If you are what you eat, my best friend is tortilla soup. Warm and comforting a perfect companion for cold, bleak nights.
If you are what you smell, my father is a California wildfire; pungent and strong, but a sweet warm oak like a winter stove. A smell strong enough to remain with you even after many days since his absence.
If you are what you hear, my grandma is the coos of too many grandchildren, which eventually grow to songs of her praises, louder than a preacher who lives his weekdays only for his Sunday sermons.
If you are what you see, my mother is the shells of little, pink snails that she collected as pets, until a woman, who some would call a mother, would salt them and cast them on her roof as morbid a decoration as those that lined her soul.
if you are what you touch, my sister is the soft tufts of translucent blonde hair, of the babies she thought she may never have.
Why don't you ever read my poetry? You said you wanted to, "grasp the concepts of my dimensions" but you don't read my poetry. Where I lay out a map of my dimensions, and a key to my concepts, for you alone to grasp, but instead you stare at my surfaces from your screen and decide you know better. Like your favorite cliche, I lead you like a horse to water, but you don't even bother. You listen to songs that only one of us likes and say you heard me there. You look at your own reflection in the mirror and say you saw me there, in the pools of your own eyes, when I stand just behind your shoulder.
I can't pay my rent today. I can't write poetry, either, because I took a pill, that I spent my rent money on, and I can't write on this pill. But this pill promised me it would make me beautiful.
Imagine making a cocktail with crushed glass instead of ice. It would **** you, but it'd be so beautiful. Blood would drip from your lips like lipstick, deadly and red, but it'd be so beautiful.
Imagine paying your rent with poetry. You'd be back on the streets, and strangers probably would think that maybe, pretty white girl, you're a self-inflicted martyr, a heroine against the culture or maybe just that you just do ******,
***** your finger and bleed directly onto the page. Buy a typewriter from a thrift store and poetically sit in a coffee shop until your muse walks in. Sleep with your professor and let her write your poems for you. Hold private seances at the cemetery. Read your high school yearbook until your poems seethe with forgotten teenage angst. Specifically berate your current lover but then assure him the words aren’t about him. Drink yourself into oblivion but blame your inner artist for your demons. List all the sins of your mother and conveniently forget those of your father. Clutch your pen until a stigmata appears in your hands. Speak your truth, but tell your friends your poems aren’t from your own point-of-view.
I’m currently sitting in the coldest clinic, Across from, probably, the cheapest Mexican restaurant in Western Arizona. The floors are sterile white, And I giggle at the thought of you recognizing the irony Of my emptiness. The walls are also white and look slick with Lysol. They radiate that dampness that I swear that they smell.
We didn’t make love, So much as **** in the dirt, But the truth is I’d rather wake up hot in the afternoon on the dirt and the ground (After you’ve already left) Than wake up next to The wrong person in the wrong bed.
From earthy and raw so quickly to empty and white.
My youth was short and blurred. I imagine it felt like the last few moments of Kurt Cobain’s life; All light and no color. Though I was born a winter baby, Summers irrevocably held my heart. They tasted like the sunscreen that dripped onto my chlorine-damp lips And smelled sweet like the honeysuckles That strangled the Forget-Me-Nots, Whose roots twisted between the cemeteries Of our once-pets beneath.