I wish I could have stayed with you,
and felt how it is to be touched again.

Who broke the rules,
Who broke your heart?
Why was the counter so sticky?
Even more beautiful in the rain
Or in the madness between your lungs.
Who broke the rules,
Who said it first?
Does it count if I lied through my teeth.
One rose for us all
But someone got there first and stole them all.
American as it seems it's still unfair.
Thank you for teaching me the sorrow in solidarity.
If the palm of your hand could cleanse each sin
blood would cover my body.

You are only as beautiful
As the scent of your soul;
And gasoline can't seem to light any fire
But your own.
Wrapped up in twine tighter then your grip,
Pull the string, I'll spin fast enough to forget your face
Again.
One, two, three spokes and sticks
To scrape the cornea of a third eye,
Barely wide enough to see freckles on your face.
Painting sidewalks red with chalk
To hide blood from Christmas morning,
Ignoring every warning;
Do you think leaves brown and fall to die without a meaning?
Palms up, veins sprawled,
Come inside and prove yourself to the rusted copper sign on my spine,
Warning of a fine line.
Splatter spatter dots and scrapes
On the white wall beneath a triangle window,
Crossing a bridge you swore you'd ignore
Back to the soles of my shoes.
Red white and black or blue,
What's it matter when my bones and blood are no longer bruised.
And it doesn't make sense why we don't hold hands,
And why we can't help singing the words to our least favorite songs.
Today I heard you breathe,
Saw you bleed and slam a fist on the table,
Because for every flower that wilts and dies,
A secret garden dances ballet toward torn petals,
Blooming blue from red.

Here's to pianos.
To uncut toe nails and broken jaws.  
Here's to sweaty palms and fancy door knobs.
The last tissue in the box and third graders who know every single dinosaur.
Here's to prickly legs and furless cats.
Slamming doors and rubbing alcohol.
Fun house mirrors and wet towels.
Here's to the boy with the sweaty armpits,
And the biggest heart in the room.
Here's to all the girls who will never give him a chance
Because his hair is greasy
And he always has pieces of apple stuck in his braces.  
Here's to grandmothers holding their children's babies for the first
And last time.
Here's to six foot tall nine year olds
And acne covered foreheads.
North Ohio and beehives.
Here's to wrinkles and back pain,
And the kids who never change for gym class.
Here's to burnt papers and wrongful convictions.
Faked I love you's and backwards t shirts.
For every broken leg and broken heart,
Seasonal depression and ADD.
For unshaven armpits and ripped jeans.
Frequent showers and twisted ankles.
****** mattresses and forged signatures.
Here's to the things that remind me of you.

Dad.
I will always remember when I was thirteen and you came into the living room and said
"We have nothing in common anymore. Nothing to talk about."
That broke me.
At the time I didn't understand what you meant. But now I've grown,
and the years have gone by,
and I think it's finally clear what you meant that day you made me cry myself to sleep.

I have always been a Daddy's girl.
My first word was "Da Da."
You taught me how to walk, ***** trained me, took me to the doctors when I was ill.
I used to lie on your belly and watch football with you, even though I had no interest in sports
and would rather curl up with a book instead.
But I tried.
Because thinking even your gender is a disappointment to your own father is a pain so sharp, so unfair that I was willing to try anything.
I remember when you bought me a jumper, bag, trainers, t-shirt with your, our, favourite team on them.
I proudly wore them to school, only to be pounced on by the older boys.
"Haha, they're *****."
They kicked my bag and stomped on my trainers.
But I didn't care.
It wasn't only football.
I remember us sitting on the sofa watching Laurel and Hardy videos, stuffing ourselves with pizza,
you beaming down at me as I laughed and laughed at the silly man and his angry friend.
That made you happy.
There were lots of things that made you unhappy.
If I spilled a glass of milk, or drew on my hands, or forgot to wear my coat to school,
you'd transform into the 'other' Dad.
A man I didn't know,
still don't know,
spitting and screaming at me, your wild eyes vacant of the real you.
The shifts made you tired, and I crept around when you were in bed,
and even when you were awake, afraid to bring out your Mr Hyde.
Being ill didn't help. You clung even more desperately to life,
Mr Hyde coming out when anything went wrong.
It wasn't your fault,
but try telling that to the ten year old me.
All I knew was my Daddy might die.
I was scared.
You were scared.

I'm still scared now, at nineteen years of age.
I finally understand what you said that day.
We are like a ghost of our former selves.
When we sit on our separate sofas, I can hear the faint laughter of our times watching Laurel and Hardy.
When we greet each other on a morning, a grunt from me, a grunt from you, I remember our embraces.
Now it hurts to touch.

How can I love somebody so much who scares me so much.

Butterflies can't see their wings.
They can't see how truly beautiful they are,
but everyone else can.







                                                                                                                      People are like that as well.

Losing you was hard
but Alice
you have found
Wonderland

Tell me where to draw the line in the sand
Between being a brother
And being a father figure

Sands of times
Life lines are drawn with a big stick
Theodore Roosevelt is smiling on a young all american clueless teenager turned young soldier worrying about things no others should struggle with
A 16 year old dealing with social rejection and seclusion
A 13 year old trying to find where holding hands stops and tongues meet
A 7 year old who has migranes daily from a father who never was

I can't drawn straight lines
A rocking chair watches the tides wash away a single phrase

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