This place is so white.

Boisterous applause
on the black of the pan,
bubbling eager
for bayou born hands.

Dark dusty skin
like the soil of homelands,
spiced with the method
of mother of mother.

White men on crosses,
black faces in photos,
of family from graveyards
or just beyond grasp.

exhausted linoleum,
faded by traffic,
of church shoes,
and paw pads,
by ambles
and drawls.

Words
form tight
and wild curls,
like the hair of
my father, or jesus, they
stumble from my lips and leap
into anxious air. I don’t know what
face they’ll wear until they are long gone.

There's a raccoon inside me,
I've never liked raccoons.
He nuzzles my heartstrings when I feel worthless,
and cackles maniacally when I believe that I'm worth it.
Whenever I'm bold enough to speak he claws my vocal chords closed,
leaving me dumbfounded with an obvious lump in my throat.
I feel his grimacing face and beady bandit eyes in constant stare.
He hisses angrily when he catches me unaware,
of just how afraid I am.
His grubby paws pander to my love of cancelled plans.
I guess you could say we're selfish,
because I relish the nights spent alone with him.
And I'm positive that he does too,
because he knows I'm often too weak to leave my room,
and disdain is a dish that makes a feast for two.
**I really like raccoons.

His housewarming gift was a night of sweaty sheets
peeled eyelids
and restless tossing.
He lives beneath your bed,
contributing to the eerie feeling
that gives your domicile its familiarity.
Always awaiting a conversation,
but you're just so busy that he has to wait for nightfall
to whisper in you ear.
He will rarely show his face,
maybe because he's shy
or introverted.
He's lonely,
and desperately would like a friend
because you have more than enough space under your mattress.

a day in the life: valedictorian at the school of hard knocks,
already committed to humdrum state university--full scholarship
she laces up her shoes, buttons her top, ever so slightly to balance
the constant feeling in the pit of her stomach
like that of a roller coaster moments before the big drop
each car horn and bird chirp plays into a miserable melody
raining down upon her withered teenage face like ashes of anxiety
burn-holes her already tattered clothes until they resemble swiss cheese
she breathes heavily.
each step is a hurdle,
each word a quarrel,
each conversation an uphill battle
every potential relationship another personal waterloo
dimples and straight teeth mask the dread coursing within her skull
just as her long sleeves and wristbands hide the things she shouldn't do
her body lackluster and tired, as if she hadn't slept for days
or maybe just worn from escaping the holes she finds herself in daily
or from her Jackson *******-esque arm motions when she splatters paint
because she thinks she can never paint else anything right
she opens the door with her right hand
her left hand remains in a fist, squeezing tight
her sweaty palms make holding the door a challenge
but it's best that she not let go.

My room
is full of elephants.
Trumpeting prophets,
whose footprints have been lost
in the gusts of greens and groggy eyes.
Or thrusts of thought pumping jagged sighs through lips left ajar.

My face
is full of fleshy hands,
to hide in when the sand is dropping.
standing water lullabies, my mind’s collecting flies.
Pillow fists and sheets to choke, my skin’s already turning blue.
With wistful tunes from ceiling fans, I’d rather stay in bed alone.

My eyes
are ****** yet again.
With salt at least Its genuine.
But fruits fermented, grass ablaze at least I can escape.
Id love to hide, to run and run, I see myself hitting the ground.
To scrapes and scraps of memory from nerve endings gone limp.

This room
is full of elephants.
I try to cover ear canals.
This silence is uncomfortable and I look down the ledge.
I hate to be a ****** and I never mean to ruin nights,
but if I stand alone tonight,
I’m terrified of what I’ll do.

Trumpeting and trumpeting,
please dont leave me in this place.
Im clumsy and can’t trust my feet,
I’m aiming for the grass.
To hug me as I contemplate,
the dawn is a cacophony,
and Im just getting home again,
to feeling out of place.