He said, "Tell her it was your fault,"
As if a four-year-old drawing Spiderman in art class was the worst offense--
Messier than the milk he spilled that morning and louder than he'd scream that night
As his mom looms over him, saucepan in tow.
"Tell her it was your fault," he insisted as his mom got out of the car to collect her son,
Her property, her punching bag, and bring him home to God only knows what kind of house
Full of whips and chains or--perhaps worse than that--sheer normalcy and the emptiness of a wealthy family's home
Since a life lived being pushed around is one that feels bare like a vacant motel room
Where one day he'll sit, thrown out of his house by his wife and kids
Who will be stronger than his mom was, braver than she'll ever be.
He just wanted me to say it was my fault so I did, but it wasn't enough to break the spell
And now I know that nothing ever will be
Because five hours of statements with the police and interviews with child services
Won't effect change in this boy's life
Because if his saying, "Mom hits me" can't,
Then nothing will.

She gave her rabbit an ear infection
And she goes out of her way to step on ants,
She crashed her car into a deer
And she purposely doesn't water plants.

She won't put ***** dishes
In the dishwasher like she should,
And she prefers not to write thank you notes
But if she does they're never good.

She wastes paper because she wants to
Not because she doesn't realize she's doing so,
She leaves the bathtub running for a second too long
Just to watch it overflow.

She argues with professors when she disagrees
And she'll do it in front of a class,
She hasn't learned just yet how
To speak to anyone without sass.

She says mean things to babies
In the sweetest sounding voice,
If she's helping someone make a decision
She'll encourage the wrong choice.

She's good at what she does
So she refuses to discuss
That she's not a good person,
But honestly...

...she's better off than any of us.

Now that I'm gone
I see how it's true
That when you're physically gone
Your mind is too.

Mine's in Montreal
Where there's no right on red,
Where I woke up to a roommate
Fast asleep in her bed.

Until August I'll keep dreaming
In French words I don't yet know
And how I'm missing the few months
Montreal sees no snow.

As I get older
I hope I get bolder
And say how I feel
So I don't have to deal
With feeling regret
And being in debt
To everyone who
I seem to put through
By not being blunt
And refusing to confront.

Home smells like
Kitty litter
And a just-lit fire.

Home sounds like
Footsteps
And the washer and dryer.

Home tastes like
Thick oatmeal
And peanut butter.

Home looks like
It's organized
Amongst my clutter.

Home feels farther away
Every day that I'm gone,
But I'm willing to let
The days drag on.

The whispers of the wind
Between our lips
Before they touch

Ask us why we say
So many goodbyes
If we love each other this much.

I release
Every sound
And bit
Of sweat
That would
Have escaped
Me had
I been
With you
Instead.