the cool of the winter
does nothing to keep us from panting
and sweating,
our bodies tangled in heated kisses.
the chill of his hands
and the warmth of my hips do not divide,
they multiply and i'm sure that if the sun
and the moon could come together
to make one noise,
it would sound like his voice.
you'd think the stars in the sky
would be brighter than his smile
but even sirius can't outshine him.
his eyes are filled
with planets
that have not yet been discovered
and stars that shine
ten times brighter than the sun;
his body is a galaxy
that i'm not scared to get lost in.

i don't watch home movies
hate them
reason being because
when i was young
i was looking for a movie
my mother
had recorded for me
and accidentally
put one in the vcr
that i'm not sure
i was supposed to see
i know the obvious response
"uh oh, ****"
sorry to disappoint
they were only marked with dates
  1991
on live television
montel williams asks my father
"how can you just throw
your child away like a piece of trash?"
   1994
i spend so much time
in the emergency room
that my parents stop
penciling in growth marks
on the frame
of my bedroom door
i always thought
it was because they believed
i would never grow out
of this sickness
sometimes i believe
the reason that they
never bought me a dream catcher
was because they never thought
i'd live long enough
to see them come true
   1996
i am eliminated
from a spelling bee
because i didn't know
the 'dad' is silent in 'family'
   2013
before i got into poetry
i used to do standup
none of my jokes were funny
one of the other comics
tells me my skits are dry
sometimes sad
he says "why don't you joke
about something like your family?"
so i say
"i never wore any sunblock
because i didn't want anything
to keep me from my father"
i say "what do you call christmas
without lights or heat?"
before he has a chance
to answer
i say "1997. better yet
why don't you
make like a dad and
leave"
   2014
every time we drive
past the hospital
my mother reminds me
how much it cost to save my life
like she'd rather
have her money back
she doesn't have to say
that sometimes she wishes
it was me who had died
instead of my brother
i can hear it in the way
she says "love you"
sometimes i imagine
that if i were to die
that she
would pick out a casket for a child
because she never loved
the person i became
yesterday i told my father
how close i'd been
to suicide lately
and he said
"that's my boy,
livin on the edge.."
and i can't remember
if i laughed
or cried

the only time you dream about her anymore is when you’ve drank so much you swear you can see her name at the bottom of the bottle and suddenly you’re punching your fist through the dry wall and calling out for her like maybe she’ll answer like maybe that’ll bring her back. it kind of makes you think that dreams aren’t random because you wake up thinking you can still smell her on your sheets and your chest caves in and you think maybe the part where she comes back isn’t the dream, maybe the dream is the part where she ever left in the first place. you keep looking at your hands and you can’t remember how to keep them from shaking because she always did it for you and now they aren’t shaking because you’re nervous but because her smile won’t leave your mind and every time that song comes on you have to turn it down otherwise you’ll hear her laughter again and this time you don’t think you’ll be able to survive the pain. you walk down the street and you think you can see her curly hair and her pale skin but you remember she’s gone she’s gone she’s gone but she’s never really gone because you can still taste her on your tongue every time you drink whiskey or red wine or anything, really it’s like you can’t remember anything but her. you can taste her on your lips like she’s still here with you but your fantasies are always ruined by the memory of her leaving and your arms feel empty even though she was gone before she was ever really yours to hold and you ask yourself why you can’t read books anymore you tell yourself it’s not because your eyes only see her name it’s not because every word on the page reminds you of her tell yourself the reason you don’t write anymore isn’t because all you can ever write anymore is her name stop remembering the way she held onto your hips so tightly like she was scared you were going to fly away and maybe you were but you always wanted to fly away with her but she was too fragile and the wind took her away you tried so hard to hold onto her you tried you did you did you did

i can't stop thinking of your hands. everything is spilling through the cracks of my fingers like hourglass sand. i can't take control of anything, it's no wonder i've always hated driving. the words on the page are starting to blur and i can't seem to get my eyes to focus because all they can see is your name. this year in psychology i learned that we choose what we want to listen to, that we shut out everything that doesn't seem important to us and it makes sense now that i don't hear anything unless it rhymes with your name.

I) Mama, I’m so tired. I’ve taken 10 hot showers and rubbed my skin raw but I still taste him in my mouth. I still feel him, trapped beneath my fingernails along with all the refusals I yelled out repeatedly. Mama, why didn’t he listen to me when I said ‘no’? He still lingers in the spaces between my thighs; he’s seared himself onto my skin, and it feels like the time I was 5 and playing with an iron. Except this time, I know the burn marks will not fade. They’re all over me mama, and I think I want to die.

II) Mama, it’s been four months now, and I flinch whenever someone touches me. There seems to be a problem with the synapses that weave themselves like tapestry across my brain. All they do is transmit warning signals and sometimes if you listen close enough, they scream danger when the boy in chemistry class intertwines his fingers with mine during a panic attack.

III) It’s summer now, Mama, and the beautiful boy from chemistry generates heat with me in my room, instead of within the whitewashed walls of the chemistry lab. You should see the way he looks at me, Mama. All the formulas in the world will never be able to explain the way he loves so selflessly. He’s different; gentle and slow, patient and kind. The corners of his eyes crinkle up when he smiles and god, when I’m with him, I almost start to believe in a heaven.

IV) I think I’m going to be okay, Mama. The burn marks are fading and my soul is healing. These days, I've started to take long walks on the beach with chemistry boy and at sunset, he pulls me into his arms and we just lie there, soaking in the explosion of colors above us. He tells me that he loves me, and I know this to be true because his heart is beating so fast; I think he just might combust. It is a beautiful life, Mama, and I know I’m going to be okay.

He doesn't like the taste of black coffee
but he swears he could drown in her eyes.
He hates mornings
because there aren't any stars to look up at
but her smile shines just as brightly.
The sound of birds chirping
makes him want to scream,
but her voice sounds like wind chimes
and he wouldn't mind waking up early
if it means he'll get to listen to it.

I've been listening
to a recording of rain
when I try to fall
asleep


I've been learning
to share the space
on the bed
with myself


to let my dreams occupy
the places made
cool and empty


I fall asleep to rain
and wake up in my own arms -
that will never stop

wanting
to hold me