I know your mama
       probably wants you to fall in love
       with a nice little girl from church
       and move in down the street
       and I know I'm from the wrong end of town
       and I scare everyone when I talk audibly

but let me ask you this
       haven't I dealt you the best little poisons
       sliding contraband books under the table
       have I ever shown you a bad time
       have I ever given you a bad reputation
       when you've been with me and I'm laughing out loud

and have I told you
       you make me feel safe and stable
       when you're arms are around me
       and that time you kissed me I forgot that
       I ever wanted to just be friends
       and your gold flecked eyes scream out to me in my sleep

i want your sunday mornings.
your “comeback to beds”.
your burnt tongue tip.
coffee breath warming cheeks.
i want your arms around my waist,
a special kind of straight jacket.

i want your sunday afternoons.
a midday trip to the record store.
a woman passes through the aisles
and tells me how she loves our love.
how young people love
with a special kind of fire.

i want your sunday evenings.
i want to soak up your anxiety in my bones,
hold both our traumas.
go to bed before the sun goes down
and make love.
a special kind of *****.

i want foggy mornings on delilah road.
i want your volvo swerving into the marshland.
i want your special kind of goodbye kiss.
i want your goodbye kiss.

When  was young, my first word was "Momma"
because I was always reaching out for someone who was never there.
Always a little bit too infatuated with her occupation
and her husband was always too in love with the bottle
maybe that's why my second word was "doggie" instead of "daddy"
because a dog brought me more emotional security-
spent too much time trying to drink away the long work hours
and not enough time trying not to break our spirits
like the empty miller lite bottles thrown at walls and faces-
When I was seven, I first discovered ***.
A man placed his hands where he shouldn't have
and then a year later a girl did the same thing
so by nine I was feeling the urge to fornicate with everything
because I thought that intimacy was normalcy
and I could give myself to anyone who would take me.
But I was nine, so no one would take me-
and I was terrified of any arms that tried to hold me,
and I thank someone, whoever is out there, for that everyday.
By thirteen the crosses I bared began crawling their way
out of my spine and into my lungs making it hard to speak
and then into the back of my mind so I couldn't think
no more denial, or lost memory, I saw it all so ******* clearly-
The hands that turned me futile tried to end my life once
but they used me as a host
tried to **** whatever was making me sad
a bottle of vicodin down the hatch to drown the memories
that I could never ******* get away from-
Darkness.
When I was fourteen my savior became poisoned by circumstance
the edge of the hands I used to grip when I was young
turned cold and the face I had grown to admire looked sickly.
These crosses I bared didn't win, but they didn't lose.
They continued demanding refuge
and the memories kept demanding to be heard
and the denial of my grandma having cancer grew stronger-
then he moved in.
And I'm not talking about grief, although the names sound similar.
I was weak.
Prone to the demons I had been hiding-
had to face the man that took away my sanity, my sexuality
every single ******* day.
So these razor blades became a paintbrush and my body the canvas
and every time I took it to my skin I would call it a masterpiece.
At some point, around the time my mom starting listening
she heard me crying out to the demons I spent my days fighting-
Around that same time my grandmother died.
So my weakness became strength and her strength withered
and she tried to drown her pain in a bottle of morphine.
9:25 am. "ring" "ring" "ring"
hello? mom? where are you? A mental hospital?
The words "I could've tried harder" keep repeating in my mind
and kept taunting and nagging at my skin
telling me to paint one more ******* time
to make something so beautiful out of all of this ******* mess-
So I picked up a pen again. Started writing.
I was about 17 when things started getting better,
met a boy who smiled at me like I was ******* God
and found hope in the curve of his spine and the whites of his eyes.
But I wasn't looking for an escape again
and I knew that's just what he would be.
Falling victim to the hands that have seen better days
and the eyes that only needed someone to say,
"I am here for you." something I didn't want to lose.
Now I'm almost 20 and these recollections feel just like stories-
the control they once had over my mind has diminished
somewhere between the bottle masking my pain
and the friends who listened when I spoke
I ended up seeing the sunshine for the very first time
and ******* it was beautiful.

No clarity, mumbles echoing louder louder
breathing in is letting go, finally peace
looking for the key in all the wrong places
inhaling the starry skies & this
comforting emptiness
exhaling choked up words & rotting feelings
couldn't be a better way to die

THE DOCTOR SAID IT TAKES A LOT TO MAKE MYSELF BLEED SO I TESTED THE BREAKING POINT ON MY SKIN IN YOUR NAME

this is a room you haven't slept in yet,

and this skin has grown since i last saw you-
replaced itself

and the distant, but warm
blood that you tasted on my cheek the last time you kissed it
has since made its way through each vein and left-
replaced itself

and the smell of my shoulder,
gently rested beneath your chin
i've since changed my laundry detergent

and i've stitched the holes in my jacket
your finger used to trace each one
but i replaced each fray with new thread-
and i sleep with new dreams clouding my head

and my framed portrait of you fell to the floor
i replaced the glass, the image

but i still find you in laundry detergent and broken glass,
sleepless nights, skin cells mixed with blood

i tried
but god ******
i cannot replace you