At first, you think a thief in the night
has come to take you away.
And though you know that can’t be right,
you pick the truth that suits you.

A bump, a grunt, an earsplitting curse,
all signs that point to heartbreak.
Not thieves at all, but that means it’s worse--
Dad’s coming up to your room.

You throw your blankets over your head.
He makes his way up the stairs,
all sweaty cheeks and feet made of lead,
all cruel thunder and bluster.

You wish that he would pour it all out,
the drink that makes him this way.
You want to kick and you want to shout
and break your turtle figurines,

the ones he buys you every time
he smashes your lamp to pieces
or you make his blood pressure climb
by being small and worthless.

What’s next, more holes punched into the wall?
Or maybe red-faced screaming?
How can your dad love alcohol
more than he ever loved you?

The Svedka never braided his hair
or scratched his back or hugged him.
It didn’t have a father who wasn’t there
even when he was.

Hide under the blankets for now,
little lamb. It’ll all be okay real soon.
This is the last time he’ll come to your room
full of fire and mixed drinks.
You’ll still be afraid and broken inside,
but at least he’ll be broken, too.

She’s got a cheap cigarette
she uses to bury us all in smoke.
It hangs off her lips
and wobbles when she talks.
She’s cracked open a new book,
another ****** romance.

It’s always romance,
she says, taking a drag from her cigarette.
It’s in everything, in every **** book.
Each word she speaks is followed by a puff of smoke,
small clouds that form as she talks
and roll off of the curve of her lips,

the very same lips
that told me romance
is for suckers, told me talks
of love are talks of nothing rolled into a cigarette
she’d never smoke.
She’s burned pages of a book

before, left small holes in her **** book
when a gasp left her lips.
The empty space between us is full of tension and smoke
and somehow, romance
that hangs in the air like a half hit cigarette
hangs on the edge of the ashtray. She talks

of mystery and science and pool and our talks
never include that tension, though I could write a book
full of the way she glances past her cigarette
at me, how her inviting lips
beg me to foolishly romance
her by hurling nervous smiles through her wall of smoke.

Clichéd as it may be, smoke
alarms scream when she so much as talks
about any sort of romance,
if even just the fictional sort in her book
and I want to sear her with my fire, burn her with my lips
just like she burns her cigarette.

The smoke from her cigarette doesn’t bother me anymore
and I can’t help but watch her lips when she talks.
I keep holding on to hope that maybe I can be a chapter in her ****** romance book.

Inside
You have jars of butterflies
Bending their wings with gloved hands,
You tell me they're already dead
And under the mattress, I can only imagine
But it's cleaner than the sheets
At least
You're the scientist and the priest
You're the jagged rocks beneath my feet
The horrific lie with a shining defense,
The proof that the middle is as low as it gets

To say you'll pick up
Is a fifty-fifty shot
But that means that you are,
Just as much as you're not
They tell me I'm pretty,
If only that was enough
Seems even kids get sick of candy
If they eat too much

The tree outside does dance,
Moves in such a way
That the dying light of day
Has me entranced.

Such a blissful feeling
Staring at the pirouettes
Of the branches' silhouettes
Upon my ceiling.

A colourless cascade
Of contrasting dark and light,
I could watch this scene all night
But light does fade.

I can see the world in your eyes
Behind those thick frames is wonder
Imagination
Reality becoming something magical and at the same time all together real
Tangible
Magical
Beautiful in ways that others can no longer see
You child are something special
Something unique

I can taste what life should be from the way you smile
Fresh
Wild
Glinting in the sunlight like dew on bright flowers face
Oh you are the brilliant
Bright in the height of day

Deeper than the deepest
More vibrant than the colors of the brightest star
Just being who you are
I celebrate all that is you

Yes you
There Poet
I'm talking to you.