My name is Erin
and i was *****
at the age of 7

it has taken me
14 years of my life
for those 13 words to escape
my hollow mouth

the only questions i come to now
is why
why lock me in that room
why take everything from me
my innocence
my purity
my childhood

in that room
where my family trusted you
where i trusted you
the night terrors i have to this day
still haunt my mind

like a never ending
drive in movie that plays
over
and
over
only the moon in the night sky
isnt made to be found here
there is no light in these terrors

i cant sleep this time of year
because every time i do
its you
in that room
locking the door
shutting the windows
******* me
yelling at me
every single night
i close my eyes

it has taken me 14 years
to accept the fact that i was taken by you
i have been numb ever since
left in the dust
rotting away at the core
thinking i was nothing
thinking i deserved nothing
because you took everything

but not anymore
i will recover from this
i am strong enough
i believe in myself
i believe in my own happiness
and i promsie
that when i have children one day
i will never ever let them rot at the core
i will find happiness
the darkness will not take over this time

Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium

Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.

So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a ******
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.

In youth, it was a way I had
   To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad,
   To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know,
   And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
   To hell, my love, with you!

The walls screamed poetry disease & ***
an inner whine like a mad machine -
dropped in a
cave of roaches
or rodents

The Computer
faces of the men

The wall collage
reading matter

The Traders (dealers)
~~~

I am a guide to the labyrinth
Come & see me
in the green hotel
Rm. 32
I will be there after 9:30 p.m.

I will show you the girl of the ghetto
I will show you the burning well
I will show you strange people
haunted, beast-like, on the
verge of evolution

-Fear The Lords who are
secret among us
~~~

Leaving the phone-booth, I was
Struck by a whiff of
the weird.
Insane old country woman
come to nag the haunts
of town
Hairy legs w/open sores.

From what swamp or under-rock
did you crawl to remind
us what we choose
to leave

I am not patient in my healing
Claim no diety in my veins
Your name the eternal flavor
My mouth that would not wash out
Not with whiskey, water, or time

as I lie awake beside you,
and you allow sleep to qualm your stresses from the day,
I'm suddenly very aware of the pillow underneath my head
and note how it feels nothing like my head on your chest.
I do not mind the firmness of your muscles,
or the heartbeat that echoes beneath my ear.
your warmth does what this overpriced spaceheater never could,
but still I keep my distance.
fear of getting too close almost rivals claustrophobia, in a sense.
I long to overcome the worries of having nowhere to go but your arms,
but I fear everything may crumble should I try to overcome it.
I do not want to push.
the walls are closing in on you,
and you insist I stay away.
I would take the risks and hold you closer
but I fear my arms would be too reminiscent of the world swallowing you.
i do not want to panic.
I do not want you to push back.
so I keep my distance.
so I lie awake beside you,
cursing my pillow for not feeling like your chest.
I worry the space between us under covers is not enough,
and if the couch is a better home for my worry.
you deserve the bed to yourself tonight.
though this room is vast and I cannot fight the chill this space heater can never seem to pummel,
I know I should not get too close.
while my fear is being alone,
that is what you long to be.

I write what I think
I think what I feel
I feel what the world gives me

The world gives me hope
The world gives me hopelessness
It gives me love
And lack of it
It gives me pain
And fear of it
Gives me beauty
And all forms of it
Gives me happiness
And ways to keep it (I still lose it)

All of these things, I write.

But you have to be in pain to be a writer

When I write about being violated
It becomes infamous
When I write about dying
Everyone loves it
But
When I write about the one thing that brings me happiness
Everyone is silent

You are silent

Because
People don’t want to see you’re getting better
People don’t care what’s brought you hope
They don’t care that you are finding happiness.
They want you to write what they feel
Write what they think but can’t say themselves so that they have someone to relate to
Write their pain so that you can be seen
Write how they feel in order to be alnowledged

But I don’t want to write for them
I only want to write for me
What I feel
What’s in my head
But I’ll never be known by doing that
Because I’m trying to get better
I’m trying to be happy

But you have to be in pain to be a writer