A Baby-Boomer walks so freely through the town
he pays no mind to those suffering around
“Why don’t poor people just get jobs,”
he asks himself,
“And stop bellyaching?
And women need to shut their mouths and stop complaining
the wage gap is a fallacy
they invented to work less.
trust me I am a man who would understand the oppressed,
a man who has always been gainfully employed,
in fact if you ask me I am simply annoyed
that others dare to call me privileged
just because I can afford more than they do
(well that and the fact that because of my face
I can be sure that I will not be chased
by the police unrightfully
or a strange man most frighteningly).”
He walks alone in the darks of night
and yet his bones do not creak with fright
for he knows the world respects his white skin,
his wife, and the money he keeps only for him.
On his wall hangs a college degree
he got from a school in 1983
“I don’t understand why the millennials are such whiners
pull yourself up by your bootstraps while you’re still minors,
yes we ruined the economy, but it’s not that hard
if you just stop focussing on being so avant-garde
and get a job, who do you think you are?
Just kids trying their best to be what they are?
Disgusting excuse,
sell your soul to businesses,
it’s what Reagan would do.”
As he puts his money to bed at night
in the house he bought when the market was still alright
he wonders why kids these days
seem so tired and hungry for praise.

I am alone
          surrounded and composed entirely of stardust
          and fragments of broken dreams-
it is exactly how I planned it to be
                         neat
                         but not in a rigid way with implied discomfort
                         just in a way where it is obvious I tried my best
The walls- finally stripped of needlepoint prayers
                 and instead layered with every word that has ever danced from my mouth
                   the smooth ones and the ones that taste like acid
                                   nothing is forgotten or laid aside
My body-
              a temple to myself
              desecrated in the most holy way
a sacrifice of skin
                     decorations of valor in a war against myself
     it is quiet
                  every thread I have ever plucked from the seams rips through the air as I come apart
                                                   again
             spilling tar and galaxies across everything
              I have ever known- a mess
I am alone
             but not in the way I am supposed to be

If we're being honest
            I'd tell you that I wish we were still together
and that
            some days
                    I watch the world
     twist and burn
                    and fall on me
     breaking into a million pieces
                                   breaking me with it
and that it doesn't scare me anymore
                         also I can't spell
           Once, I forgot how to sleep
                                              and didn't remember for 10 days
and one day I forgot to eat
                         and didn't remember for three days
                                     but didn't care
                        Some days
I can't stand being in my own skin
                                          some days I try to rip it off
              I flap my hands
              and bite my nails
And I'm afraid not to pray
              One time,
                                 I cried for 12 hours
One time,
                      I passed out from a panic attack
(Okay more than one time)
                                   Some days
I feel like there are bugs
                                     under my skin
I WANT TO SCREAM
                         but we're not being honest today
                                                                         so when I'm asked
I'll say I'm doing okay

Her skin has yet to get used to the burn
so she tries her best to pretend it doesn’t hurt
She stopped asking
                about her husband
         long ago
and the screams of agony still haunt her
She whispers alone at night
            “I love him, I love hime, I love him”
but she knows it isn’t true
she remembers the circumstances of their union
and tells herself that lying is a sin
so maybe she’ll feel his touch again
and maybe he’ll even leave scars from the burn
something to remember him by
but he’ll be gone before she’ll see him
She can’t even remember what he looks like
but she tells herself she can
               “I love him, I love him, I love him”
but she can only love a man

I knew I shouldn’t drink
Not in the teenager
‘I should be
                  responsible’
            way,
because honestly
           I didn’t care about that
                                     About not disappointing my parents
because they can tell me what they want
             but everyone drinks
                    and no one waits until they’re twenty-one
and I know they weren’t exceptions
              I knew I shouldn’t drink
in the
              “everyone in my family is an alcoholic
and I will be too
                         it’s a hereditary disease
once I start
                                                 I won’t stop”
sense and in the
                    “emotional drinking is a bad sign
                             and binge drinking still counts as alcoholism
(at least I’m pretty sure it does)”
sense
          but still
I drank
          when I was
angry
sad
at parties
bored
            because what else was I going to do?
                                                   History repeats itself
              and I am no exception
So the first time I had drunk
                I was ***
I mean…. you get it
                   who cares really
I don’t really remember it
                        I remember blacking out halfway through
and waking up somewhere else
                   but I don’t remember ever saying
                                      "no”
          or “stop”
                       or anything like that
I just remember it all being hazy
                                     and if I went to another party
I wouldn’t even recognize him
                     but I don’t go to parties anymore and I know
                                                            ­                                  I shouldn’t drink

I scrape away layers of my skin on my legs
with tweezers, often
until blood is drawn,
trying to yank off the imperfections
I feel,
blistered and pocked with red scabs
I will later
pull off,
a physical manifestation of what I want to do inside
littered with imperfect
feelings, thoughts,
digging and shredding into perfectly smooth and pristine
layers of emotions and ideas
ripping up what is good into an incoherent mess
trying to reach the dark spots underneath,
I can’t see them, but I know they’re there
lurking and waiting to come out to the surface
the agitation rises
if I can’t get something out,-
I need to get something out,
smalls whimpers of pain,
hardly noticeable,
until finally a deep exhale
it’s over.
Legs riddled with bleeding holes,
aching but content,
until tomorrow.

I know things will change
     religion class will end
& four advil and 6 hours later my headache will go away
I will get the fire back in my veins
write again
feel full again
I will start taking credit for my poems
Everything will fade back into background noise
    & I will sleep again
My prayers will stop sounding rehearsed
& my lists won't only consist of
                       "Get out of bed"
I'll talk to my dad
   and angry tears will stop burning paths down my cheeks
I will read again
           and rest with the lights of
Stop flinching so much
             and it will be okay
                                         Again