You are an idol of stone
You do not move, you stand at the doorway and watch
You do not talk
You stand at the doorway and watch
When you thunder downstairs to your mistress
Your wife sits blue-eyed on the bed
That is old and ugly, its wood full
Of red insects that bite, but you
Will not let her sell it
For you think it is just fine

When you drive away with your mistress
There is laughter in the house
There is a board-game
Of fickle fate and try
That your wife and your children toss dices upon
And there is so much chatter and so much sound
All red things crawl back
Into the deep deep dens of the bed
That your wife got from her own house
And that you will not let her sell
For you think it is just fine

When you laugh, it is like storm
Sounding through the fingers of the city
And you make so much noise, it startles the sky
It makes the fat dead TV wince at its past
It makes the gruff old drawers never want to move again
And you are always here
Such loving god:
We cut the stone from which you came
Into pieces, pieces, we carved so many of you
Now you are in every doorway
And you do not move

When you return from your mistress
You are happy
You put the new TV on, loud and the news
Of the city flood the house
You are a news yourself
You cough like a steel glass falling in the silence of the night
When everything is sleeping, you cough like its bouncing
That goes on and on, and like its spinning stop
You cough and you chew on the furniture wood
And you make so much noise

She cannot sleep

Well, after, you are still; grey-eyed and corpse
And the insects come; and they do not bite stone

the first time i walked across the golden gate bridge
i was too young to appreciate it
and too old to hold my sister’s hand.
now i read about the people who throw themselves off it
and imagine the universes hidden in each person’s head.

i’m not afraid of the things that go bump in the night.

once, a turkey bit my sister.
i have read more romance novels than i can count.
i have taped bandages over cat scratches,
and i have given important words to unimportant people.

i once taught a little kid how to spell assassin.
i have lived in eight different houses but never felt at home.
i’ve kissed boys,
and i’ve kissed girls.
i thought i was in love once.
i liked squirrels until i got too close to one.

i’ve avoided the south.
i’ve walked three extra blocks just to avoid a church.
and i have been burned at the stake.
i’ve felt flames on my thighs and ropes on my wrists,
and i’ve walked away with scars.
and, in the winter,
i’ve jumped into more rivers than i can count.

i lost my sense of humor this year.
i lost the little kid,
but i still cry when i spill my coffee.

once, i had rabbits.
i was eight when i found them
near the compost pile
laying in a puddle of blood.
when i was five i was nearly trampled by cows.
when i was seven, i almost drowned.

but i still breathe.
i still paint my nails black and sleep without resting.
i still bite my lips till they bleed,
and sometimes i wonder what i’ll look like with white hair.
i wear suspenders every chance i get,
and i try to shut doors quietly.

i will drink sweet coffee every morning until my heart stops beating.
i’m still waking up, though.

i guess i'm spending too much time alone. alone, that's right, all-one. one of me, two shots of the cheapest ***** i could find.

my knuckles are scarring. like my fingertips would, back when i was happy enough to hold onto things like music instead of, just hold on until three, that's it, then i can let myself bleed.

no, this isn't right.

i think my heart is too small for my ribs, i can feel it slipping through the third and the fourth. skidding, slippery, across my bedroom floor to collect dust under my desk.

i'm hiding from more things than i could ever count, but mostly its the five-six-seven-eight-when-will-it-end scars branding my shoulders and my thighs and my ribs.

but i really am tired of rearranging the same ten songs into different playlists that all mean the same thing. i know that adding one more wouldn't make a difference. mundane.

i've ignored every thought of the ugliest ways to go. a dozen tylenol can **** just as easy as a pistol, that's what i keep telling myself. but what i really want is to maul every inch of my body until i'm soaking my dark blue sheets the same color as the inside of my head.

and my life revolves around 13. haunted number, maybe. maybe there are ghosts around every corner in my mind and i've just gotten so accustomed that i'm treating them like guests.

i've been imagining myself fourteen years from now, how i'll wander around whatever ****** apartment i'm sharing with some stranger. how i'll tiptoe around those floors, trying not to disturb the dust that will have settled over every inch of my skin.

fifteen feels like too many years to pretend but i have to keep up this facade because there are girls who care what i think and who maybe would be hurt if i didn't have the proper insides to think anymore.

i don't plan on living till 27. but you know, things are good. this is fine.