5.
father dearest,
i remember you telling me:
"your mother's insides are
burnt and black no good."
of course, me being the child i was,
i thought you meant that
she was evil and that was
the reason you didn't love
her anymore. my mother
could never be evil.
i loved her.

8.
father dearest,
i'm starting to see a
line of reflection between
you two and that is the only
thing that keeps you together.
my mother's insides may
be black and burnt and no good,
but your heart is made of coal.
my mother drinks herself sick
every night and at this age i
didn't know what blacking out was.
i told you i cried and screamed at midnight.
i told you i thought my mommy was dead.
you scoffed and said "what a *****."


13.
father dearest,
you said my mother never cared
about me. you said she smoked
and drank when she was pregnant
with me and that she kept on doing
it in front of me later on.
you said you would never touch
her with a ten foot pole.
she is only a woman.
she is only a woman who breaks down
at sight of a picture us
when i was little and only
being able to sob out:
"we were so innocent."

14.
father dearest,
she is tired. she is lonely.
she is almost 50 and she is
still waiting on her fairy tale
ending. you couldn't be patient
with her? you couldn't try to help
her? you say you don't love
her because she sins in front of me.
you say you are all knowing and
that i just haven't realized it yet.
but then i remember.

15.
oh father dearest, i remember.
i remember that my mother's insides
are burnt and black and no good and
i remember that you are all knowing
and that i just haven't realized it yet.
but do you realize that i cannot
realize something that isn't there?
i haven't seen your face in seven months
and you still cannot answer my question
why she waits for me to stop looking at her
as she lights her 7th cigarette of the day.

I met a girl once--
She was beautiful and I met her when I was ugly. She always fell asleep with her makeup on and sometimes she wouldn't wash it off because she said it looked good. Our beds were right next to each other; I always looked at her while she slept. Smudged eyeliner did look pretty good on her.

I held her hand once--
That required youth Jesus group was never more tolerable. I think my favorite thing about them was when she would stick her finger in her mouth and make a little vomiting noise whenever our teacher would teach something ridiculous. She never liked religion anyway.

I met a girl once--
However there came a day that troubled me. I was in the bathroom, about to leave my stall, but she came in. She came in, looked in the mirror, and  let out the heaviest, most disappointed sounding sigh I had ever heard. She took a wet towel to her face and wiped it clean. I had never seen her without makeup before. She was so pale. She had dark under eye circles and acne sprinkles on her chin and cheeks. She was still pretty.

I met a girl once--
And she would always sneak cigarettes from the doctor's desk and take me with her to the lake at night to smoke them. I took my time to just enjoy her. I enjoyed how she never stopped trying to skip rocks when she failed every single time.

I met a girl once--
And she had a panic attack and I found her sleeping in an empty bathtub. I met a girl once and she nearly collapsed every time she someone swallow a pill. I met a girl once and she was my best friend. Thirty days later I don't know where she is. no idea. I haven't talked to her since. But I know she's doing pretty okay.

I was so sure that one day I would
lay with you, skin radiating and soul
luminous after I opened my mind
and body to you just moments
before.

but you make me want to
open my body in a way
that only involves
blood.

I took my cord and I
unplugged it in hopes that
I would function
again.

But I don't know how to function
in the real world and I know my
sweat will never quench anyone's
thirst.

Even when in the process
of disintegration, please know
that my skin is no white
flag.

I will find my way home and
I will lay with her, my skin
radiating and my soul shining. Then I will
know

What it finally feels
like to be
in the eye of a
tornado.

I don’t know why
But I always find
Art in the smallest things
About you.

I find poetry in
The knots of your hair
And constellations in
The freckles on your chest.

Your hands hold different
Worlds and the lines
In your palm are like streets
Of cities I have yet to discover.

Your skin a blank canvas
That I can freely paint
With deep red and rich purple
Just like I did in my dreams.

A voice is something you
Listen to on command – because you have to.
But now I can’t escape –
Yours makes a home in
My head and
I know it’s
There to
Stay.

So apathetic—
I pour my entire
life's story onto your
lips and what you give
me is what happened
over the weekend.