Going to an all girls school,
the one thing that kept us
outside the gates of adulthood
was chain linked inside our mouths
Braces
made us all feel like we
were made of rusted nails
and anything that said we
couldn’t be touched

The day
a classmate had her braces removed
was the day she became a woman
**** a bat mitzvah or a period
An inviting smile gleaming
like ivory castles in a
new Facebook profile picture
meant she became everything
that was glory

By my junior year,
I was the only one left
with a mouth brimming
full of metal
I was just as awkward
as my smile
Grew so accustomed to
feeling alone in a sea of crowded
that I let myself become faceless
Avoided school dances
because I was convinced
my skin didn’t want to be held
But in all of this,
I ironically felt small for the first time
the day my braces came off

Felt myself sink in the
abundance of “Oh my god,
you’re so pretty now”
On a date with my middle school
crush, he licked the ridges
of my teeth as we kissed
Told me I became
“so hot” by senior year
This was when I realized
for the past 8 years
no one had ever
touched me with purpose
As if the day my teeth
became aligned with
everyone’s idea of beauty
then I was worthy of being stared at

Suddenly,
modeling agencies wanted
to freeze frame all the firefly
sun bleeding out my face
My mouth became so fuckable
boys would tell me how good
I’d be at swallowing all of them
Girls, became nothing
but the chatter of crows
telling people pretty was
all my womanly bones
were good for

I started wanting to pull out my teeth,
one by one, hang them around
my neck then ask: “How much of a
wishing well does my smile
look to you now?”
So, don’t call me pretty
Call my mouth ******
Call me an open wound
made of honesty
I am everything mangled and crooked
I am everything vicious
I am the gap in my teeth
headgear couldn’t fix
Tell me I am a broken violin bow
when I speak my mind
I’ll tell you to shut up
as I become a
symphony of graceless rage
My words
a deliverance of
God’s best sermon
My soul
is the brightest firework
your open hands can try
catching but never will

When we’re taught as girls that
the only thing to aspire to as a
woman is having a desirable face
It makes my body want to wrap
itself in all that is ugly
So don’t ever call me pretty
As if my smile burning
golden like its own sun
depended on your compliments
I have always been night sky
crawling her way to morning
I have drowned here
I have survived here
I am nothing but a holy resurrection
of self love standing before you
knee deep in past insecurities
So, Remember that the next time you
want to compliment me
and call me miracle instead

I think I’ve forgotten the sound of your voice…
Well, at least when it’s saying my name.
Last night,
I dreamed myself back in New York City
and woke this morning smelling like
Thompson Street after it rains.
I woke up drenched in the scent of us making love.
Baby, would you believe me if I said,
I think I’ve forgotten how to love?
Well, at least when it’s someone whose not you.
I give myself away so easily now
because I expect everyone to let me go.
Please don’t think I’m blaming you for this-
I know some things can’t be helped.
I’m not saying I want us back…
my mouth is still an open wound
and I wear my blood for lipstick.
Not all “I miss you’s”
mean come home…
Sometimes they’re asking
“why’d you leave to begin with?”

This is the touch and go.
The breath before the giveaway.
The feeling of every
ghost dancing from the
pit of your stomach through
the vines of your throat
telling everyone that
you are letting them go.
They won’t want you to leave.
I can promise you this.
But you’ve been burning
without fuel for too long
The sun licked your
cheekbones this morning
and you wanted to know
what it meant to be only light
to be dying star
to be collapsing supernova in
the galaxy of terminal illness.
It is okay to say you
want to give up.
I call it wanting to go home.
I call it being tired of
having calloused hands
desperately fighting time.
Fighting the inevitable.
We are not a rainstorm of lost faith.
We are a baptism of acceptance.
Goodbye can rush out
of your open mouth
whenever you’re ready, darling.
I will cradle an “I love you”
to sail down the riverbed of
whichever afterlife you choose.
This
This is how I will always
find a way to be
next to you.

your toes painted blue
a light sky hue. a whisper to me
tears roll hot down my cheek
your hair's falling out love
I'm gonna miss you when you die

Union and Grand

I moved into this house less than a year ago
and already three gun related murders have occurred
within a three block radius; two of them involving children.
I'm not making this **** up.
Those numbers wouldn't be anything exciting for a population
hitting upwards of the millions,
but this is not a big city.
This is the heartland.
-
The city paid for a series of strategically placed dead ends,
forced turns, and surveillance equipment to be installed
in the area of about a mile surrounding my house.
No wonder they call this place "The Trap".
They keep changing the maze,
and studying us like rats.
-
They had a make-do memorial for the little girl who got shot.
They attached her stuffed animals, cards, and photos to a utility pole
on the corner of Union and Grand. The city had it taken down.
Some kind of city ordinance
from some dusty tome at the town hall.
Kids killing kids, and the shots keep firing.
-
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not what'd you call an activist.
But when bloodshed occurs within eye shot of where you sleep,
you start to get a little irked.
These kids have as much potential as me, and twice as much grit.
Their teachers barely even know their names,
let alone what it's like to be deprived of privilege.
-
I'll stomp this concrete until my feet break.
This labyrinth is my constant reminder and reality check.
I am here, and you are there.
This connection is suspended on silver threads and I am your puppet.
Mold me into your angst driven dreamboat.
Because tomorrow, I'm just going to wake up here. **Tyler.
-
This soul has been folded seven times
and I grow tired of this reality.
There was a time when I could scream loud enough to wake the dead.
I guess I'm showing the symptoms
of an accidental child
with a tongue that only tastes art as bitter protest.
-
I'd tear my face off
to know if this is really getting through to you.
The face in the photo is that of the goat; the false idol and deceiver.
A Knight of Pentacles, selling you gold plated garbage.
Odin-kin.
You always feel like I have a secret to keep; my fist is in the air.