When I was little
the hair on my neck
would stand on end
when I dropped my
pencil in the hopes
that I would discover
a hole in the floor
for me to crawl through
and discover something
better than the first grade.
Every time I was disappointed
to find tile and hairballs.

My Daddy, ******* Him,
loved me so much
he used to pick the raisins
out of my Raisin Bran.
Every morning he'd sprinkle
the flakes onto two paper towels
so he could spread it out
dense enough
to catch any raisin scoundrels.
After sufficiently flicking
the cereal to-and-fro
he'd put it in a bowl for me,
with just enough milk
so as to make it tasteful,
and not soggy.
(Anything for his princess)

Well ******* Him again
for the second time
in these lines if I don't still
pick those little raisin turds
out of my cereal 22 years
out of the womb.

And ******* him for
biting my pretty red heart
in two giant pieces
and leaving me with
no way to sew them up
except a handful of joints
in one hand
and a bottle of prozac
in the other.

Know what though?
I was eating raisin bran
last night and I bit down
on a sweet, gummy
treat I had sworn to
despise among
all things
and I didn't *****.
I didn't gag.
I didn't do anything
but swallow it
and take another bite.

My tastebuds must be
changing.

How difficult to
give a child
a name!
I am sure that
when I have
babies
they will never
have a name
because there's
no way I could
just look at it
and tell what
correct
variation of
letters best suit
the poor things.
And they will
be poor.

Who was the first person
to sing and was it a
rush of ecstasy or
melancholia that
came upon them?
Think about it.

Let's play hide and seek
in the dark.
That's why I prefer
to sleep with the light
on if you want to know
the truth.
Because if I leave the
light on
maybe they won't come.
Please, don't come.
It's not your fault,
but it's certainly not mine.
The woman in me
died a long time
ago when he shoved
my hand down his pants
and she hasn't been
back since.
The wound still
drips ****
when you squeeze it
just right
and it's starting
to stink like a hunk
of meat left in the
sun too long.
Too long, I say.

Hush brain hush
he's perfect.
Stop trying
to make
him into
inmate
number
L1267.
L1267
is a long way away,
and they took
his wings
ten years ago,
thank Science.
It's the only
place he exists.
Everywhere
else he is absent
and always
has been and
will be.
Rot, you egg.

There's a poem in my soul
and if I don't let it out
I'll spontaneously combust
all over my living room.

oh my god I'm so sorry

I just threw up all over you!

How silly of me,
how utterly absurd
that boys make me
throw up and up and away.

Stop it!

When one gets too close
I shake like a
kicked puppy
and I know it's because
a monster crawled under
this little girl's bed
and never came back out.
He waits to grab
my ankles with his
boney hands,
a matching freckle
in the middle of
our palms.
He is part of me,
this angel's kiss
(as my mama calls them)
and so long as he has it
so will I.
Me and him sittin
in a tree
until one of us
falls off the branch
first.