.

i blow myself up to disproportionate sizes
and then wonder why sometimes i lay in bed and feel

huge.

and other times

so small.

after a while you'll begin to realize that the constant scrutiny and study of your temple is fruitless
that the hungry monster behind your ribcage
that eats dark lipstick and winged eyeliner and name brand clothes and highlighting powder and contouring brushes
that you sacrifice increments of time to every morning,
night
every prolonged glance in a mirror...
fuels itself off the notion that the images we see on a screen are the standard for cultural truth.

i turned 21 and decided to throw away the microscope.
to change what images i saw on my screens
to eliminate the photoshopped waists and fill them with pictures of normal, happy bodies
and i began to see the body that i exercised,
fed vegetables,
watered,
washed,
nurtured,
as not fat or ugly or unwanted
but as a perfect home for myself
and maybe someone else
if i wanted.

because the cultural truth lies in what you see in other humans
not dancing shadows on a screen in a cave
it lies in the gentle rolls of your stomach
and the crinkles around your lips and eyes
and the pimples on your forehead.
there is nothing garish
about reality.