dear mom & dad,
i’m sorry i only write about *** and
alcohol.
the two skip hand in hand, with bedroom eyes
and laced up limbs.
but at least i only **** intelligent
men.
i made the mistake of moaning names
that held no publication,
cleaning someone’s blood lingering
inside vacant minds.

dear mom & dad,
i’m sorry i blame everything on you.
but let us be honest, your genetics have baked
a pie that tastes like
chaos and ethanol.

mother, esoteric, scripts i cut
my fingers on,
your bloodline is in every poem i write
about love.
i think we’ve both been falling for the
wrong ones.

mama, do you remember the dream catcher you broke?
feathers and glass.
my nightmares consist of knowing i will never amount to
anything.

father, knowledge like yours never ceases,
spilling and surging.
but you are sad. sad. sad.
i smell your smoke through cloths tattered.

beer was a better lover to you, than
anyone could ever be.
i have been in competition with inked, broken souls.
tell me i’ll win every gold medal.
i take everything from you,
but one day i’ll make you so ******* proud.

dear mom & dad,
the scars are slipping but the sound of broken
plates shake(quake) my nightmares.

dear mom & dad,
maybe we can sit and talk about our lives.
maybe i’d rather chug rat poison.

i. the night you called me over-sensitive was the night
i filled myself with empty soda cans. i attempted to wash away
your scent. 50. 51. 52. times.
it all still stinks of you.
ii. you used to make me wait until three in the morning.
you never apologized. the last time was until four, and you greeted me
with a kiss that peeled my lips off,
threw me against the wall feeding me words and stale fragments.
iii. the night you said you were ******* her should
have been it. instead you held me,
and i imagined her blonde white hair, her pasty thighs bouncing.
you used to say you loved my cinnamon skin.
iv. you want to return to what we were.
but we were never anything except petal filled wishes and
gluten-free mistakes.
v. do not look for me anymore,
i am gone. i will be gone. i will be kissing stars and men with
accents and minds that are unlatched.
do not look for me anymore.

911 used to be scabbed on the back of my
knees, and soaked carpets
were like coming
home. her eyes were nothing like
mine, and the police always
wanted to know. but i hated the way their
lips smacked against their teeth.


911 used to be tied to my fingers with
****** ribbons, and if you ask me who my kindergarten
teacher was, i couldn’t tell you.
chocolate milk nights were thick with
bruises. i made friends with the images in between the tiles
in the bathroom.

911 used to be etched on my stomach,
and even now i cannot see red blue and white flashing lights
without wanting to puke.
six months is forever when you’re seven years old,
but daddy
always said life is too short
anyway.