You have been told that rapists were men in black hoodies
hidden in twisting shadows and dark alleyways.
****** offenders were always leering old men in rags;
never blonde haired and blue eyed and always smiling-
not once did you think to question the intentions
of his warm and familiar fingertips.
When you find yourself locked in his claws
and he tells you
that you must want it
don’t be a tease.
Look at what you’re wearing.
A sliver of skin mistaken for an invitation.
Do not be surprised when your mother
also asks you what you were wearing-
but do not forget.
Remember this for the next time.
You will also try to convince yourself that you asked him to,
but the scars on your sister
and the tribe of women with cut out tongues and pleading eyes
who stare back at you from your reflection
tell another story.
Tell your mother that no matter how many flowers she throws over the mass grave
she cannot hide the stench of rotting corpses,
do not pretend that you are okay when you feel all the lights inside of you begin to shut off
because your body has grown tired of sounding alarms and raising knives
against intruders who wield toxic gas and atomic bombs.
You have been taught to hold your tongue and to smile like nothing is wrong
but now your mouth is filled with your own bite marks and it is hard to hide the blood.
You should not have to.
Your words can crumble empires
and redeem centuries of trauma embedded in bleeding wombs.
It is time you used them to stand up for yourself.

My breath is barbed;
skeletal strings shift into smoke,
drifting into the shadows
as the darkness will choke.

Pearl snow stuffs my skull;
my grandmother in an earthern womb,
sleeps under it all.
A tombstone the last thing we bought--
a report card of her life:
She is with Him in Heaven, In Paradise...
With Him, Without Pain--
is speculation but turns into thought.

The icy steps do not deter me
as I sit on the crooked concrete spine;
speaking to her, hoping the snow
does not make her cold, any more,
'I can stay a while longer...
I do not have to go home, yet.'

-

Eco-friendly light spills from under the door,
forming a pool as yellow as diseased skin.
The brass doorknob is like a girl I once loved:
******* the outside, hollow in the inside,
unable to be moved and okay with it.
Fury from a faucet fills the bathtub
and rings my ears with its intent:
to fill a void and go away when cold.

She lays in the water
the city treats better than us,
wading in a wealth of watermelon wash;
her body flushed from fading flesh,
pores swim and stretch around
cursive carvings, kissing cursed curves--
and I sit upon a bone-white curb,
stirring my finger in the soup of her day;
watching the drain ****, wondering
if she'll, too, drift away.

Ashland is a small town
on a small planet, in an
ever expanding universe.
The people here are bitter
and so is their spit, from
full-flavored cigarettes
and diluted kisses spun
from the lips of significant
others, that didn't listen to their
mothers, and married because of
irresponsible reasons, like personality,
respect, love, and other, 'Jesus, **** me
the **** now, so help me.'

Abstract thought is dangerous--
to the mind it's cancerous.
Alone and thinking about
melancholy shaped memories or
kisses that would echo through
your lungs, stomach, ******* soul.
Don't do it. Don't you invite the devil,
killing yourself is so concrete, it must
mean more than a concrete floor,
hovering above a rumored hell and a
definite uncertainty so delicate that it
eats into you with its sensitive meandering
disguised as beauty but, really, a violent,
violent, murderous host, hoax, fake but
eating your superficiality, programmed by
someone else, telling you it's you.

Ashland is a small town,
aren't we all a small town, inwardly.

Mass graves breathing,
like beached jellyfish.
Ketchup packet pastels
painting a diner dish.
I sit and imagine
so many things and more.
I smoke ribbons of grey
that dance around
the diner door.

The people move
and have so much to say.
Watch them scurry and hurry
through the invisible day.
The sun's colors bounce off
weekly washed windows.
And I suffer from the certainty
that my fulfilled dreams
will fulfill me,
as I flick ashes into the world
for the wind to carry away,
dragging shadows.

Can you see the monster in the trees?
Hush for a moment, start to believe.

The monster with fingers made up of sticks
Taps on the bark, Click, Click, Click!!

The monster with eyes of glowing red
Stares at your soul, feelings of dread

Can you see the monster in the trees?
Hush for a moment, start to believe

The monster that growls a deafening moan
It sinks inside you, small or bit grown

The monster that walks and stalks its prey
Sounds of it's footsteps, come closer it stays

Can you see the monster in the trees?
Hush for a moment, start to believe

The monster with shadows as big as a house
Darkness surrounds, chasing the mouse

The monster with teeth as sharp as a knife
Cuts through the flesh, a moment in strife

Can you see the monster in the trees?
Hush for a moment, start to believe

The monster it whispers "Don't be afraid"
All in my head, things that I made

The monster it sits alone in the end
Lonely and sad and tears never mend

Can you see the monster in the trees?
Hush for a moment, start to believe

Chocolate colored Toms, Cool Blue and Navy, too,
North Face jacket, give me some individuality
I wanna feel ethereal; violently, annoyingly
happy. But the sky is as black as lonely cancer
without a soul mate; I know what it's like
to kiss as you erase her.

Hauntingly, melancholic instances ingrained
into my gelatin mind and
stayed.
And the smolder
from the brand on my shoulder
frayed.
I wish I could alter my reflection,
but the mirror I've bought,
somebody else
made.