Ask me,
Ask me now daddy.
What I want to do when I grow up.
I want to be happy.
No, not happy
I want to be happiness.
I want to be joy and cheer and admiration
Confidence and peace and optimism

I don’t want to be like others, no, I want to be love.
The smile that comes across your face when they say your name,
The look that makes your heart skip a beat,
The song that makes you rethink every second you spent together.
I don’t wanna be the poem, I wanna be the emotion behind it,
Not the first kiss, let me be the nerves,
Not the dance, let me be the excitement,
Not the Officiant, let me be the vows.

When I grow up, I don’t wanna be a doctor mommy.
I want to be the feeling when someone’s told there’s a cure,
Or when a parent finds out their child will live to be a teenager,
Or maybe I want to be 3 in the morning when a mother holds her child for the first time.

I want to be affection and adoration and passion
Oh, I want to be passion.
Let me be passion.
So that you cannot do without me, because nothing without me has meaning.
So that when you are playing the final strain or scoring the winning goal,
Or writing the last chapter or finishing the last paint stroke,
You will think of me.

Maybe I’ll be allegiance or devotion or respect.
I won’t be the soldier, I’ll be the loyalty.
Or the surprise in a child's heart when their dad comes home early,
Maybe I’ll be the feeling when a father meets his baby for the first time,
And the child already knows his name.

I want to be piety and faith and worship.
I don’t want to be the pastor, I’ll be the lesson.
Maybe I’ll be the obligation behind the first baptism or first communion.
Maybe I’ll be the words when someone so low is told someone loves them.
I’ll be the salvation of the gospel,
The redemption to the guilty,
The forgiveness to the sinners.

When I grow up,

I want to be the opposite of sorrow,
The antonym of misery,
The reverse of fear,
The contradiction of rejection,
The antithesis of disappointment,
The inverse of insecurity,
I want to be the alleviation of anxiety,
The ease of pain,

When I grow up,
I want to be happy.

Look
men made a habit
out of wanting her
see
men like blondes
men like curves
men like ***
some men
want it all
because I guess all men
want to date
actresses

Norma Jean

little girl
never had a home
passed around like nothing
never had a home
and was passed door to door
abandoned
because her mother
lost her marbles
a girl
who was only wanted by men
since childhood

Norma Jean

she heard
a chorus of lies
every time someone
called her name
and she was not good enough
so she dyed her hair
not good enough
so she changed her name
not good enough
so she became an object
and when she could act no more
when she looked into the mirror
and couldn't see herself looking back
it was
not good enough

Marilyn

a star
with the most useful tool
looks
but couldn't focus the little things
so three men left
instead she focused on the audiences clapping
focused on the people loving her
focused on the men in the front row whispering

Marilyn

as they let her beauty
invade their souls
like a main street ballyhoo
playing praise to her
not knowing
each note was bittersweet
making her feel elated
and crushed
crushed beneath the chains
holding her too strongly to her past
behind every compliment
she felt his wandering hands
the hands of a man
an orphan was supposed to call
father
or the hands of a boy
the boy she was supposed to call brother
because her whole life she was only wanted for one thing
and the men in the crowds only echoed
what she had known all along
that she was
not good enough
so she dyed her hair
not good enough
so she changed her name
not good enough
so she became their object
not good enough
so they mocked the woman
who only aimed to please
calling out to her
holding her up
not knowing she would

fall

see
the depressed have an intimacy with death
it’s there in their dreams
but sticks around for their nightmares
and the fans turned to one another
trying to determine
the distance between joy and sorrow
not realizing that depression
can push the distance
making the tallest mountains
look like ant hills
creating decrescendos so soft
they fade out of existence
and for a moment
it felt like the entire universe
had begun to cry

distance must be an illusion
the woman can’t be
dead

Marilyn

her life taken
transforming the way people think
about emotions
and for an instant
it was like sadness
was a tangible thing
like you could reach out
and feel it
like for the first time
you could see happiness and sadness tango
in a dance so slow and delicate
that we finally understood
the history was so important
to know the woman
all we ever had to do was

look.

My cousin’s hair was the shade
of eggshells, or snow
on a winter afternoon. Skin

pale porcelain under long
sleeve, hoodies and sweatshirts, jeans
tight on thighs, tense.

Trace of blood peeks
from under her sleeves.
Strawberry syrup, sweet nectar

dripping from pancake skin. Hot
like the burns from the radiator
she hugged as a child

thinking a warm friend.
Or the bug bite, poisonous
from a friendly looking spider:

hours in the hospital,
followed by angry car rides
to homes that weren't.

She didn't catch fire, she was
flames, melting
girl known for naked nails,

long legs under black jeans
and a hoodie in July. She slept
the days away in her room.

Stuffed teddy bear, razor
blades, no longer hidden
out of sight. There was

no one there to see.
For weeks she wasn't
seen, a putrid smell resulting.

Her bamboo plant left
wilting in the kitchen.
Spiders watch from far corners.