An open letter to my mothers boyfriend,

When you blame millennials for the current state of our nation, you are disregarding the environment we've learn to survive in. Cookies hanging over our heads, blindly following the sound of people celebrating empty dreams. Dreams recited by our fathers.  I am not trying to place blame on you, as I know you too have been infected by these unspoken rules. You too had a cookie hanging over your head. But I want you to know that our cookies just look different. As time passes recipes’ recalibrate and cookies transform. And I feel for you, maybe you’re still chasing the cookie, maybe it’s getting harder to chase, or maybe you ate the cookie and still felt hungry. But if we really want to have this conversation, about the current state of our nation, I’m gonna need for you to stop talking about cell phones and 20 something year olds and start talking about where these cookies came from!

How many times must my fists smack your stiffness until you soften?

I don’t want to use my fists, I’m not violent.
Even in defense, words raised to take the hardness,
silently, repeat, repeat.
Raised to repeat, repeat.
I never wanted to be violent.

I don’t want to use my fists, but your stiffness is contagious.
I don’t know how to look at you without them,
smacking every corner, separating hard shells.

I don’t want to use my fists.
my hands,
They’re raw and dry, too sanitized.
and my shell is colliding, oozing, fermenting
into juices of the berries you forbid.
I don’t want to use my fists anymore.
My hands want to open, softly.  
Sweet unfolding fingers
offer demons blessed darlings.

There are days I dream and feel like an imposter

until I remember we’re all imposters living in unrealized dreams.

we wish to wake the shadows we don't own

the sun don't shine in places unknown

you've put monsters in our heads
monsters in our beds

come home

our eyes may hide but we still see the lie

our hearts are meant to sing you deny

you've got monsters in your head
you're the monster in my bed

go home

What an insidious dance among your
tone teeth and tongue. Words not formed to be heard, just flashing the flags you claim.

All actors acting the leads in roles of plays they don’t write.

Moving tongues become obsolete on stages build in concrete.
And as I watch
I wait
I listen for those words of choice to sound less like a noise and more like voice.