i am leather bound
to last night's conversation.
while thumb thick
in good intentions,
i am beginning to think
you never knew me
as much as you
think you did.
dear, tell me
what has hooked
your jaws into spouting out
these pig tailed assumptions
of me?
you see, i've never been
quite as crisp tide white
as they made me out to be.
always a little fade to my denim.
didn't you know
some stains
can't be washed off?
some fingerprints
can't be dusted
or steamed out in the dew
of a 4 am shower.
and sunday knows
i've tried.
and still try to make it
plainly clear that i left
my mother's baby
somewhere between the arms
of brooklyn.
left her, all koolaid stained
tongues tied to the push pop
fantasies i'd held until
i was about kush high
to a grasshopper.
abandoned her
pb and j sandwiched in an alley
with a trash bag
criss cross applesauce
knotted around her lovely
to keep her just
as warm and naive
as she never had been.
had you ever noticed
the gauche in her grin
wasn't nearly as golden
as it should've been?
and her paperback bone
seemed to fold
a tad too easily.
of coarse
spines aren't meant to
break like that
but they do.
divorce and dysfunction
has taught us that
it all falls down
someday so don't
weep for the jericho
in my bones
but at least acknowledge
that its there;
that there are bruises
too light to be convincing
but they still ache
when you stroke them right.
that some nights the pains
of resurrection memories
out shine those
of the crucifixion.
certain skins must be shed
when your convictions
leave you broken
and the stars you sin beneath
begin to gossip
about your shadow.
and your shadow
finds its way
onto the floor of living room
while it watches you
let yourself be made
into one of the victims
you write poetry for.
when you're trying to bottle
God and grandeur
into the barrel
of the gloc your mother
grabbed in anticipation
of spilling herself
in the wind
when the wednesday's
got too lonely.
listen
stop trying to card me
before accepting
my truths.
i've traveled too
far for ****** to not
assume i've been
in the dark before.
drop my shell
and see the inside
mash called me
has been spilled
and shattered
and reassembled
and shattered
and scattered
and reassembled
and splattered
and bent
more ways
than i can yoga
position myself in.
when you asked me
how could a 17 year old
know the pain of this world
i wanted to tell you
to roll up you sleeves
and unzip your pride.
yes i am 17
but i know everything happens
for a reason and i know
being broken makes
you grateful of the
pieces that weren't obliterated.
i know you can't be
flexible without stretching
and i know how it
feels to be stretched
between 4 states
two parents
and 1 divorce signee.
i know what a blanket does
for someone afraid
of the shadows
and i know you can't
have shadows without light.
i know that florida fern leaves
are consistently stormed on
and never curse clouds for it.
i know i am beautiful
and i know how many
days it took me to find out.
i know i am made of those days
and those days
were born of a maker.
i know my mine
met and got married
and made me and my sisters
and mistakes and i know
they paid for them
in cash and criticism.
i know my father is a good man
and i know good men
lie awake at 4 in the morning
making plans to fix things.
i know my mother loves to laugh
and i know laughter
is the easiest way for her
to cough up her worries.
i know she almost drowned
on dry land before
and i know she was one of
the best swimmers in my family.
i know i am still learning
but i've learned
we know a lot less
than we realize
and feel a lot more
than we recognize.
a draft