Unsurprisingly, I'm numb.
I suppose it hasn't hit me;
Then again, I'm emotionally thrifty
When Death swings his scythe.

So many people weep and wail,
Their arms flailing
As they cry and rail
Against the All Powerful.

Yet, I am empty.
I've been to funerals aplenty,
And I'm indifferent.
Death is inevitable--it happens to us all.

For me, it means a feast of fried chicken
And lots of finger lickin'.

the helicopter's searchlight
against the trees project the
shadows of leaves bobbing in the street to
impersonate the reflection of water
it looks beautiful, honestly
until the
slaps of my soles on
suspect blacktop bring me
back and i wonder
who the hell they're looking for

i keep whispering
your name to the sky
and all it does
is weep
and turn grey
and blue
and black
like my heart

The truth of it is-

he's not going to fix you

she's not going to make you forget
the way your father would hit you

He is not going to make your collarbones sprout roses
He will not make you forget how to need

The truth of it is-

She is not a savior
She is not able to fight off the demons in your dreams

He will not make you forget the way your mother left
The bloodstains in the bathtub will still be there

The truth of it is-
This is your life
This is not a movie

No one is going to swoop in and save you

You will have to grow your own wings if you want to fly away

A yellow exhaustion eats the skinny stomach comfort
of wondering how the night will dissolve
and how paranoid the longing mind will be while falling asleep

The click click dancing in the head-
a colorful dripping noise and dangerous creaking around me,
keeping me awake and wondering if the doors are locked

What eggshell floorboards will I walk along tomorrow?
What will I break or preserve?
What will the daytime smell like?  
When it’s dark (and all I can know in the moment)
everything that existed under sunlight seems so far away
I can’t recall how it affects the senses-
like leaving Colorado, trying to will the taste of snow air back to the tongue
but it’s as gone as summer, as Stacy to Georgia

And lying in bed, still as the elderly in church,
wondering which one of our mouths eat the most lies
and which ones spit the most out

I dedicate one sharp inhale to winter

And shut my eyes (the ones I watch you with) to the cold

Never cook with a fairy tale omnibus
open on a kitchen table,
or confuse salt with sugar.

Cherry-pit pies are like eating dragon bones, as to
be expected of one taught to
        never cook with a fairy tale omnibus,

safer to love a beast than to open up to
strangers, precise butchers cutting hearts
        open on a kitchen table;

I love you like salt, preach obedient daughters, omitting
the ease to mix dream with wake
        or confuse salt with sugar.

i am not
a nail to hang a picture
a switch to turn on a light
a key to open a door
a broom to sweep a floor

so why must you think
it is okay
to treat me like these few?
i am a person
a mind
a soul
i was not made
to be used


- j.m.d.