I dreamed of my father
crossing the fields
on his one-eyed tractor
mowing acres of sadness
heading east of a moon
that'll be gone tomorrow
and I waded the creek
beneath a ridge
where my mother is shearing
dead roses and the smell
of those flowers floating
to the foot of the mountains
reminds me of her hair
and my father's laughter
disappearing across the hill.

You look me in the eyes and spit,
          And I kick dust on the wet spot on the ground.
This is how we are, a conversation; you never cared to call me something like my name.
           I never cared to see you in any way but under my boot with blood on your teeth.
               There is no moon above us, even when the sun’s gone to hide at the nearest bar.
This is not a war that can be won with pickets and strikes.
The only way to end the battle
                                                Is that someone has to die.
        A standoff only ends when one is left standing, it’s the rules,
but you never did care for rules, and breaking is easier than bending.
               You never apologize and I never want to hear those words come out of your mouth.
            The sun’s gone to hide at the local bar and it drinks whiskey shots like water.
It has seen us fight.
            The moon doesn’t want to come out, stays tucked safe in its bed.
It has heard stories.
                         Only the stars act as referee, calling out which one of us died better.
            It’s all an act, a ******* contest, and you sure are good at wetting the ground.
                 I’m better at covering up where the bloodstains were,
                         stain chicken feathers red as the sunset, Please, I ask you,
Let him win one last time.

                               The hourglass broke, the sand mixing with the red clay,
And you claim to know that his time is up.
                 I claim to know that you’re a lying ******* who takes what isn’t his.
                        And you claim that I’m just a child,
                                           but children don’t know why their knuckles are
bleeding
                                           and children don’t get why their jaws hurt
                                           and children only bleed when summer is restless
                                           and children never pull real guns anyway.
          You brought a knife to a gunfight,
                 a gun to face the firing squad, a one child firing squad,
                    knees stuck together with blood and chicken feathers.

Please, you ask me,
Let me win one last time.

                     And I learn that breaking is easier than bending;
And I learn how my name sounds on your lips.

Saying too much is regretful.
Saying too little is poignant.
But what is it when you feel
you've  done both at the same time?
There are words left on my tongue,
shards of sentences I'll never utter
shards that I had to swallow.
They cut deep into my flesh
and my insides turned into
a patchwork of glass, scars and blood.
And yet my mouth is dry,
tired of everything I let slip through my lips
when it should've never seen the light of day
or reached your ears
or reached your heart.
I keep thinking I should've known.
But I shouldn't have.
My mind would've gone mad
had I not released it
of some of its burden.
My heart would've dried out
had I not let
a few drops of your ocean
seep through.