close your eyes

right
now.

space
the **** out.

watch and

wait

for those
****** thoughts
to surface. and when they do,
describe them.

give them crazy long fangs.
give them a mane made of fury.
let them summon that buried hatchet.

let it
do its
worst.

then
watch that ****
dissipate
into the forest
of thinky thoughts.

the worst thing I’ve ever done
was letting the world
know that I write,
it’s not the 2am phone calls
asking if I’m okay,
it’s not the regret of
of relationships or
the running away,
it’s the look in my mothers
eyes when I write about dying,
it’s the regard to kin
when holding certain
emotions in,
forging positivity
and relaying
the antiquities
of struggle,
the minuscule
moments of will
drill into minds
painting all kinds
of doubtful abstracts,
creating spousal transacts
of how to fix their son,
it’s not the questions
about what I mean when I
say my skin spits goose flesh
or my eyes wrap yesterday
in spruce mesh that
eventually frays,
it’s the days where
I get kindred
phone calls
wondering if I’ll pick up
because of writing
the night before
stating that
I’m skating
on thin ice,
I dont want them to worry
I’ll be fine,
but for now it’s the pen
that has to unwind
the noose from
confining words
I refuse to say.

i raised her
with a violent birth
my vocal cords tangled
like a drunk couple
making love
with her name.

she emerged from
the slit in men's throats,
a grown woman,
her sister followed,
from suffocated coughs,
glowing like streetlamps
from mouth to mouth,
never happy,
never settled.

girls like her,
they don't enter this
world easy,
they leave it in a mess,
exit it like a highway,
move on to the
next place.

there's a stain they
always leave,
yellow on the teeth,
marks on bed-sheets,
empty rings on
bedsides with last
nights drink
gone cold just like
their feelings.

just a girl they say,
harmless,
girls have endless love
in their hearts,
and endless hate.