i wish i could turn
you into a liquid
something
softer than water
stronger than coffee
sweeter than lemonade
more sincere
than blood

i would bathe in it
watch it stain my skin
and stick under my nails
as it washed away my fears

i would water all my
houseplants with it
they would grow to the ceiling
turning sunset colors

i would drink it
the same way i drink
the summer rain when
it blows onto the porch

i would use it as an
all-purpose cleaner
acidic as vinegar and so
much better at polishing counters

if only
i could turn you
into a liquid
maybe i wouldn't
be quite so
dehydrated this summer

or maybe i would
just be slowly
poisoning myself
from the inside out.

i didn't understand half
the words he said
and i don't understand half
the words you write

michael jackson
and waylon jennings
wrapped in a paper towel
"papa would be proud of you"
scratched in the back of
a children's book

it's the oddest thing
to no longer miss
someone who's been
gone so long

an odder thing to sit
in silence on your bed
with the fitted sheet all pulled
off the side next to the wall
feeling your best friend's
little sister's scratchy blue
nylon mattress rub
up against your sore feet

and open card
after card
after card
filled with glittering
words of praise and
monetary gifts

and then read about all
the things about you
that people think are
worthy of mentioning
and you start to
see a pattern

"thank you for serving"
"humor"
"creativity"
"imagination"
"let God lead you"
"keep rapping"

(thank you
and by the way
i don't rap only
occasionally slam)

it starts to feel like a
bulletpoint hallmark eulogy
like you've left your body
and are reading about someone else
reviewing all the better
more visible parts of yourself
the parts deemed loud
enough to be acknowledged.

and you start to see
what's lurking off
the edge of the card
and the words they didn't write
the places that you
went wrong

the question marks
behind their eyes
wondering why they
haven't seen you for two months
why your hair is a different color
why someone else is in your seat

and the semicolons in
your stomach
when you realize that
you've made a mistake
and even with all the hurts caused
you've still got a family out there.

i'll say this
when it comes to
graduations and funerals
you find out who your friends are

the people who matter
will show up in the end.

am i mislead in thinking
that sometimes people
don't say everything they
think or feel until it's too
late because it takes a
loss to make them realize?

it's 2:53
is it wrong of me
to think that sometimes
the devil turns us
against each other
for his own schemes?

hours past my bedtime
but i can't sleep because
i'm over the edge and
if i turn out the lights now
i'll be awake until the
sunrise with panic attacks

it's 2:54
is it wrong of me
to think in terms
of either-or?

i'm a little weird
in that most of the
music i listen to lately
is just ambient noise
instrumentation
designed to make
me feel less
choked

2:55
a pain in my chest
i'm afraid of death
even more to stay alive

i get scared
of myself
sometimes at night
when i'm alone
because i know
i'm the only one
with the motive
the power
to destroy
myself

and i start feeling
powerless
helpless
i know where the
knives are
i know where the
pills are
i know i'm smart enough to
figure out how to tie knots
but sometimes i don't know
if i can talk myself
down from that ledge

and i get scared
of losing control
i don't really want to die
i don't think?

is it
3 yet?

someday
will you walk into
my room
lie on my bed and
stare at the ceiling i stare at
every night

smell the
mishmash of
stale perfumes
on my clothing

play my guitars
read my books
touch my walls
clutch the afghans
i made in your
tight fists

and
cry?

or will you think
that somebody
made a mistake
and that mistake
wasn't me
leaving
but was you
staying?

i could write about
a lot of things
like my day
or how the pavement
looks when it
rains slightly.

or how the parking lot
feels when it's full
of cars and void of people
or how i feel when i'm
surrounded and
afraid.

how i'm angry and
insecure and
i don't owe anyone
anything
not my friends
not enemies
or elders
not an apology
or a single
**** explanation.

but i think i'll just
forget about the
whole thing and
write about death
or something
nice like that
after all it would
weight less on me
then the words
on my fingertips.

i had assumed
that i was done
struggling with
all that identity crap
but now i've concluded
that everything we ever
fight is a battle for
our own lives.

and it's odd
to think that i can
have such a strong
sense of myself and yet
my personality can
be so unlike that self.

there are more layers
to a parking lot than
what you might
first expect.

i suppose at one point
there were grass
and trees and pure
unadulterated dirt
and then somebody
leveled it
maybe added a coating
of gravel and
paved over it and
put some vehicles on top.

but that doesn't mean the
layers aren't still there
under the asphalt
i mean.

and that's what i'm saying
is that i've got something
under the pavement
i just can't get the cars
to move out for long enough
to tear up the layers.

i feel other people's wheel marks
burned into my skin
and the signs and lines
that proclaim no parking
have been vandalized and
ignored for too long.

how do you tell a parking lot to stop
without looking crazy?

and there lies the
exact problem
i care
too much
what people think
i look like
and i don't mind if they
think i'm insane
but i mind if they don't
like me
there's a big
difference you know.

and there goes
another piece
falling into place
and the
puzzle not
yet completed.

do you remember being
a little girl
and how your mother would
brush your hair?

every morning she
would put it up
in a ponytail
or two
maybe a braid
if things were looking
particularly
auspicious.

and every morning she
would take the tiny
jewels she carried
in her pocket
and weave them in
the hair elastics.

well, it looks like
you're older now
but you still have
things in your hair
holding you
down.

your mother's words
who you were supposed
to become
it's all tied neatly
up in your pigtails
a series of knots
no boy scout
could ever untangle.

you've taken scissors to it
enough times
i know you have
but it's no use
when they always come back
i know you're no
rapunzel
but you could be with your
tired neck.

so every night you let your
hair pull your face
down upon the pillow
and your jaw fall open
but only when it's so dark
that the eyes that are always
watching you
can't see through
the cracks
between your teeth.

you find yourself
waking up
gasping for
morning air.

or maybe you never
find yourself waking up
because in your sleep you
choke and strangle
in your own
dead weight hair.

prayer huddles
more like
prayer
hurdles

a conflict
roadkill run over
my four wheels
must jump over.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

i'm standing
in the middle
every cell wall
shuddering
at the cold hands
soaking through
my backbone

trying not to
shift my weight
or mix up my
hate to ease
these exhausted
feet of mine

do not tip
do not sway
do not tilt
i don't pray

nod politely
accept
the words they
speak.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

suspend your
smile
over your
thoughts
the way you hang
curtains in the
backseat of a hearse
say thank you
walk away

and do not trip
do not slip
do not crack
do not break
a sweat
do not
scream
the death
in your lungs
on your way
down

slipping off an innately
acquired grid and falling
into a vague state of
comfort between hell and home.

just place your feet
correctly
it's ballet
balancing the feeling of
your mother handing
you a bulletproof vest
before your
chess tournament

a dance of graceful
denial
a waltz i have
mastered
in my spare moments
between broken ankles.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

this poem is the
opposite of
watercolor silk and
cardigans
worn over any
truth i know

it's heeled boots and
red acrylic draped
on white
the eyeliner drawn
up around my
conscience

the way the
room looks when
it's empty
when what's
hanging over
the rafters
is shaded by
an enemy.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

my entire life
feels like
a prayer huddle
prayer hurdle
roadkill run over
my four wheels
can go
no further

unless i
swerve
to avoid
what i so
desperately
try to hide

or run
right over
and destroy
the lower
parts of my
pride.

because at the end
of the day
when i bend and
fade away

when i can't stop
myself from
tripping and
slipping off that
grid upon which
my sense of
direction so
relies

when i lose
those games
i play behind
my eyes

that's when i hit
the dirt track
and circle back
around
until my legs
grow sore and
my chest
will no
longer
hold air

but i still won't
break a sweat
or scream that
death

because
my eyeliner
is not
what happens
to be
running.

I remember how the
Blood used to run down my back
Like I was killing
The back of my mind.

The blackness smearing
Down to my cheeks as I let
The water dissolve me like a
Sugar cube.

And I sometimes think how
Useless someone else's shoes are
Because to truly know someone
You must stand in their shower.

My shower is stained now
From the hard water
And there isn't any more
Blood.

Literal, metaphorical or
Fictional
It's all gone
Washed down the drain.

Hot, hot water
On a Friday night
Hot, hot water
It's not like it's that different.

But I still remember how the
Blood used to run down my back
Yet I'm still struggling to
**** the back of my mind.

We do not speak
Of what happened in the woods.

It was a
Smashing good
Night
Smashing good
Show
Simply
Smashing.

I brandished a golf club
And the remnants of
My self-respect
But didn't we all?

We do not speak
Of what happened in the woods.

Three wine glasses
One mug
Three jars
A house fan
Two buckets
A glass globe
Half a tent
A milk jug
And a lawn chair
Met their demise
At the hands of a string
Of curse words.

I doubt that you could
Break the five of us apart
Now that we've shattered
This glass together.

And I'll start checking off
Those daring
Squares on my
Bucket list.

But we do not speak
No, we never
Ever speak
Of what happened in the woods.

i make my bed
four times a year
because when the blankets
are on correctly
it's not easily accessible
to wear as a cape.

and i sometimes wish that
i could get out of my
own
******
head
and open up enough
to love someone
else for once.

i sometimes spray more
perfume on my
pajamas than my
dresses it's not
aromatherapy but sometimes
i calm down.

sometimes i manage to
forget
about these
disturbing
thoughts
just
reverberating
through my mind.

and sometimes i just
fall apart
but sometimes i pull
myself together.

today is the sum
of those times.