"I believe I am, my good sir, a noble beast and nothing more."
The words slip through my scabbed and scarring lips
lips feigning callousness, lips begging for benediction,
praying to be the passado,
beholden to the omniscient things that seem never to sleep
yet are always dreaming a dream
that I seem to be suspended in;
a syncopated nonsense of person,
ludicrous.

"I would not expect you to understand the nature of me."
And it is true;
I brace myself for the eventual
the inevitable
the unavoidable
the necessary and the fixed
misunderstanding
so that when he she it them they those
eyes me from across the table
peering over my coffee cup or my notebook
and says, "No, my dear, that is not it at all,"
I may smile
rather than rip my hair out
at the thought that I am now their "dear".

"I'm hurting."
Yes, I seem to live this life,
this half existence
floating between apathy and terror,
enveloped in some sort of dissonance;
some of the time I live
in this tangible thing--
others I am whisked away
by the very thought of thinking
and, to tell the truth,
I am so very tired.

"I'd be lying if I said I'm not a little bit angry."
A desperate creature I have turned out to be,
an animal grasping at the very straws of nature,
creeping,
moaning and murmuring sorrowful things
to the dark in which I began,
groping for light,
longing for some kind of motivation
that is not
"do or you will die."

"I am very gracefully falling apart."
This thing that is broken inside me
is it in my mind, in my brain, where?
Am I so very foolish to believe
that I was made for something
beautiful, clear, shining,
something with posture?
Yes, a proper fool I am,
but even fools need propriety sometimes.

"I am the bane of human existence."
Yes, but I am so much more as well,
and I have created an anthem:


I am the morning.
I have a feral passion locked away,
safe for my piano, safe for my lovers.
You cannot find me in books,
you cannot photograph what is in me,
you cannot steal it.
I am a mighty thing,
a thing of the sea, a thing of the earth,
a lovely thing.
I am righteous,
a divinity of my own,
a coarse deity of glass and stone
and I will not be ashamed.
The wars of this place rage on and on,
threatening to overwhelm,
bullying those who would refuse to roll over
but I am not afraid;
I shall be here at dawn
when all the world has washed away.

Let lovers sleep-- the night is mine and mine alone,
and I cannot close my eyes, for I am too busy thinking of the wide world.
I lay here in the pale dark, listening to the night
and I wonder if the universe is so much larger for a fly than it is for a woman--
are the days so much darker for the dead than for me?
I tangle my fingers in my hair and smile;
oh yes, I hear the delicate music creeping through the air,
and of course I am moved, Mother,
how could I not be?
How could you ever expect me to sleep when there is such a place
as this in my mind?
I will never close my eyes again, not when there is air like this to breathe,
not when there is pale dark to bathe in,
not when dawn is a matter of hours away and it is back to the stale air that crumbles in your lungs,
back to the carpet stains and back to all those thoughts
that are trying desperately to fill up my empty little head
or someone's pretty little head
like smoke withering away, dripping lazily out of my lips and into the ears of another
though there is no other,
not for me
not tonight,
tonight is a night to wonder about the universe of flies and women
and if my world will ever grow larger than this pin-head that is threatening to crush me
and a great deal of other things that I'm sure you've thought of, Mother,
though men have been sure that the earth is flat and that flies and women are not so different
so who knows what I'm sure of?
I certainly don't.

i like you.

i shouldn't like you,
it makes my life harder
and leaves me confused and jealous
but i like you
and it feels good.
i like how casual we are--
so casual that i don't even have to use capitals--
and how you touch me just to make me shiver,
how you steal small kisses
and then laugh because you know you shouldn't have

i like how i tell you everything
and you don't even flinch:
if i ran up to you tomorrow,
threw my arms around your neck
and screamed in your ear
"i have leprosy and a brain tumor!!!"
i know you would rough up my short short hair
and say
"****, that's probably serious."
and then buy me a cup of coffee
while i told you my leprosy and brain tumor troubles

i like how you put your hand on the small of my back
as if you own me,
as if you won me,
as if you're pretending to shout to the world
that i'm yours now, and you know how i take my coffee,
and you know which shirt is my favorite, and you know how to make love to me
and that they should all take that into account
when looking at us together
as we walk through the aquarium or the park or the restaurant

i'll never admit it
but i like it when you get frustrated;
"just kiss me," you say
and i always say "i can't"
but secretly i'm thinking about that crooked tooth of yours
and if i could taste what we had for lunch
and if our glasses would make a plastic noise
when they collide, frame to frame,
snuggling like we are
and it makes me smile a secret smile
that i have just for you
and no one else


and yes, i sleep next to someone else,
someone i love more than life itself,
someone i made a home with,
someone i won't leave

but i like you.

You were inside her
just like they were inside of me.
Were you inside my mum, too?
Were you inside of me?
Too many holes in my memory to know,
too many gaps, too much haze,
and maybe the haziness is better
(I'd like to think the haziness is better)
but the question won't leave me alone
Were you inside of me?

I know you watched them undress
and I know you watched them bathe
hiding in the closet like a wraith and a shadow
peering through the holes you made in the doors
and peering through the holes you made in your mind;
it makes me wonder how you justified your heart beating
when it pounded in your ears to remind you of your life
how you justified your lungs breathing
when even your breath was a lie
how you justified your brain ticking
when it housed all those filthy things
for years and years and years and years and years
and years and years and years
and years and years
and
years
.

I let you watch me swim,
didn't suspect you for a second.
Makes me wonder if you laughed
to know I didn't know
or if you cried
to wonder if I knew
or if you ever cried for the lives you broke
or if you even cared at all.
I let you watch me swim--
sliding through the liquid
the cool on my skin
the air popping in my lungs
the hot blood in my chest
and in my legs
experiencing my body
the joy in my head
the drops in my hair
such an intimate experience
to have with myself

and I let you watch
not knowing what you did years ago.
Never thought I'd wonder
if you did it to me.

smokestack mirrors the smokestick in my hands
who is the cause of my trembling these days?
who is the cause of the causality in my body?
is he a "what", or is he a "who"?
Lord, may I never know, he seeps into my skin like jasmine
am i a "who", or am I a "when"?
never have i breathed in a bed so dark,

(hallelujah)

or seen the sky lit just so;
the smoke and the lies (one same separate changed twisting tangling entwined twisting twisting)
spill lazily from my lips to meet the ground with pride;
the object of my idolatry sleeps without a stir
until he rests his eyes for slumber, the sickening truth to be sure
My last intention is to be harsh or cruel, but there you have it
and oh, he is cruel

...hallelujah

what I wouldn't give
(where to be begin, the question goes)
to bury my tongue in this spot,
to bind it to the shadow of a spectre
or to one of the forgotten gods so that I may, too, forget

hallelujah...


who is this deity in the kitchen who ignores my kisses and leaves me to my breath?
who is this shell that feels he has the right to touch my face?
and in my shame, I cannot help but smile in ecstasy
A joy from the deep, a desperate and aching Need,
a chasm in chest and in heart, a chasm that hangs in the air with our pretense of conversation



hallelujah



i weep, I pray, I moan, i am empty
I come to him with my naked body ready for the worshiping
and he looks at me like he has never seen me

hallelujah

and he holds out his hand to Me, and for a moment I am rested
but i am weak and weary
and i am never satisfied
but I scream my praises to the night
while i roam the halls of my mind crying out and ripping my hair
and i know not why.


...hallelujah.


hallelujah.


hallelujah.

I would not wish this emptiness upon you.
(fix your hair, honey, those dead eyes won't get you laid)

These burdens-- this burden--  I have not the strength to bear it;
my strength has left me for some prettier lover.
(dear god, you have got to be kidding me.)

I lay here (here? here.), twisting and turning in my own malice
making war--and in turn, making only a refugee of myself-- in my mighty struggle:
I moan, I attempt to release the flood,
but I realize with an animal groan of contempt, of agony, anguish, a smile for the weeping dead (look, sugar, you got yourself knocked up and that's that.)
that I am not in need of releasing (a **** thing) anything at all–
I am desperate for someone to put something back in me before my bones implode
and I set my mind on abandoning myself.

I find (who asked you to look? was it voluntary, in the end?) myself cracked in seven places,
and, in turn, the separate pieces of me have simultaneously agreed to put themselves back together
in places most unnatural.
(nope, i'm no stranger to unnatural.)

My well grows–
filling to the brim with a sick indifference
and I stumble upon myself here, in the midst of this tragic marriage between metal and thread
(this well-rehearsed mess);
I am not myself
I am not myself
I am a wild thing, trampled and weary–
I am a broken thing, brushed aside without question or thought
and I AM TORMENTED by the ghost of human touch;
my own arms-- used as substitutes, clinging to myself in sick pretense--
(you and your emotional *******, i'd laugh if it wasn't all you'll ever get. i mean, come on, who buys the dented can?)
are covered in a texture I find most displeasing
but that is the well-paid price and the remaining echo of indulgence in my Forbidden
and I have long since discovered that the raised lines that litter my skin
are well-worth any (well-deserved?) punishment I may receive for such a relief.
(girl, you haven't been a ****** for years
yet you still live this glamorous suicide every **** day)

I'm begging-- give me a purpose that I can commit to memory and recite
as the Great Ocean (oh, who the hell are you kidding? they'll never get it) toys with my pathetic figure
long into the night, even into the days filled with endless night.
I have never found this role of a daughter
quite as dissatisfying or as superficial as I do in THIS VERY MOMENT–
how will I ever secure the time to fill it?
(no argument there, sugar)
Let alone find the motivation to fix myself sufficiently before I can don the fraying lace
and torn satin frock of my expected female form?
(just because it's understandable that you're a ***** doesn't mean you're not disgusting)
Is it any surprise that my ******* are now shred to pieces
and that place between my legs crumbles more and more with every waking thought?
Is it any wonder that the things which I am told to cover
are no more than scattered ashes?
(you got excuses, let's see your reasons.)
Is it any wonder that I'm tired?
(stop stealing your deep **** from songs.)
Simply a memory of a future.
We daughters are so lost.


(you're kinda gross, you know.)