I need to forget
but i can't
when we're standing here
in the hallway
in a small crowd-

we're the only ones here
who've ever been important
to the other
and it's still the same
as we ignore each other
through every conversation.
but forgetting is hard
and i find myself twitching
away from the lockers i'm looking at
to avoid seeing her,
every time she speaks.
and i watch her half turn
every time i say anything as well.
we may act like we don't notice
don't see
each other
but i see nothing else

I need to forget
like she's forgotten
so this doesn't hurt,
but i hold on,
tighter and tighter
every second
because i see my reflection
in the purple lockers,
see every tear
every worry line
every whisker
every scar
and i hate that person
so i turn around
to the only person
who's every loved him
to find her gone

but hold on anyway
to a memory
to a shadow
to a lie

we're the only ones
who've ever mattered to each other
in that small crowd
so i stand there alone
and no one notices



©Brandon Webb
2012

He throws the booster seat on the carseat
and I squeeze in among all the crap.
I close the door and he floors it.
squealing through the grocery store parking lot
blaring tech n9ne.
he almost speeds into the blackberry bushes
but jerks the wheel to the right at the last second
and makes it feel like we're gonna flip end over end at every speed bump.
he take another quick turn, a left, at the end of the lot.
we turn left again at the four way, without stopping.
he speeds up more when goin up 7th
and the car starts smoking around the trailer park.
we reach my house and he burns out in the short stub of driveway.
I get out smiling,thank him, and fall into the ditch.
The can of monster falls out of my inner pocket, so I put it back,
dig myself out, close the door, which I hadn't successfully done
and walk toward the door.
they back out, almost hitting the apartment fence
and speed off toward his house.

this is a rare moment in my life,
my dad being who he is,
stupid thrills like this are few and far between
so I treasure each and every one of em

half hour after midnight
and she says
"help, he loves me, and it's confusing me"
i try my hardest
but it was just yesterday
i left that note on her dresser
and i know she read it;
she didn't pretend like she didn't.
So
I'm crying
and shaking as i help.
then she says
"i'll just talk to you about it tomorrow"
and we say our good nights
and our see you tomorrows
and all that.
and i look back at my empty bed
still crying
and i don't stop,
can't stop
the tears just flow
and i can't stop shaking.
so i listen to sappy love songs
occasionally wiping my desk with kleenex.
an hour later i give up
and climb into my empty bed
still shaking
still crying
sometimes i wish she really knew
sometimes i wish someone did



©Brandon Webb
2012

glare at me all you want grandma
but you know i'm just showing him I'm entitled to a life
and i'm tired of the lies
and shaking till i can't stand whenever he comes near.
tired of the misery and the boredom and fear.
tired of coming home at three
tired of having to hide the fact that i've learned to be me.

we need to stand up
and break off all these pairs of handcuffs
he's put on us over the years
before I get the **** out of here
and settle myself down thirty miles and a ferry
away from this place
where i don't have to see his face
or hear his words
which drown the world.

so *******, im gonna take a ****
at one-thirty in the ******* morning cause i'm tired of this.

Tired of you making yourself casserole at midnight
just to avoid the fright
of him slamming the door open
to scream about how you're wasting power using the oven
to make food he won't even eat.
first thing i'm gonna delete
as soon as i plant roots someplace else?
the memories of my own ******* father as the devil and this prison our hell.

we've gonna stand up and show him we're right
cause i'm tired of always losing the fight
and having to take a **** in the middle of the ******* night
to avoid his sight.

you're own son:
42 years and you're **** well done.
My father:
17 years of drifting farther
from him
on his own whim.

lets stand up
while our mind are still focused on this bump
that seems sewed
into our road

As our words flit across the screen
I see her on the other side
In her bedroom, or somewhere in her house
That smile she always wears when talking to me
(the one that confuses me because it is shallow and hides a deeper meaning that I can't read)
Stretched across her lips.
What are her intentions here?
what does she gain from this?
From seeing me with another
Not five feet from her
On her night
And knowing she set us up.
What do the eyes hidden behind the screen hide?
What thoughts?
What emotions?
What secrets?

I wanted to be there with her
downtown
before she had to work
so i could plant one on her at four
and say,"your mom grew up eight hours ahead of us.
so there's you new years kiss"
but i wasn't
i left her on facebook
with a quick,"brb"
cause i had to run to the store to buy biscuits for dinner,
and with my family,
that become a half hour trip
two blocks up the road.
I got back and she'd already left
so I watched the clock change to four,
went into the bathroom
and cut, a few times
not a full relapse.
just enough for blood,
not to feel anything,
not like i did a year ago,
screaming at the world
at the stroke up midnight,
one knife in my hand,
another somewhere on my dark bed
the neighbors riding their go-kart drunk outside.
I bite my lip
and keep my face looking rougher than most days anymore
but,
at midnight
I don't break.
And the tears and blood stay in my body tonight
leaving only old tears tracks
on my tired, bruised cheeks
and four recently dry scars
on my hairy, pre-scarred leg.
And i sit here in this worn office chair
watching peoples words flit by on this screen
when her name appears,
just home from work.
i didn't expect to see her,
but she stopped to simply wish me the best
before she collapsed onto her bed
after a long horrible day
that's left her so exhausted i can't even ask.
but she leaves and so do I
I hope she's smiling
half as much as I am,
but she probably isn't.
so I tell myself
"someday i'll make it so she is, because of me".
Sometimes the promises to myself that I'm sure are impossible
are the ones that help me fall asleep,
and I'm asleep before I hit the mattress




©Brandon Webb
2012

she smiles minutely as i sit down
just enough for me to wonder
what's going on in her head
just enough to make me take
a few extra seconds to say anything
but we have a short conversation
at a table with other people
and before I leave
I realize
I've ended up breaking down
some huge walls for her;
she was the first sunset beach walk
I took with any girl,
the first time i decided
I would explain my feelings face to face,
and that same day
my first near-seizure
where i ended up flopping around on the floor
of the school bathroom, alone.
She was the first girl to invite me
to a party of any sort,
the first house other than mine I ever entered
the first family to adopt me.
four years and one girl has changed me so much
I think
as I walk back to class
as I do every second period,
I'm a creature of habit
and I thank anyone who has ever made me try anything new
and break them.




©Brandon Webb
2012

Back room of the library
watching him make tea

out of the corner of my eye
I watch them walk in-
Six people i used to know-
There in the other room-
two couples.
One dreaming of a time when he isn't alone,
but stuck in the present.
And one

who used to love me

I turn back,
make my own tea
and, in letting the water heat, turn back

He's sitting alone at a computer.
I watch a once familiar face
peel herself from her lover
and walk into this room.

the conversation is heavy,
barely meant for me
but i can read between the lines
her subject is apparent

"she's gone"
her eyes whisper to me

the latter half of that is a dare
just like old times-
saying,"find her" or," don't"
for once, i can't tell
her preference toward my action

i hope it's the latter
it has to be

But her eyes reveal nothing

I turn back,
continue to forget
those memories

but mix some tears
with my tea
remembering everything




©Brandon Webb
2012

I sit here for a second
staring, just staring
at the computer screen,
Nerves still chewing on my mind
and my stomach
in a way that's almost painful.
And then i stand and turn
and walk through the building
out the door
across the street
up the stairs
past the main building
up the side path next to the stairs
across the lawn
in the door
up more stairs
and into that dark corner
where i wait for everybody
so this creation,
the poetry club
can begin it's second meeting

i feel disgusting-
every itch
every hair out of place
every wrinkle in my clothes
every randomly sprouting hair on my face
every feeble, fragile, weak, cliched word
makes me need out of here
out of this place
this (mental) state
that has, again
turned me into a self-conscious mess
who only sees his own flaws

i want to burn these words
as i write them

want to cut into my face
with my non-existent, bitten fingernails
everytime i scratch

want someone to hold me
to tell me i'm beautiful
(lying through her teeth)

forget that

i don't want to make anyone
feel like i do;
ugly, desperate-
with me clinging to her
as strongly

as these ****** words cling to me

begging me for air
for life
so they'll feel that their existence
isn't a joke-
reminding me, every second
that mine is, for needing them



©Brandon Webb
2012

I open the door-
three in the afternoon
my short hair windblown
and rain soaked
by the seven minute walk home
i've taken to taking
to avoid
the one who used to love me

i opened the door-
he was sitting there
too still to be in that purple chair
four feet from the door
that he only sits in
when the veins in his forehead
are popping out
themselves turning purple.
but, he was smiling;
that melancholy smile that makes me wonder,
even though i quit giving a ****
about him
when i was seven,
living with him in a bus
in a field, someplace.
with a sun lamp
and a *** plant
in the storage compartment

and she's lying there,
dressed, but barely awake
with that thin blue and white blanket
that she's had since he was young
draped over her
on that floral loveseat she's always had
a smile on her face
but tears in her eyes

he swivels the chair
to give me room to pass
but i ease instead
around the separating wall
through the kitchen
and down the hall.
a smile on my face
as i look back and he stands
that old chair complaining
as much as his back

he looks back at me
and i realize
why that look in his eyes
brought the same smile he wears
to my lips;
because he's realized
that i've won here,
that in six months
i'm gone
moving on
disconnecting myself
and becoming my own **** person

he's realized that he doesn't know me
never has

he's seen the way i shake
everytime he's less than twenty feet from me
heard
the waver in my voice

he's noticed the way
that even on good days
i open the door to the garage
five times at the most.

noticed the worry lines on my forehead
the gray hairs on my chin and head
my bitten fingernails
or the spot where I scratched
half of my mustache
right off my face

or, at least
i *** he has
hope he's realized that
there's no hope
for me and him

but
he hasn't
and that conversation
was just something else,
didn't even involve me

i can hope all i want
but until i take it all away
he's never gonna realize
that it isn't
Him
winning here

never has been



©Brandon Webb
2012

I shrug the blazer off my shoulders smiling
"It fits" I say
the joy in my voice apparent.
He turns, smiling and hands me a hanger.
"Good luck man" he says
"I've known you for so long, 6th grade, when you were in 8th
It's been great watching you change
watching you grow
and sharing life with you.
You come visit after you leave
even if I'm gone you know the kids will pull you inside
you're like family man, don't go disappearing forever.
I hope you go far
and I'm excited to see what you do"
These words hold so much truth
that I can't even face him,
I study the tv stand
"thanks man, I will
I'll be back someday
and I know that if I sit outside somebody will come eventually.
Thank you for everything you've done
All the memories we have
and the place to stay when I'm bored and I can.
Thank you for your family
that has slowly grown to be like mine.
Thank you.
I'll be back sometime
Sometime"

It feels too early for them to be playing the ******* Wii
and I realize I can't even see them
but I feel each of them step on my head
hear each of them yell at me to wake up
that I've been asleep too long.
I roll over and try to my eyes
but realize they're already open, and have been.
I unclench the blanket
from my stomach
which is screaming near as much as my head.
And I quit blaming the headache and stomachache on them-
they are fast asleep
and I'm just hallucinating their presence
and 6 in the morning
because those aren't dreams
they are hallucinations.
Or so I find when I take my phone out of my pillow
(beating it on the ground because i can't find the end of the case)
to see why my phone alarm hasn't gone off.
my phone says it is 2:30
and I realize that I set the clock three and a half hours ahead
in my half lucid state.
I stand,
separating myself, in a less than graceful manner
from my brothers carpet.
I stumble through the doorway
lit by the lamp he always keeps on
through the dark hallway
and into the bathroom.
I flip on the light and shut and lock the door in one movement.
my eyes are tired and bloodshot
my head and stomach hurt.
I let a small stream of cold water go
and splash it over my face and open eyes.
that does nothing.
I through more water over my front.
no effect.
I try to scream but no sound comes out.
I open the the door
letting the lock pop loudly enough to deserve a four hour lecture.
I'm tired of lectures.
I stumble back to my makeshift floor bed
and try to lay down.
my stomach complains
I can't bend all the way.
I pick up my blankets and pillows
(silently screaming)
and carry them to the small couch.
I flip the tv stand over and throw grandma's blankets and pillows
I'm done giving a ****.
I throw my bed down and lie there.
for two and a half hours I try to sleep.
I'm too tall
I decide around five.
I stand
throw the tv stand
all the other pillows and the phonebook
the other way
and lay down on the large couch.
it takes me fifteen minutes to fall asleep.
forty five minutes later
I wake up to him screaming at me.

We're standing in the cold, rainy silence
when he opens and closes the door without a sound
and stands on the foot brush behind me
leaning against the garbage can
that always seems to have a backpack behind it.
Without a smile or a hint that he's going to speak
he says,"sup" in a fading, worried tone
speaking to me but looking away.
she takes three steps and wraps her arms around him
smiling at me over his shoulder as if to say- something,
I'm not sure what.
but I smile back, and take a few steps backward
in an attempt to be there, but only on the fringe.
A small circle forms around them,
nobody speaking for a few minutes
and then everybody splits into their own conversations
except me
and as soon as the bell rings, we all walk off
they find each other again and walk together
and I smile for her.
She was like my sister once, for just a second

I've been out of it lately
been thinking less
sleeping more.
goin to bed at 8pm
waking up at 1pm.
I know it ain't the fact that I'm sick
it's all the cough syrup I've been drinking.
never been high on anything
but the world seems... softer, now.
I'm halfway though that huge bottle,
don't know if I'm gonna miss it when it's gone.
I've told myself that I'm not gonna buy more,
but I'm not so sure

those stairs
gave no room
for another
so she slipped
into a seat
between the
barrier bars
and i leaned
against the
badly painted,
strangely shaped
gutter downspout
behind you,
listening to the
thin metal pop
under my
slight weight

sitting there,
you entertained
yourself by
tossing a
small, angled
pebble above,
and behind
your head

everytime
it fell
to the
moss-covered
concrete
which
descended
in front of,
and below us,
you would say
(over the dubstep
emanating from
your pink phone)
the we
didn't have
to stay
with you

but
I
stayed-
there

and
she
stayed-
with
you

as
you
walked
away
from
me

seven
months
later-

I
finally
left





©Brandon Webb
2012

I'm going to be reading Saturday, first reading in exactly four months. I would like you guys to help me pick what to read: send me your 3 favorite titles (a link or description if untitled). I will read the most poular, if not the two most popular (but not the one about my algebra class or dreams,  if you like a section of either  of those, send me the section number). And if you live close to Port Townsend, Washington and would like to hear me read, it's from 6-7 pm at Pippa's Real Tea, downtown Port Townsend. There are two other scheduled readers, both are pretty amazing, and then a half hour open mic.

It's only 11:30 when I plug it in and go bed,
Screaming at myself, tears in my eyes
It had only been five days
and I didn't love her Monday,
I grew into it
and I thought she had too,
until those three words came from her tongue-


"I have someone"

my world shouldn't have shattered
I shouldn't have stayed up all night
screaming at myself and writhing in pain,
clutching my aching stomach.
I should have rolled over and gone to sleep
unsurprised.

I should be used to it
Used to spending nights like this
Used to being dissapointed
To having to turn the thermostat up to 75°
so I'm not cold at night.
To having to get on facebook and talk
so I don't fall asleep completely lonely.
To having to write so I can say
"I love you"
at the end of a poem
just to get those words out of my system.

Incense smoke billows into the rays of fading sunlight
from the nostrils of the stone Buddha head
sitting on the wooden bookcase
which sits in front of the only downstairs window
that looks into the cul-de-sac

I stand in the spreading fog
listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers
over the radio static
on knock-off studio headphones.

My cousins are outside, breaking up dirt to be shoveled in the morning
and I can hear the dull thudding
of the *** against the large rocks
above both the calm silence of the house
and the semi-gurgled music playing in my left ear.

I turn around to look at the kitchen;
the counters are clean
so are the dishes
and a small plate of freshly baked cookies
is sitting in the middle of the island.

I walk from the carpet of the living room
to the warm tile of the kitchen
and the scents around  me change;
The overpowering smell of the swirling mist
being overpowered by chocolate chip cookies
fresh baked bread
and homemade spaghetti sauce.

I smile as I stand in the middle of the house

Over the last few days
I have constructed a new basic description of myself:
I am the seventeen year old
poet with a white beard and baggy, bruised-looking eyes
who only ever uses his left hand when playing badminton.

I scoop up the last armful of clothes from my drawer,
Look at my uncle sitting at my computer
my eyes screaming,"I'm done, that's it"
he nods his head, listening to my aunt on the other end of the phone
and playing with the settings of the security camera dad bought to spy on us.
I carry them into the hallway,
kick grandmas already half open door
drop them on the bed
and sort them out;
a pair of pants,
I lift the shirts from the Mexican midnight takeout box
insert the pants,
put the shirts back down
add another pile of shirts
and fit the socks and underwear along the side.
this is the third box
and it's done.
three boxes, a clothes basket, a backpack and a computer
and I feel like a hoarder, like I have far more than I need.

as I turn around I feel him wrap his arms around my neck
and ease his tear filled eyes onto my shoulder.
"I love you, Bubba"
he says, in a voice deeper than it should be
"I can deal with him,
but living without either of my brothers scares me"
I start crying, I can't hold back the tears
all the pain and suffering of eighteen long years
finally **** near over
and I almost start grabbing clothes and stuffing them back into the drawers.
I almost say
"I can wait six years for a life"
but I look into his eyes
and see that he's telling me not to stay
that his heart will be torn up
but he can make it through
he always has.
twelve years old and the strongest person I know.

we stand there embraced for a quarter hour
crying until we have no more tears
until we have let out all the anger and fear of the last nine years.

we stumble into the dark hallway
eyes red, swollen, and damp.
Nobody asks any questions
and we continue on with our day,
my entire life piled up on the far side of grandma's bed

I stop halfway up 12th street
and stand there, letting cars pass me
not moving an inch.
I want to stay there
standing in the freezing rain
staring at the last curve of the road
until I fall over
frozen and soaked to the bone
waiting for someone to stop,
to get out, wrap me in a hug
and pull me to their car.
but I know  nobody will
that I'll die here
forgotten on a busy road
so I continue on
back to my empty, useless, repetitive life.

they approach me during intermission
as I sink into my chair,
a crowd of people I don't know gathered around
nobody speaking to me,
his voice startles and awakens me,
traveling fifteen feet to me, over the din of this crowd,
but not traveling an inch further-
and carrying my name,
which he could only have matched with my face
through a detailed description of the latter
and a memory not common among eighty year old men.

as he approaches I can see him better:
a few inches short than me
with a large *** belly and hair that is thinning, but still present.
His voice is strong, and his eyes are studying
but he wears a hearing aid that look like a blue tooth for an 80s cell phone
and glasses that are larger than the ones i never wear
but smaller than most of the hundred pairs in this room.
His wife stands next to him:
a small woman, filipino
with a soft, almost absent voice and a gentle smile
but eyes that show the extent of her sadness
and the mass of winkles on her forehead and cheeks
make her appear a decade or more older than she is,
that make the three and a half decade age difference between them seem to shrink.

We speak for a minute, we smile and laugh
and then they leave

When I was younger
I realized that if I only liked one girl at a time
only thought about one
I became obsessive and never ended up with her
lately i've realized-
If I think about several girls at once
and tell myself
I'll give the thoughts of the others up
If I ever
end up with any of them-
I don't get obsessive,
I get confused
but confused is not obsessive
confusion limits how extreme I allow my emotions to become
but having any feelings at all
for a girl
is enough for me to fall for her if it ever comes to that point
but tracking multiple lives
and often getting so extremely confused
leaves me unable
to break through my shyness
and anxiety
to take a chance with any of them.
Just because I write about other girls
don't assume i'm not thinking about you
you're here
I just find it impossible to write about people who may read
what i've written about them.
I write about you
in my head
but rarely write any of it down
sometimes I hope you do the same

right now-
I hope you read your name out of this
and aren't offended

I feel the last few spare hairs fall away from the crystallized tower on top of my scalp
as our adopted mother walks by
spitting smoke into the breeze
which is blowing away from us,
letting the words
"I do wish you could just kiss and make up"
spread along the outline of the fading smoke
coming from nowhere obvious
spurred on by nothing.
I hear the voice behind me agree
and I murmur my own agreement
but I see none of that when I look into the eyes of her eldest daughter
I see no chance of me rekindling anything
with the girl inside, cleaning the kitchen alone.
For the first time in three years
I see no love for me in her eyes
and I watch her hands pick up papers and ***** dishes
and realize that they will no longer be in mine
I see words hidden behind her eyes
but realize I will never hear them
as I run through the kitchen on my way to the bathroom
to expell from my bladder my attempt to caffeinate her away,
as I run through her house, my second home
and realize she hasn't even bothered to meet my eye today.
I look in the mirror at my hair
and smile wide, forgetting the tears that have been frozen in my eyes
since I realized that I had lost
the first person to find me
the first person to find out who I was,
so I smile as I look in the mirror and see someone completely different

I can see tears in her eyes
as she looks down at her desk.
She's always smiling,
this is different-
a raw side of a random girl I barely know.
I write on a sticky note
"you ok? you seem sad,
what's wrong?"
I peel it off the pad
almost put it sideways on my textbook,
but instead, put it on my notebook
facing me.
she leaves for a second
i put it on my textbook
facing her.
she comes back-
i take it off,
put it back on my notebook
facing me.
a little later,
i pick it up
to put it back,
but instead
curl it up,
put it in my pocket



©Brandon Webb
2012

For once, the tears aren't falling from my eyes
As I stand on this stage
the arm of the middle aged blond woman-
with a smile frozen on her lips
and tears frozen in her eyes, ready to fall at moments like this,
resting on my shoulders.
And with every word she says
I see another gurgle of raw, teary happiness bubble out of the short shaking woman
sitting in front of me
whose name, face and voice I know
but who I have barely talked to.
The applause is too much
it's all too much.
I take the check,
give a her a 30 second hug
and sit down next to my aunt.
She hugs me and the whole room smiles
the principal takes longer to stand, drying her face
but announces the next presenter just the same.

I just moved my chair
from the computer
over a pile of backpacks
three feet from the coffee table

she rounds the corner of the counter
comes through the door
sees me
and backs out

Jumping over the couch
they grab her by the shoulder
and guide her in

I pick up my chair
move it over the bags,
back to the computer
and sit, facing away

she pulls her hat over her eyes
leans against the couch arm
and looks the other way

nothing is said about us
or to us
we're just there

compromising is **** near impossible
when comprising with the **** near forgotten




©Brandon Webb
2012

I think too much to sleep at night
but that's what makes me rip the mic

- IN-Q

First note of the year:
a small tan thing that falls to my desk from his hand.
I don't recognize the name
but I know immediately who and where she is.
He lets me out a minute early
as we're all congregated around the door
waiting, patiently for the bell.
I walk into the room
to find her jump roping
in a third floor classroom
at ten in the morning.
Her's is a face I have never seen
and her name is also unknown to me
as i the reason i'm here;
who told her about me.
but we talk for a few minutes
her words slurred almost unnoticeably by a slight southern accent
that makes me feel better about just sitting here and talking.
after ten minutes
a face familiar to both of us melts in through the doorframe
and we all talk
until a face all three of us know
also slinks in
and sits on the sofa
and our conversation continues
about everything,
and nothing,
and ourselves,
and everyone else.
the minutes creep by
and feel bad for not being in class
but this feeling, here
with a couple of good friends
and the short jump-roping lady with the slight southern accent
is peaceful,
and for the rest of the day
i'm calm and my thoughts are collected.
and a few of them
just a few
are questioning my future
thinking how great it would be
to be in her position;
in a room with people she knows
laughing, smiling, talking
and letting them leave
with smiles and calm thoughts.
more than traveling and meeting people,
learning their stories as I go;
this is where I belong
or is it?
I can't answer that
even with clear thoughts.

Someday I'll be able to-

Someday




©Brandon Webb
2012

He pulls my hand
and I stumble up the stairs
holding two backpacks, four books
and a lunchbox full of old toy cars,
nearly tripping
but landing instead on the second floor landing.

The blinds covering the window in front of me
split slightly,
just enough
for me to see her smiling eye watching me.

I don't know her name
and she doesn't know mine.
we've never said anything real to each other.
we know nothing about each other
other than that she spends a lot of time there
at her grandparents house,
speaking Portuguese, Spanish and English
and listening to Spanish rap on the balcony
loud enough to hear through the floor
of the apartment I only spend six days in a month
and over the occasional fight between my family.

That's all she knows of me;
my fleeting ghost walking with my brother past their window
thirty or so times a month,
talking
but almost inaudibly, and never to her.
wish i knew her better
than as the eye peeking through the blinds



©Brandon Webb
2012

mio amore è forte
Mia's amore è ... sconosciuto
as I weave my way through the crowd
sometimes moving to the side,
sometimes bending at the waste to avoid arms-
as if playing playing limbo,
sometimes jumping over low limbs
(much to the disagreement pf my ankle and knee).
trying to catch my brother
who, being much smaller than me,
fits easily through the crowd
and disappears under the cookie table to her right.
She's standing with the black haired girl from the pew in front of us,
both smiling and laughing at my approach.
and when I finally find him and take him by the hand
I stop and talk to them
to her.
My Sunday was hollow in the absence of her presence.
I see her an hour each week
down around those little tables
where I often sit next to her
as I have since day one-
but this being the second Sunday of march, that didn't happen.
so I feed off the smile and the short fleeting words
and every time I pass her,
by that table
the coat closet
the nursery
the kitchen
the espresso machine-
we fit a word or two in.
At one point I join the line to take dishes to the kitchen,
hidden in the crowd
I hear her sister and her talking, about me
about me smiling at her, talking to her-
or I assume it's me, they give no name.
I smile and the person in front of me moves
but I was already turned and she doesn't notice me eavesdropping,
so I wave and continue on.
in the 20 minutes after that
she stays at the youth trip donation table
and we don't talk, since I have no money.
So I wander around instead
talking to some of her siblings or the occasional pastor.
I wonder if she sees the look in my eyes
if she can sense that when my life changes
I plan to continue coming here for one reason-
her.
I want to somehow stand up and ask her on a date.
but it is futile, what am I?
I'm poor no matter how you slice it
whether i'm in a family of four or a family of six,
and I'm nothing worth looking at either.
she is rich despite having 25 siblings,
rich enough to live in a huge house on the Hill,
to deliver snow from the mountains
and feed over 20 people.
and she is beautiful, indescribably so-
gentle and quiet, until she speaks
but her words don't define her near as much as her actions
which again assure me that she is gentle and shy
that the loudness is a facade
and a well practiced one.
she blushes when I'm near
and her words are always forced out through a smile
but I don't know whether that's just how she gets with guys
I've never seen her elsewhere.
I would tell myself to ask her out,
but she deserves better than me.

I will break down that wall in three months, if I don't before
with her
or another

You put your face up right next to mine
and scream out a list of rights I don't have:
the right to make tea in the morning
the right to stay up past 9 pm
to carry mouthwash with me
to use my own soap
to hang my coat in my closet
to spend more than eight hours away from home each day
to change plans when away from you without telling you
(no matter how small the change)
to open my windows or back door without permission
to open the back gate at all
to speak when you are not present

I want to write a ******* autobiography someday
and have more than a chapter
and that chapter ain't even here:
If I sit and think about my life,
I have no real memories with you.
The memories that count are the ones spent away from you

Playing on the playground
of the apartments by the mill with two friends
(both of which are now ******* druggies)
or sitting in the back of his aunt's station wagon
when one of em backs into the mailboxes
(at the age of six)

Building forts in the woods at four corners.
Bonfires, frog catching and golf at Anne's.
Wandering trails while camping with them.

Running through the woods with ubie
building forts from old tires, grass clippings and sticks
and playing endless games of fetch with her.
Some days we'd walk the creek back to the fern grove
some days we'd skip rocks by the "waterfall"
and some days we'd slip under the barbed wire to visit the neighbors.

The old **** lab in Carlsborg
which we labeled as "the barn" since it was one-
had plenty of small passageways that we'd play  hide and seek in.
But some days we'd get bored
so we'd go past the church to the rock quarry and climb the hills
or we'd walk the trail as far as we were willing to go
or climb over the abandoned canopy into the neighboring field
and walk over to visit the horses and goats.

Port Angeles was long walks for me,
trails dark and ominous that always led to the park
or roads that always continued on forever,
until I found that one house that I used as an anchor.
Ryland was born there
So was me, not I, but me, the beginning of ME

Then there was Taylor cutoff-
A mile back in the woods
by a junkyard
and a quarter mile from the Dungeness.
I would walk the river most days,
past the farms near the hatchery,
where the power lines always crackled
and the abandoned barns called my name.
some days I'd take the bus to Sequim, others to PA.

Dabob was a trailer that we packed full of memories-
Pulling hoses up long hills to water small trees.
loading up the truck with wood chips for the yard.
rolling boulders into trees with the tractor.
Taking Ryland to the ER for croup.
And fitting three people into a five by ten room to sleep.
not to mention:
bonfires, fireworks, bobcats, mountain lions, 3 cults and *** farmers

This is the ****** though, Edmonds-
city life, and I'm ******* loving it.
I want to write myself a life, father
and I know where to do it
and how
and it ain't here under your oppression.

Three months and the story changes

I take my wallet out of my pocket
as I get ready to pull the blanket over me and go to sleep
I take my wallet out of my pocket so that in my sleep
the razor blade I keep inside
for convenience
doesn't slip out and cut me up
more than I would like to be.

I let that little bit of leather rest in my hand
and stare at it in the light from the worn lamp with chipping black paint
that silently stands over my computer monitor
lighting this small corner of the living room
that I live in.

My wallet is lighter
and there is a bulge missing
the bulge that I always kept at the front
in the same slot as my razor
after the string unfurled and my neck started to ache.

Yes, that coin is gone
that little Moroccan good luck charm that you insisted was special
even though there was another handful of identical coins in your cupholder.

It's gone and so are you:
it is no longer rubbing against my thigh as I walk
or hitting that hollow spot in my breast bone every time I take a step
and the line of blisters that formed around it when I got sunburnt while wearing it is gone.

And your words are no longer ringing in my ears
my fingers are no longer aching to tap my thoughts into my phone to you,
I have no tears in my eyes as I set my wallet on the little makeshift table
that my computer monitor rests on,
that your phone would rest on.

I only smile as I look at the string curled around the feet of the clock that you found
on the other side of those boxes
last time you were here.

I smile at the string that once held that coin
that I was considering putting the little plastic coin
painted the color of your car
and carved with the words "Washington's Lottery"
to prove to myself that I am a winner
that I do not lose at every aspect of my life.

But I realized the other day I didn't need to
I didn't need that memory of my success
because I can flip off any car even remotely similar to yours and feel no shame
I can walk down the road and watch you turn around in a parking lot fifty feet in front of me
just to avoid me
and know that I have won freedom
from all the pain you caused me
because these nights I don't have tears frozen  in my eyes
and my legs don't bleed.

I let my wallet rest there in the lamplight
and turn off the lamp.
I pull the comforter over me and wrap myself in that fuzzy blue blanket
that I once said I preferred over you to keep me warm
laughing as the words rolled off my tongue
because we both knew it was a joke.

But it isn't a joke anymore
the prefer the slight warmth that gives me
over the artificial warmth of your skin
since what's hidden because pumps ice through your veins.

I curl up under that blanket in the darkness
on that couch we almost went all the way on
and would have if my aunt hadn't been twenty feet away.
I curl up under that blanket alone
and feel for my now-flat wallet
smiling as my palm rests on the leather
and I remember the bulge that is now on a chain in my sister's bedroom in Sequim.

You have left me
and I'm happy for that.
I bring my arm back to me
and tuck it under my body
smiling because I'm alone
and smiling because being away from you
being rid of you
makes me smile.

Somewhere in your lecture, you say
"you have addiction problems"

you don't know how right you are
but you don't know how strong I am.

I have fought pills, cough syrup
energy drinks and cutting
and you'll never know.

but I've won.

I may have addiction problems
but I ain't gonna let morning tea turn into one.
I trust myself more than you ever have
and that's what's helping me learn to love myself
and beat those addictions.

so drag me down all you want,
but all it's doing is helping me stand tall
(and showing me what I can defeat,
by getting me started in the first place)