I can fly, standing, my
back *****, I can fly, holding
my arms aloft, I can
fly, speeding down the hill, I
can fly, swerving around cars.
I fly, dancing with death and
courting danger, I fly, laughing
loudly at my fear, I fly,
relishing the near-misses and almost-
impact of tragedy, I fly, I
spin, I wheel, I turn, I
soar, *(I escape
everything.)

"I think he started
his Sylvester's a bit
early" my father jokes, as
the motorcycle swerves
in front of us. "Stop," I want
to scream. This
is insanity. Three tons
of steel under your command and
a man on a motorcycle
is so vulnerable. We continue
blithely on, my father won't
see how his jokes
paralyze me.

Most people hold on
to something burning them for
that last bit of warmth.
I learned all too well how
to let go, and if you
scorch me, I will drop you.

Most people spend time daydreaming, I
have never dared idle away time like
that, because thinking
of what will make me
happier than
anything hurts so badly
I have forgotten how to truly
want anything-
I dare not remember.

Most people are not me, and
most people will probably not trick
you into caring for them, until
when you inevitably
hurt me, or I
do it for you, it will pain you, electricity
crackling down whatever
it is ties us together, burning
as I will not let anyone
do to me.

I'm sitting on the edge
of my bed, trembling and
     flash [I'm huddled in the
                kitchen corner, she's
                advancing on me, blocking
                every way of escape]
wishing I could be ok again, wishing
I wasn't damaged beyond
     flash [I'm on the
                stairs, crouched over so
                she can't reach my
                stomach because I'm already
                crying hard enough to almost
                be throwing up, gagging
                around screams]
any kind of repair that I
can foresee, praying that
     flash [I'm curled on my bed like
                a foetus, I ran away until
                there was no further
                to run and still
                she followed me. Hit
                my back, it hurts
                the least there]
the terror will pass, and I
won't have to remember
     flash [I'm thinking desperately
                around the thumps of
                knuckles on flesh and the screams
                I can't contain that next time I
                will hit back I won't
                be frozen in place, wishing
                bitterly I wasn't shamelessly
                lying to myself]
this.*
     *flash [I can't breathe.]

i.   My mother's elbows. They
     are too sharp and they twitch
     in the direction of your ribs
     when you invade
     her personal space.

ii.  Needing anything too much. Cutting
     or writing or even
     my own friends.

iii. Fast rides down mountains. I
     remember each one, looking
     out the window, wondering if
     tonight was the night
     finally we would go
     plunging over the tiny
     railing.

iv. Gangs of little kids. Don't
     tell me they don't know
     what they are doing. Children
     are cruel.

v.  Metaphors of fists raining down
     all over your body. I'm
     sorry, I cannot listen
     to your metaphors, when
     they make my skin tingle and
     my hackles raise and
     my heart play out the dance
     of old fears.

vi. Anyone having leverage. Too
     many times, showing caring
     for a thing has seen it
     confiscated. Also, anyone knowing
     I care at all.

vii. Discovering that the scars gifted
      to me are not healed and
      long car rides and
      her elbows and
      cruel children and
      impending addictions and
      openly loving and
      your metaphors make
      me bleed along
      old fault-lines.

Sometimes I think
that everyone I trust
just lets me lean against them
so they're in a better position to kick my legs out from under me.
That everyone whom I let learn my weaknesses
will not learn to shield them
as I originally intended, but study
in order to know where to plunge the knife.
Standing under your own power
is so hard
and learning to trust someone
harder
and, in my case, has such a higher chance
of hurting.
I am the man with the broken leg, I
am the man with the traitorous mind, I
am the man who will tear himself down
in absence of someone to do it for him.
Even knowing that, I am standing
on my own feet now. Even knowing
all my own weaknesses, which buttons
to press, I know that trusting
myself, precarious though it is,
is less dangerous
than trusting you.

Darling, when I try
and write to you, all format
flies from my grasp. Haiku and ten
always too little, and prose
I would have to fill with beauty-
words I do not have to describe us
anymore. You see, unlike the family tradition, I was
never a good Scrabble player. Always
only 100 tiles and short, obscure
words never enough to tell a
story that should be rich, not sparsely
populated with only 1 Z, or
2 Ys or 2 Cs. With you I feel
I am playing scrabble with my words. As always,
my darling, (with) you I am losing.

I am the prodigal daughter that
will not be returning. I have squandered
your forgiveness, if ever
it was, on small sins

that I probably
could have avoided. Tiny ways
Of asserting my individuality, my
independence, my unwillingness to follow
anyone blindly. The food

I eat, the friends
I have, the actions
I take, the people
I love, they
are not as to your
specifications. I am the prodigal

daughter, the one
that stopped believing in your
(supposedly) everlasting love, your
(apparent) watching eye and protection. I

am the prodigal daughter, I
have given up on trying
for your acceptance, trying
to hurt myself to earn
the warmth and love I never
saw. For so long you
made me feel unworthy

of you, ineligible
for your embrace, and now
I finally know that I
truly do not deserve
the iron bars
of your acceptance, disguised
as a structure to hold
me up. I now know

I deserve more.

Sometimes I forget that you
cannot absorb as much
as you like to say you can.
I forget that you are human, and not more,
not the impassive statue that you
would like to be.
I have seen you
in your weak points and I
have helped you through
some bad days and I
somehow forgot
your true form.
Forgive me, I
am so full of words tonight that
I overflowed and nearly
drowned you, even as you stood
ready to try and help me safely swim
the dangerous currents
of my own disintegrating being.
Forgive me, I
would mop up these streams and
plug up these holes and even
divert rivers in the tradition of Heracles
to clean out the accumulated grunge
of everything I have dumped on you.
I would let my mind
stop burbling and my words run dry
if only you will
forgive me.

Like a sponge, latching on
to anything.
Squirreling everything away inside
Its heart, porous,
with all the holes. Maybe
They can be filled like this.
They can't.

Eventually, we put the sponge under
Pressure.
And then watch,
Sickened,
As everything hidden away in the
         porous heart of a sponge
Comes gushing out.

When I say calm down
I mean calm the **** down or
watch me shamefully

try and control all
of my impulses to run
or to brace myself

against the blows I
always knows are waiting right
behind shouted words.

Don't belittle your pain.
Don't bottle it up
Unseen
Unless small parts shove
           themselves out
Like a collection of knives
Inside a (breathing, living)
           carcass.
When the knife
Breaks through
With its harsh, sharp gleam,
Don't push it back in
Deeper
Or say it's nothing
(with a pain(t)ed smile).
I see the stains
of denied blood
Against the shine
of cold steel.
And if you say
it's nothing
How can I fix you?

There are no words I can write
about my jealousy, without them being
ugly and twisted. Jealousy
is not a poetic feeling, jealousy is
sick and petty and deforms
everything it touches. I cannot beautify
my jealousy, as I do my pain, I cannot
make you look at me differently
through such a warped glass and think
that I am something special. Jealousy
does not lend itself to writing poetry, when
all I want to do is hate you
but I can't.

When I let you in I saw you
as a source of strength, not
a drain. And I was right, but only
for a while. You have walked
over me, firmly, even as I lay down,
willingly. You have walked over me
so forcefully that the imprint
of you will forever be embedded
in my heart. You were not
the first, and, knowing myself, you
will not be the last. But this
is the last straw, and soon
though your impression will never
fade from my flesh, it will stop
becoming deeper and more painful
with every passing day. I am strong
enough for a last stand, cowardly
though it may be. Inaction is
a form of action, and I
am giving up.

Deck the halls in paint and pastels
Steal the nurses' hours of sleep.
Watch your heart-beat on the monitor,
Hear the slow, incessant beep.
Look away from other patients,
Say that you're the lucky ones.
Welcome to the childrens' ward, kids.
We'll convince you this is fun.
Ask the doctors how they're doing!
Take your wheelchair for a drive!
And hidden there's the IV forest,
For those that aren't quite as alive.

The void is in
the grittiness of your eyes and
the weariness of your limbs, in
the way your lungs cannot
draw enough air because the emptiness in
your stomach is crowding
everything, taking all the space inside
of you. The void howls
throughout you, calling out in
a twisted imitation
of your voice, bitter and begging
by turn. Your own personal black hole
has devoured you until not only
the light you radiate is swallowed, but too
your vision, and you cannot see
yourself past this abyss.

They tell me it's ok and that
I've been through so much. You, they say,
are a fighter.
You are a survivor.
I break down. And I crack
up and there are days that I don't
get out of bed or leave
my house at all. And you
let me off the hook because I
am fighting. Surviving. Fighters, you say,
need to let their guard down
after all. I **** up again or I
don't follow through or I
hurt someone and you
will always forgive me because I
am a survivor and they
are allowed to. Listen to me I
do not want these second
(and third and tenth) chances. You
use them for yourself. Stop saying
that I do not need to be strong just
because I survived. I know
that I survived. I know
that I am capable of strength so stop
forgiving me.

Is this to be my anger,
then? A dormant dragon,
slumbering until woken. My blood

flows hot and fast and full
of dragonflame, just waiting
to singe anyone that might dare

come closer. For years I gave
the dragon free reign, incinerating
as she pleased. And for years

after that, I have placated and drugged her
with love and self-control. Being
around you brings back our long-suppressed

memories, old ways of burning
bridges and scorching foes. I never
wanted to hurt you, but you
are playing with fire.

Kerosene eyes
everywhere you
look, sparkling-
deceptive, I think
I would like to dive
until I sip
and burn my tongue on you.

Stong shoulders
everything you
support, worlds-
dependable, I think
I would like to rest
until I lean
and you dissapate like summer mist.

Feverish fingers
everyone you
brush, warming-
blooming, I think
I would like to thaw
until I touch
and suddenly find myself blazing.

Years later, after you think
you've outrun all your past fears,
you will find yourself sitting
on the edge of your bed,
unable to stand up and face
the world. It's been years
since it happened, since she last
exploded and you let yourself
come close enough to feel
her shrapnel burn through you, but still
you're huddled on the edge
of your bed, scribbling desperate,
terrified words into your notebook
unable to go downstairs
because she is still there.

The time is Friday
The scene is dinner.
Candlelight, shimmering dishes, white tablecloth
Flowing wine, pleasant conversation, good food
An enjoyable evening at the neighbors' house.
I sit back, I do not speak much.
I am happy, I am content.
And then the neighbor starts telling you a story.
A woman she knows
got angry, lost her temper,
hit her children.
And so she stepped in, calmed her down, said
"leave the children alone."
You agree.

I do not react. Years of practice
have served me well.
I sit across from you, I do not look
fascinated or riveted or frozen
in place.

"Children," you say,
"are so helpless. To hit them especially
is horrible."

I cannot hold my pose any longer.
My eyebrows rise until they have eclipsed
the place where my glasses usually are.
You do not look.
You would not see.
You will not remember how you come by this knowledge.

(My friend says hypocrisy
is a pox-ridden ***** whose company
many enjoy.
You never have to pay for her services
to you she comes freely.)


   Not even four years ago
   (maybe)
   you have forgotten.
   I do not remember it all I do not
   remember what made you angry
   (that time).
   There never were flashing lights
   A big sign to tell me
   TRIGGER WARNING.

   I do remember holding on tightly
   to the golden-brown, smooth banister
   on the white-grey, cool marble stairs
   so I wouldn't fall down them.
   I do remember you standing strong
   above my hunched figure
   and the closed fists
   and the blows that rained down
   like drops in a thunderstorm.

   I do remember my father
   coming when it was too late
   when the hot tears finally soaked everything
   and apologizing for not being there.
   I do remember not having the heart
   to tell him
   that I was screaming his name constantly
   begging for him to come
   and save me from you.


You are right.
Children are helpless.
But you have missed the biggest truth.
Hitting children is most dangerous
not because they are helpless.
but because they love you.
Because for years they will protect you
and justify and accept
and blame ourselves.

Don't try to pin me down. Instead,
let me flutter gently around the twinkling lights
that look intriguing to me at the moment.
Don't try to catch me. Instead,
watch me keep my distance and try to understand
that I can still exist happily in the freedom of solitude.
Don't try to predict my changes. Instead,
know that even I cannot usually do so, and try,
if you so wish, to weather with me my changing seasons and summer storms.
Don't try to immitate me. Instead,
realize how beautiful you are as yourself and furthermore,
I am not something you should immitate, want to be.
Don't try to change me. Instead,
accept me as I am. Though your forced changes may indeed be better
for me, your acceptance will make me want to better myself.
Don't try to explain me. Instead,
internalize that some things are inexplicable
and that my reasons for being this are so much uglier than you see.
Don't try to justify me. Instead,
remember that even those who are hard to grasp
make mistakes, even horrible ones, and sometimes need someone not to forgive.
Don't try to destroy me. Instead,
listen to me when I warn that many have tried, purposefully
or otherwise, and I am not so fragile as I look. You will end up burnt.
Don't try to push me away forcefully. Instead,
ask me to go. I will understand, I promise
I only want distance to be a respectfully created space, not a hidden minefield.
Don't try to reel me in. Instead,
if I come to land near you, bear in mind that this is rare
but, too, bear in mind you have no obligation to want me here.
Please, don't try to pin me down.
If you ever do., I will be a dead thing of former splendor
pinned to your corkboard, and you will finally understand me
when all of my entrails come spilling out, displayed to you
and I lay, helpless.

You think the thick blackness under my eyes looks like
War paint.
Like I am going out to battle the world and defeat one and all
that dare stand before me.
You think this thick darkness under my eyes looks like
Attention seeking.
Like I am silently screaming for people to notice me
and come closer.
I only draw in those
enchanted by demons
in love with darkness
at home in the night.
You say that eyes are the window to the soul. You are right.
And I am shuttering mine.
But my war paint does not help me battle
the world
My war paint helps me hide the battles that rage
inside me.
I could cry
Wash it away.
Let it go and surrender
and then let you in.
But when you see me
I see myself, reflected
in your eyes
and my own verdict
is damning.

My words have the power to cut
and sting, and draw blood
from all your hidden wounds.
They are glass shards, hidden
in plain sight, on the paper.
Thorns, wrapped around your heart, pull
tighter to the sound of my words. And you
mistake this pain I inflict for
intellect and the pangs
I cause you for
sharpness and wit.

But now, I find that my own wounds
are healing, and the words
which I previously wrote
in my own blood, do not come, flowing
as they once did. My ink
is running out. And some of you, the ones
I love dearest, are like me
But you keep your ink
pouring, even as you suffer. I
cannot be like you, I
am not so strong. My nature dictates
that my wounds must heal, and I,
in my weakness,
must let them. Your sharpness comes
at the greatest sacrifice
a person could give.
I know this. And yet, I still
Aspire towards you. Bleeding
myself as I do so.

And now that I see
growing scabs
decorating my wounds, and my blood
clotting and drying, I just
wonder- now that I
resemble you no more, will you forget
the formerly vibrant colors of my pain?
Will you forget my brief stint
as one of you?
Will, much as my wounds are,
the gates close? As I lose
this sharp tang of
my perceived brilliance,
will my alluring, painful glitter
fade to you?
You, who are strong,
(or maybe in my foolishness
I only see
your masochism as such)
Will you leave
Me
Behind?

I could know any of them
in a dark room, eyes
blindfolded, hands
tied. How, you ask?

One of them smells
like fresh laundry, warm, like hugs, a tinge
of unshed tears, a safe place
to sleep. She smells like home more
than anywhere I've been, when I can catch
her smell. I have breathed this
in for so long, sometimes
it eludes me, the way I
cannot scent myself, for
an abundance of familiarity.

It feel traitorous to try
and describe how
a second smells, that
when she will never
understand, but she
smells like spontaneous gifts
of friendship, and
long sunlit days, she smells
so much of herself
I could never imagine
her differently.

Yet another scents the air
in such a way I
feel my lungs are
bloomings, and yet are somehow
contricting, like I cannot draw
enough of this air,
to breathe so deeply as
I need. He smells
of an accomplishment
hard-won, but worth
every step of the way, though
there is a hidden
bite, a concealed
sharpness, an almost imperceptible tang.

I cannot begin to think
how to explain the intriguing way
another smells, as I cannot quite
place my finger
on it. Much like
its owner, her aroma
is a woven tapestry, and so
we see the complete
product, but never
the individual
threads, a perfect
work of art.

And lastly, the one
who often seems
to have no smell
at all. Spend
some time around him, however,
teach your lungs how
to sense his
presence, and you will notice
he does not smell flashy
or bright, his smell
is constructed
of strong undertones, complimenting
and supporting
everyone else, comforting like
some people's idea
of god.

Sometimes I think
if I could have my own
particular brand of perfume
all the time, I
would be invincible.

Sometimes I want to ask
if we'll ever get back
to normal. If the hospital bed
will disappear from the main
level, if the endless stream of
doctors and nurses and physical therapists and reflexologists and acupuncturists
will ever pass us by, if maybe
a night without the squeaking
of bedsprings and the helpless shaking
and gasping of another seizure being
broadcast throughout the house
will finally come, if just maybe
when I say goodnight, you
will have time to look up
and see me standing there.
But then I remember that
the word "normal"
has never been heard in our house
without the harsh sting of comparison, and
this is our life, now, as
we have changed so many
other times. Who knows
what "normal" is, anyways.
If I ever did, I have forgotten.

Give a man an
inch and he'll take
a mile, give me
an unwilling iota of
yourself and I
will push further until
the blind force of
my need will push
you away altogether and
my inadequate words of
apology that will never
be enough or ever
reach you are all
that will remain in
your absence.

Last year
you weren't here
for my birthday. I
understood, of course, even though
it hurt just a bit. When
we talked on the phone, you
told me when you returned, we
would do something together, and
I giggled, playing through my mind
the word you used, tasting
its heavy cream on tongue,
"decadent."

Last year
you returned
and you had forgotten
your promise. I understood,
of course, even though it hurt
more than just a bit. You were
busy, though time for criticism and
loud shouting matches and afterwards,
muffled sobbing into my pillow was always
made. In the back of my mind I
kept waiting for an acknowledgment,
maybe, if I was feeling optimistic,
even an apology. It never came. My hope, turned
decrepit.

This year
I look back
at what could have been,
and I understand, of course, but
memories of my blind faith in you hurt
the dying spark of optimism, the one
you haven't killed off, yet. Now,
I am the one who will not be here
for my birthday. You, wanting
only an excuse, will try and gift me with
your presence, commit actions
in my name, actions I do not want. Our love
lost, I do not ask if ever it existed, I know
the affirmative will only hurt me. We
are so shattered, we are far past
the point of being
Delicate.

Your religion is
an earworm, curled around
my feeble brain. All day I
find myself singing praises of

your god, my
former salvation. Your religion dances
around my tired mind, enchanting

my ears even as
my heart rebels. I am
in the shower, trying
not to sing my love to
the cold tile walls, the
streaming hot water, the

house as my family listens to
the notes pour out of
my open mouth. טוב
להודות ל' ולזמר
לשמך עליון they

sing in voices like
brightly feathered birds circling
the light of
His countenance. Your god
is strong, and gives of
his strength freely to those

who can follow him faithfully. I
find myself incapable, and yet
your melodies ensnare me. This blessing
of musicality, gifted directly

from hours of sitting rapt, in
your house of worship, is also
my curse. I cannot forget
the source of my love affair
with the rise and fall
of your adoring exaltations
and all music.

these words lie
heaviest on my
tongue, they weigh
every other word down, color
everything I say to
you, threaten to leap
off, inserting themselves where
unwanted, unbidden, unasked and
ungiven, and I won't
free them because
I

Silently, we sit
in a circle, reading
our letters. And they

my classmates, my
temporary family, absorb words
I will never see, and
shake quietly, weeping. You

sent me a letter, too
and you tell me you love me,
underlined twice and adorned
with an exclamation point. You

tell me you love me, and
stand tall, seemingly
above me, not seeing
how I have grown long ago
out of your shadow. You

say you love me, and this
is a gunshot, but I
have put a silencer
in your rifle. In order to cry
you still have to care.

And as the bombshells of
my daily fears explode they
hurtle into me with the
exact force of
her fists and leave
bruises, invisible (this time) and
knock me down until I
am drowning under
the waves and I
can't breathe under
the weight of all
these memories because as
the bombshells of my daily
fears explode I know how to
trace them right back to
my youth and I am
scared of still
being young.

Is this it, is this
the final sign that I am
damaged beyond repair? Not
only am I now scared
of her blows, I'm sitting
frozen in the middle of all
the what-ifs. These cuts
you riddled me with in
great swathes of pain, aren't
healed as I thought they were, they
are now bleeding and
stinging me years later. Learning
that you are so much weaker
than you thought and so
much more broken makes
you ask whether
you will ever
be whole.