He stands at the crosswalk
Impatience leaking from his nail beds
As his adjacent light glows a harsh crimson
And the world takes an inconvenient forty five seconds to pause.

He takes his iPhone from his jacket pockets
Equipped with their own fireplace
And begins his minute of promiscuity
With perverse and pretentious products,
Stealing his stare from empty space
Outside his feet.

The woman picking through garbage
Is a sad museum exhibition on the Holocaust
Presented to an audience who quote the definition of “genocide”
From the monotone letters
In their tenth grade history books.

Charity echoes like the buzz of mosquitos laying eggs in his ears,
His eyes squint as he winces from October cold.
Rustling clangs behind him and he pointedly looks away, turning his collar up
Seemingly to the wind.

He ignores ***** open palms,
His superpowers seeing through skin
To poppy filled veins
Belonging to a weaponized mind,
But little does he know
They’ve turned his silence into a bomb
And broke his fingers to submission to
Keystrokes and card swipes.

The woman claims her treasure,
Wipes the grime off the rim of the used paper cup.
He puts his headphones in his ears and
Loosens the screws in his face,
Letting his mouth fall slack and void.
The light turns green.

I was a child with apple cheeks
when I learned my art was worthless
unless kept within a stranger’s frame
and I would grow up to realise
it never stopped at the
development of fine motor skills
when toy stores gave me gaudy idols so piercing
fluorescent pink dyed my soft palms
and turned my fists into regal waves
I was too young to imitate
and too poor to afford the surgery
putting the stick in my *** to fake it.

I had dreams of touching the bottom of Mariana’s Trench
and bringing clouds home to my Mom to decorate her kitchen.
If you told me then in a few years
my life would always centre around
whether my blankets were blue or pink
when I took my first breaths
or be defined by the chasm in my body
I didn’t even know I had
I’d question not for the first time
if adults put their brains in jars when they stopped being kids
and dye myself green with grass stains.

Fifteen years later
I am a muddled grey,
an “anti”,
a prefix implying rebellion
when all I ever wanted
was a better chemistry set,
some peace and ******* quiet,
and the wholeness I never knew
would be so painful to miss.

When I was a girl I loved cars and Kim Possible
And green rocks I’d find in the pebble fillings of our school playgrounds,
Because they were rare and therefore special.
I read twenty books on gemstones and minerals and stared at the pictures for hours
Hoping one day I could be beautiful and solid and reflect the colours
You can’t see
If you burn your retinas looking directly at the sun.

When I was a girl I became a driveway because I thought
If I paved myself with tarmac or cement
I’d be hard enough to withstand the weight of everyone around my heart
And grounded enough to support myself,
But the construction workers forgot to check for groundwater
And I caved in when people decided
To unapologetically and unquestioningly park their ***** in the handicap spot,
Mistaking the importance of my handicaps for the importance of their egos.

When I was a girl I became an asteroid,
Seeking a gravitational pull around a star that would give me a name and meaning.
But instead I found a black hole,
And before I realised my mistake in universal direction
Her gravity obliterated me
And absorbed whatever the **** was left
Of the force I could have been.

When I was a person I became a tree,
Rooted to the earth rather than separate
And absorbing the light for sustenance.
I’ve forgotten what it means to be hardened,
But even my cells have walls around them
And now I’m as afraid of the ground as I am of the sky
And brave enough to reach into both
And just maybe find some answers in the crust or clouds.

Sometimes I discover your hands in my hair
are actually mine;
I just spent five minutes
in a waking dream.

I braid my hair
so my fingers don't get lost again.

I want to be pretty.
Not in the way magazines do it
where everything is tucked, twisted, tuned and polished
because I am not an ideal.
And I will never be the Mona Lisa
with a coyness that leaves people wondering
what I've smelled, touched, tasted in
every moment of my life,
because I am not a treasure.
I want to be the kind of pretty
where my little sister can see a galaxy of pride in my eyes
and know she's ten times more beautiful
than I could ever be
(or at least she'll know I think so.)
I want to be pretty in the way that
strangers don't know if I'm kind or
powerful or
manipulative
and are timidly curious that maybe I'm all three.
I want to be pretty in the way that
I am all three, and so much more.
I want to be pretty
so that when I'm older
I can be half as beautiful as my mom.
I want to be pretty so that
my friends see honesty in the corners of my eyes
and security in my fingertips
and hold my gaze with evenness as my equals.
I want to be pretty,
the kind of pretty where you bring me home,
we reflect each other like lighted mirrors
and your mom will smile that knowing smile
because in three years you'll want to see a ring on my finger
and she knows her baby will do it in five.
And I want to be pretty so when my hair is damp,
my eyeliner cakes my face like charcoal
and a towel is wrapped around my body...
When I look in that mirror I see fireflies and lightning
and not an abandoned house
in a quiet street
with the attic light left on.

I want to print letters on paper that bend to form the shape of your hips
with ink that fades to match the veins in your wrists;
sonnets to make the bard weep
and ****** queens put love before country.

You should be reminded every day
that when the light glints off your irises in bleary wakefulness
a morning glory trembles in envy;
that your skin is the perfect canvas for a masterpiece
simply because you absorb colour;
brightness;
life
with each step you take
and hold it in your pores for the world to gaze.

I want to taste cigarettes on your tongue one day
and cool mint the next;
on the third you can hold me in place
and remind me what it’s like to be grounded,
then ******* away when you breathe laughter on my neck.

I want to feel your flighty touch
between the blades of my shoulders
and know your fear and courage
as you mend my splintered glass vertebrae.

I could give you mined stars,
but they’d only dim in the presence of your heart
(but let’s face it; I can only afford zirconia).
Instead I will give you islands of the purest sand
and the clearest waters,
where you can stand on hope without fear of falling
and forget the flavour of defeat;
mountains to climb when determination to achieve
finally prevails over the comfort of your shell;
libraries that solve all your dilemmas
yet leave you asking more questions than when you entered.

I will give you the world, for you have given mine.

I lack patience
But do not rush me.
Her hands burn my skin and
She pushes my spine into cold concrete.

Evil tastes like raspberries and she forced
Me to drink pineapple juice to
Chase her stink from my cavities
And veil myself with blank stares.

Cutting my skin to ribbons
Would chase the ghosts of bruises
Around my wrists and waist
And tender, childish curves.

Crimson replaces violet
And puce
And leopard spots become
Plumage of my own design.

I am a broken ragdoll
Added to the pile.
Touch me while you can
Before her ghost reminds me
How to paint my face in poppies
And crack my own ribs with lungs that
Heave like tides.