It’s that time of year
when the air is unseasonably warm,
summer’s last push,
last bounce
on the trampoline,
before the street lights
come on
and her mother
tells her it’s time
to come inside.  

I tilt my head
and lean it back,
closing my eyes,
allowing the mixed smell
of tide water
and seat leather
to drive me elsewhere,
back to the river streets
and cobblestone houses
of South Georgia
where my journey began.

The warm night air
fills my lungs
with longing
and nostalgia
more than smoke,
and for a split second,
I’m there:

With the crickets singing,
and the salty spray of the ocean
from the thunderbolt islands
filling my empty places,
in ways
that no other person
ever could.

And I don’t feel
brave
or powerful,
or even beautiful,
I just feel
in control,
and that’s
enough for
me.


There is no wishing,
no hoping,
no dreaming
for a better tomorrow.

Just the contentment
of not knowing
which direction I face,
but the
understanding
that I am going
somewhere.

And for some
God-forsaken reason,
you keep calling me back to bed,
back to a time
when the ocean air was as warm
as the beers in our hands.

That was the night I thought
all things were
possible,
and for the first time
in a long time,
it felt good to feel that
hope.

I hadn't yet tasted you,
not the salt-sting
of your tongue,
and the bitterness
of your cigarette-laden
mouth.

You treated mine like
an ashtray,
giving me your embers,
flakes and burnt-out ends,
but only in the chill
of January air.

I was never allowed inside
to warm,
but watched from
the porch,
cold and hard,
listening to your laughter
bounce off ceiling beams
and floor tiles.

And even now,
when a lifetime
stands between
you and
me
and that beach,
I can't help but think
that those sandy shores
are more comfortable
than my own mattress.

And I will stand tall
through the bitter winds
and rains of this life
that have beaten on my bedroom window
since I was a child.

I know now
that the howling winds
and clawed branches
are not monsters
but my own fears
of failure
and the fright
of never again
finding the light
I've been missing all this time.

Though I am cold
and worn
and tired,
I stay awake,
keep watch,
and make sure the
candles are lit for
those who need me,
both near
and far.

For while the winds may screech
at my door,
there is a door for them
to scream at,
and that is more
than many can say.

I stand in familiar soil,
dry with ambition
left untouched,
and promises
left in the sun,
but never planted.

It’s not that I’m happy,
I’m tired.
I’ve always been.
The skin of my hands
cracks
under the weight
of a wheelbarrow
used to move the words
that have shriveled,
gone stale.

But still,
I plant
and I dig,
and I work the land,
planting the seeds
of my future
and narratives
promising myself
that soon
the flowers
will bloom.

When you’re seventeen
and drunk off of
poetry and
peonies
and promises,
you start to give
pieces of yourself away.

It’s easy at first,
parcelling out knees
and elbows, and
all the bits of you
the world has
taken for itself
on playground sidewalks
and crashed bicycles.

But when someone wants
not the spaces
in between your fingers
but the one in between
your legs,
wait.

Not for marriage
or God or
even the perfect person
to come along
because they never will.
And that’s okay.

Wait for yourself to grow
and to love someone
like candle fire,
a slow, bright burn
that makes the
darkness of night
seem less
frightening.

You’ll fall
in love
with people
like broken glass
that gleam under
streetlights
and cut your
hands
as soon as
you touch them.

You’ll sleep
next to lions
and cowards
and drug addicts,
some too scared
to touch you.

And some promise
to never leave
you in morning’s light
without a new scar.

Because they don’t
understand that you are
yours,
and yours
alone.

But remember
no matter
if your secret places
were found
or taken,
your light will
return to you
one day
when you least
expect it.

More often than not,
I find myself face down
on the floor
in some fit,
some tantrum,
some quarter-life
crisis
that eats up at my soul
and makes me feel everything
I never wanted to in the first place.

It's not one of those
fall down seven times
get up
eight
*******
Sunday morning service
motivational pat on the backs
that your dad gives you
when you fall off your bike
and scrape your knee.

No.
This is the fall where you
cover your head
to protect yourself
from your boyfriend's
fists
who don't mean it.

Where you wipe your nose
and mouth
and spit blood
in the bathroom sink
because you have dinner with
his parents
in an hour.

This is where
you get carpet burn
on your knees
and stomach acid in your
throat
as you try to drown everything
that tries to drown you,
night in
and night out
wondering why God can't
let you be.

There's a dog barking
outside,
and a chill in the air
that I can't put my finger on.
I can't see the moon,
and I wonder if she's okay.

I wonder where she is,
and if her boyfriend is
treating her right.
And even though it isn't
enough,
I sure hope he is.

There aren't many things
I get right in this life.
I light cigarettes just to watch
them burn,
and drink liquors
that taste like gasoline
to watch them burn through me.

I've never been someone
to love someone else
without loving
how they make me feel first.

And all the men and boys
and drug users
and *** addicts
call me a *****
and call me cold
because I can't love them more
than they love
the valleys of my ribs
and the lavender that grows
in them.

But the truth is,
that I don't think
I'll ever be able to
love someone else,
not like I love
sitting on the porch
of a chilly morning
or the crimson color
of paper cuts
from the $2 tattered novels
I buy from junk stores.

There aren't many things
I get to keep in this life,
other than my own scars,
dreams, and vices.
And I'd rather them consume me,
turn me into ash,
then be the dust
that sits on top of
books unread.