To the hopeful ones:
I am unavailable.
Emotionally.

we, mistakes made in groping dark,
ironed and cheekkissed happy accidents,
told we arrived by love, and our purpose forward: to love.

we were chocolate milk runners.
we were completion grades.
coloring sheets of MLK and jagged cutouts of billy goats.
we were girls in sequined jeans with scraped knees.
on the basketball court we pushed pigtails to concrete.
rumors of us kissing in the lobby waiting for our rides
did circulate.

we, skinny white girls of Moore, Okla.,
skipped supper and laid at the feet of TV-watchers
like bleached branches of fallen oaks garnishing their standing brothers.

we were doorbells.
we were passenger seats.
peeking in the teacher's edition and handshaking answers in fluorescent bathrooms.
we were the first ones on the bus and the last ones off.
knees to chin, untied laces on heater's ****, winterlong sweat factory.
rumors of us agreeing to go to prom over fourth-period lunch
did circulate.

we, writers suffered writers' morality,
disregarded right, wrong, norm; lounged, waiting to be under the bus,
suffering for the story. tense matchstick lovers --  dim light for a moment and then.

we were someone else's *******.
we were someone else's hairpins.
as whatever ran so hot in us cooled, dried on thrift store comforters,
so did we. ceiling fans and ***. fingernails and boxed wine.
rumors sustaining.

and so it came, after announcements, after invitations,
after subbing in one bridesmaid for another, we were getting married.
we were grooms with empty pockets and full of sound advice.
our fathers took us behind the church,
chaplipped our foreheads,  and said,
"I know, we promised you were made from love and to love.
But I gotta be real honest here. You were made from whiskey.
And there's always the distillery."

we were jobless in wrinkled suits.
we were brown shoes; black belts.
and this will look good on your resumé. and this will look good on your resumé.
translation: how about ******* this ****? or how about this one?
a resumé was one page. we couldn't fit all the ***** on one page.

we, beardheavy and deodorant-streaked,
lived in dream houses in Ulysses, Kan., drove dream Tahoes,
watched dream Netflix, next to  portly wives who looked like
QUEEN MOTHER OF ALL THE BROTHELS OF THE LOWER MIDWEST.

we were childless.
we were wanting.
after consulting a physician and a bottle of whiskey,
we lifted and pinned the sagging belly of our wives with
a wooden board. one good **** in. one borrowed pregnancy test.

and so it came, the weddings of our sons. behind the church,
we took them aside and said,
*"I know, we promised you were made from love and to love.
But I gotta be real honest here."

Some people feel like places. And these people are vacations. These places are people. Freckled wall paper. Foyer tunes whispered. They are supermarket candles. Wavering flames by way of unsealed windows. They are blinds, these places. And you see through. And you hope through, these people. Pulling back curtains of brunette hair, applause deserved. Delicate, delicate. The slightest noise could alarm clock and send you back to work. Silent, silent. It's rest. Try hard to relax. She's a mole between *******. She's scar tissue on an ankle. And this place, this place smells of honey; tastes like almond milk. "In a perfect world what would you do tonight?" Sleep in this place. Wake inside this person. Simple. Clean. In a perfect world, morning sewed with lavender clouds, tall grass, and a watercolor sun unseen before. And this place likes eggs over easy. And this person warmly invites like white lenin.

In my graduation t-shirt,
and it fits right,
she finger-and-thumbs
the switch on my desk lamp.
Lights on.
And I'm getting too thin.
It shouldn't fit right.
"No, no. I want it dark," I say.

"Tell me what's off limits."

Her eyes, big and wet with bongwater,
wash over me. I'm pebble. I'm allowed.

"Why?"

"I want to know what's off limits
so I know where to set my goals."

I believe in love, even at first sight.
Just not the eternal kind. And I love
her when she says things like that
because I created her. And when
you create, and the creation reaches
perfection, all you want to do--
destroy. Hammer to head. Crowbar
to Parkinson thighs. What's off limits?
What's off limits? What's off limits?
I can't stop.

Before I respond,
with adolescent delight
she tears me open by the pearl snap.
She lifts her arms up.
Surrender? No. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Body bare and body scattered,
congregate at the inosculation
of her trunks. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Wavering.
Leafless.
***-addled.
And the breeze doesn't do it.
And the seasons don't affect it.
Gale force insanity.

I climb her branches.
Beard wet with her.
She wipes her off.

I climb her branches.
I can't stop.

Grows into me.
Trunks entrap.
Elevated, she.
And I, well, I

stumble.

Hit the wall.
Concrete, everything.
I press her against it
so hard, she turns to waste
and passes through.
I press her against it
so hard, I can't stop.

Autumn acorn fingertips,
a river emptying to ocean,
and she asks,"Is this off limits?"
as she turns me sharply
and my back collides with the wall.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
pounds her head into mine.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
claws my face.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
licks to heal.
My will says yes.
My flesh says no.

I can't stop.

Like a poison fog,
creeping around the edges of my vision
this is the final stand.

I know if I get lost
wandering around in this stark nothingness.
I will not come out.

I know if the sadness takes hold,
this time,
the damage will be permanent.

I'm sick and tired of the fighting.
And of fighting battles.
that I can't win.

I'm sitting here
in constant fear
of events
that are to come.

Warning signs
ring clear as chimes
and my body's going numb.

There's darkness at the edges,
of my vision
and my mind.

And this darkness truly comes for me
to take me home this time.

"You've been running for too long"
it says
"just stop and take a break."

but I know its just a ploy;
my living soul's at stake.

So I run.

I'm running through a labyrinth,
full of broken bones.
Following a winding path
full of empty homes.

I recognize these places;
they're from my recent past.
They're people who have helped me,
but they left me pretty fast.

I have no one else to turn to.
and no where else to go,
so why do I keep running?
My feet, they start to slow.

I've come upon the end
of this horrid maze of bones,
and here's to my efforts:
I have nothing to show;

except my scars.