another 4 a.m.
head full of dust from
coming undone
again.

empty face
heavy in the mirror
again.
wishing to be
nothing,
wanting to be
art.

ivory and lilac,
tell me to be sweet,
'I miss you' means
nothing
to me.

another 4 a.m.
skull covered in mold from
leaking like it always
does.

green it tells me
to be sorry.

you say I'm supposed to be
not like this.
I'm supposed to be
clean.
like you.

your skin slides off your
porcelain bones,
from soaking in the bleach
you have for dinner every night.
your breath consists of
rubbing alcohol and the
plastic covering your mother's sofa.
your insides are curled up and
tired of being dipped in
disinfectant every morning.
that is how you want me to be.
if I am supposed to be clean,
then sterilize me.

run my fingertips over
a flame.
make me into one of
the necklaces you twist
around your spine.
full of all the things
you try to scrape off
your tongue.
a locket full of nothing
but shame.
shave my head and
burn my hair.
take a steel brush
to my teeth.
cut off every freckle and
cauterize the wounds.
force the clean down my throat
every night for dinner
until I am sick with it
every morning.
until I look like how your
insides feel.
it was always
cleanliness above loveliness.
nothing matters more than
being clean.
not to you.
not even me.

scream how you hate me
until your throat is like your knees
when you skid across gravel.

my name should be
sour in your mouth,
the syllables needles
against your lips.

break your teeth
over my bones.
rip my skin
open and swear
you love me.

the guilt should be
cancer in your lungs,
moving in waves
of shame so overwhelming
you turn blue.
but you've always been the good guy,
haven't you?
dressed in white
you condemn me.

take all that I am,
it doesn't matter any more.

"have I ever done anything to hurt you?"
"no."

somehow I am always the sorry one.

if you need me I'll be standing in the garden/porcelain roots pushing through dirt/glance out the kitchen window/see me swaying with the wind/I'll be your music box ballerina/a daisy in the mud/I could never be enough.
find me in my rain boots/right after a storm/***** fingernails/prying up bricks/finding ants but/praying for slugs/I've always scooped worms off sidewalks/set them down safe in the grass/but I've always been last/too busy befriending snails/to care about being first.
if you want me I'll be sitting/on the deck out back/the smell of rotting wood/cleans my soul/and my hands are happiest when/you can't wash the grime of/wet mossy wood off their palms/I was never enough.
find me making potions in the sandbox/rain water and dirt and grass and petals/and sand and leaves and tree bark/and one twig all in a *** stirred with a shovel/make love/I'll give you a bowl full for free.
if you want me/I'll be sitting in my favorite tree/the one you and dad are planning/to cut down next summer/I'll be watching the leaves/flicker in the wind/and holding clouds in my lungs/
I was never enough
for you.

bring me down over the concrete,
face first spine second.
let me spill out onto the floor,
every once of who I was
scattered at your feet.
this is what love looks like
turned inside out.

will you meet my eyes now?

stuck to the bottom of your shoe,
you take my throat with you
when you leave.

I am no better than the roaches
that chew on my lungs,
or the ants
that carry my pieces
away.

please turn the lights off before you go,
I don't want to watch myself
decay.

stained glass between your teeth
shards of halo down your throat,
like gravel in your palms
the edges open your tongue,
let the devotion turn your
blood to wine,
does it taste holy?
candles spilt over revered words,
from smoke in tinted light
rises a consecrated haze,
with a chest full of
worshiped ash,
you have never felt so hollow.
before eternity and omneity you kneel
as a seraphic sin,
yet you remain sacrosanct.
those with self proclaimed
divinity
have no reason to change.

you should be shoving your
fetid fingers down your throat,
emptying it of everything unholy,
of every drop of acid spat from your lips,
of everyone you ever thought you loved.
you should be sitting naked
on the bathroom floor,
love being soaked up by the tile,
sin melting your skin and
turning it purple like the
orchid on your shoulder.
your face should be
twisted up in the mirror,
eyebrows entwined and
mouth stretched in disgust,
wondering why you are
everything but lovely.

instead I wonder why you were
everything.

above the sink,
you feel familiar eyes.
fingers grip the edge of the counter,
knuckles like your teeth.
your eyes stare through you, disconnected
like a rabbit in the road.

eyes gray,
like the ground and walls
of a subway station.
under florescent lights,
toes on the yellow line,
facing the tracks.
fingers curled in your pockets,
knuckles like the snow,
fingernails dig into hands,
making your palms red
like your cheeks.
thin coat covers your shoulders,
frail breath in the air.

train flies past,
you stand like ghost.
eyes looking through,
eyes like rabbit.

everything moves past you,
the train,
your breath,
strangers.
you do not move.

hands at home in your pockets,
toes on the yellow line.

at home while you're lost,
calm in the movement,
lonely eyes like rabbit.

gut me like
a fish.
rip me open from
my throat to the rocks
in my stomach.
see how my
insides are just
worms and worms
and worms.
twisted up they
smell like the
bleach on the
bathroom floor.
bleach coated in
lemons too sweet to
be lemons.
see how they
squirm under
the weight of
your eyes and cracks
in your leather face.
how they
shrivel in your
cherry breath,
too yellow to
be cherries.
lungs full of oranges,
oranges that hate
your chest
and everything
in it.
to the worms you are
just another
fish full of
guts.

a mother is supposed to be the soil surrounding your roots/a palatial tree with guiding hands/a renaissance of sun/
a father is supposed to mold you into an orchestra/a symphony/pounding thunder/pollen on bumblebees/
a sister is supposed to be a vine/growing tangled with you/fingers and leaves intertwined/evidence of sunlight/

I am gutted on the floor/my hands lay naked and lonely in the corner/my roots are shriveled up/desperate to be clean of dirt/the world is screaming at me/a sharp ringing between my ears/I am wilted/leaves brown/I know no sun/on the damp cement floor/I write in white chalk
things are never how they are supposed to be.

your hands don't look like
hands anymore.
even the dirt under
your fingernails
hates you.
your skin melts to dust
every time you think.
scabs on your fingers
from when you decided
you didn't want
fingers anymore.
you can still smell
your rotting bone.
rip off your fingernails
you never should have had
any anyways.
take them and slice your
palm, put a hand print
on the stone, an oath
that someday you'll
be better.
even the dirt under
your filthy skin
hurts you.

I keep my guilt
next to my skin.
let it soak into my blood
whenever I need company.
tell me all the things
I said wrong today.
a string tied like lace
around each of my fingers,
too tight but I've always liked purple,
and maybe I'll feel free without them.

this body is a place of worship.
I pray to the sunrise in my chest.
this body is a vessel for love.
kiss my knuckles and brush my fingers
across satin scars,
knees and elbows proof of healing.
I am bigger than this body,
like the universe forever expanding,
and I am nothing without this body.
every day I pray to the bones
keeping me up,
and the layers
keeping me warm,
and the skin
holding me always.

this body is mine to love
and it is holy.

one day I will be my own.
I will be my own and you will not be able to turn me
inside out.
you will not be able to
twist my spine and tie me
in knots.
you will not be able to leave holes
in my skin,
from where you pushed your needles through and
into my bones, injecting me with your
hateandguiltandshameandsadness and everything else
that’s on the bottom of your shoe.
You will not be able to fill me
with tidal waves,
your words the earthquakes,
our home the shore.
You will not be able to stand
over me and pick me apart
like crows on pavement standing
over roadkill.
I will not be your detached rabbit,
split open by tires and unable to
stop you from filling your belly with
my decaying heart and
fly filled lungs.
You will not be able to turn me
into a smothered fire,
flames licking my ribs,
smoke filling my insides
and begging my skin to
let it out.
You will not be able to break your teeth
over my bones
and have my forgiveness in the morning.
one day I will be my own.
none of me will belong to you or owe you anything.
one day I will be free,
and you will be dust,
and I won’t have to be
sorry.

my mother is an expert
on red.
she has worn every shade;
consumed it all.

my father is a barber
at night.
stealing my mother's hair;
consuming her.
he made the strands
a paintbrush.

my father is an artist;
brush of my mother,
paint of his blood,
he colors me
red.

I look like him,
they say.
he sees himself where
he wants to see
my mother.
coat me in red until I am
her.

I was six when I understood.
how ripping off the band aid
hurts more than the cut.
how skin is left red
and raw
where security once stuck.

I was forever and I didn't understand.
life is not fair,
but neither is death,
and what is left inbetween?

roses, to me, were always
sad.
they were anniversaries,
apologies, and uncertainties.
they were 'I love you enough
to have someone else hand you
flowers that someone else
grew.'
they were 'I hate you enough
to make you watch us
wilt.'

my mother is always
anticipating.
christmas songs started with
november.
jolly stockings and deceiving
lights.
red and green make
brown.
they make cinnamon wax spilled
on the carpet.
they make coffee on sofas and
shattered ornaments
against the wall.
they make
ugly hope.

I was fifteen when I looked down
and saw how red my hands had turned.
how brush strokes covered my skin.
how my cheeks were not rosy, but
crimson.
how my eyes were not as young as
they should have been.
when the panic in my chest split me in two.
I do not want to be red.
his blood and my blood are made of the same.
I look like him, they say.
god please don't make me be red,
I will cover your dreams with my sobs.

my mother is an ocean
of red.
painted by a man who thinks
love and pain
are the same color.
I do not know how to scrub my skin
clean.
I do not want to be red,
but I don't know how to be anything
else.

you swallow the bones of
everyone you've ever
loved, you chase it
with the pity that
sits so deep in
your gut, mirror
mirror on the wall,
who hates themself most
of all.

empathy slips through
your jagged little
fingers, yet guilt and
self loathing make you
cry for yourself, don't
mind your son he
never needed you
anyways.

you sit in the bath
tub, knees pulled to
your vinegar chest, skin
worn off and calloused from
kneeling on red
carpet, head bowed and
hands clasped, begging
please give me some
thing else to be
sorry for.

don't pray for your
son, he never needed
you,
anyways.

you ask me how
I can stay here.
I do not mind
the ***** streets.
you tell me why
I should leave this place.
I like the trees
that are empty year round.
these foreclosed buildings
and bare mattresses.
plastic bags and
cardboard signs.
you ask how could I like
a town like this.

here is just like
the inside of my head.
I like rust
because it is what
I am made of.

sand to glass,
time as waves,
moon pulls,
and I decay.

a castle under
your palms,
make me into
something more.

when the ocean swallows
the sand,
does it make a sound?

pull off every scale
put each on your tongue
let it dissolve with
the hate on
your lips.

once when I was
less than your fingers
a snake got closer
than your hands.
my mother raised a stick
higher than your chest
and I looked away until
the snake's eyes didn't
look like yours anymore.

twist every rib
around your spineless finger
let it come undone with
the whispers on
your tongue.

I'll look away until
I don't know
your eyes
anymore.

gazing in rapture, I am forever
caught between the frequencies;
one of dissolution,
one of incoherence,
strung across a common dissonance.

detached, I drip through
conflicting perceptions,
eternally bound in amber,
I am desensitized;
once by anesthetics,
infinitely by static,
endlessly apologetic.

you talk to me on sunday mornings,
when my skin has grown
through my sheets.

you gave me a box for my chest,
told me to lock what I love,
but my insides are stretched
out on the road,
pulled farther away
with every passing car.

you tell me to peel myself
off my bed,
your breath falls through my window
and onto my cheeks,
but sleep holds me
when you won't.

you settle in my hair,
and leave shadows on my bones,
turning them green and they
soak you up like a sponge.

you tell the flies to love me,
and on the road they do.

take me away from ***** sheets and stained pavement.
leave me where the sun will love me too.

for dinner I took all of your teeth
out of the drawer and crushed them up
into a powder and let it dry out my tongue.
you shouldn't have left your smile with me.
I dumped all your leftover fidelity
out onto a plate and ate it cold.
left on my tongue was
sour styrofoam
from the back of the fridge.
the same taste as when
you'd stick your hand out
of the car window.
some things never change.

the space between my skin and my bone is where I keep my teeth.
I found my dad's old drill in the garage, growing dust like fur. it had made a home on a shelf, its neighbor a pair a rusty pliers. the drill told me to pick the pliers up and put the end into my mouth, like the barrel of a pistol with ******* on my pulse. the pliers decided to bite, teeth digging into teeth.
I was back in kindergarten, sitting in the nurse's office on a thin white sheet, trying to fit my whole hand in my mouth so I could get ahold of that tooth. nose scrunched up and eyebrows creased in effort, blood and saliva spilling out of my mouth and running down my wrist. the nurse tells me maybe it's not ready to come out, maybe I should try again later tonight. but I feel the roots coming up like an old tree after a storm; and my tongue is a worm washed up onto the pavement, bleeding from somewhere but no one really cares. I dig my grimy little kid fingernail under the bottom of my tooth, and pull like I'm at recess, playing tug of war with my gums. I unearth my treasure with a disgusting pop, and hold it up to the light for all to see. fingers and chin coated in spit and blood, the nurse hands me a paper cup to rinse my mouth. I go to the sink and watch the metallic taste of my victory swirl down the drain. the nurse gives me a little plastic treasure chest for my tooth. I tie it on a string and wear it like a trophy.
I looked down at my hands, griping the plier handles. I did not decide to play tug of war with my gums that day, but maybe I never had a choice. once again my fingers were red and my tongue was metal, but this time I was standing in the garage, air of oil instead of hand sanitizer. the pliers did not let go of my tooth, instead they yanked and twisted and my gums begged them to stop, but the pliers did not have ears. they only released once my tooth was cupped in my palm, permanently helpless like a fawn left in the road. instead of succumbing to the reality of what I had done, I listened to the drill when it told me to put the pliers back in my mouth. like traffic lights l repeated the same motions. tug of war with rusty pliers, restless hearts know no peace. cracked molars spit out onto the floor, mind dizzy with static from the pain. my eyes were never truly open until all my teeth were laid out on the ground in front of me. idle hands are the devil's playground, but these pliers were the devil's hands, not mine. cheeks swollen and gums bruised beyond repair, I thought that was where it ended; laid to rest on the garage floor, stained rag for a wreath.
but the drill spoke to me again, this time it wanted me to gather up my teeth and bring them to it. it wanted me to hold it, red palm print on the handle. it told me to drill holes through my teeth. the whine of the bit spinning in enamel reminded me of a baby's cry, innocent eyes unable to comprehend the scene laid out before them.
I went to the closet and grabbed your favorite t shirt. I cut it up and spun it into string. the drill told me how to thread it through each tooth, like a string of christmas lights. my hands did the devil's work while my eyes watched. I dug through the drawer and found a needle. attached to the end of the string of teeth, I pushed it into my skin, and pulled it back out the other side. like traffic lights I repeated the motions. if only the lights had stayed red. I sewed my christmas lights into my skin.
the space between my skin and my bone is where I keep my teeth. touch me and you will be bit, by pliers or by lights. my gums are pudding in my mouth, but my teeth are armor in my skin.
sitting on the red garage floor,
I realize the devil can do no harm.

it's the termites. they crawl under my skin when I am not looking. they have blackberry juice for blood. it drips down their little chins, sticky and soursweet.
I am just driftwood. tunnels etched into my bones. a million legs creeping around my insides. shore to shore I crash into rocks and am pulled away with the tide. it's always the moon telling me to leave. it's always me turning away.
I am just a stickman. hang me up to dry when you can't figure out what I am. the alphabet is not infinite enough to define me.
the termites don't like me whole. they prefer meat that is rotting. whispers in my skull, shadows leave me half complete. I like the sun best when it is below me. I like the light most when it is directly in my eyes. all the terrible things I never want to see. open your mouth and blind me.

when my ribs are cold
and the streets asleep
and I am empty,
I know how the moon loves me.

when my hands are dust
and the lights are moths
and I am lonely,
I know how the moon cried for me.

when my lungs are bones
and the windows dead
and I am sorry,
I know how the moon made the stars for me.

when my eyes are fog
and the owls grieving
and I am unlovable,
I know how the moon loves me.

I talked to a tidal wave shaped like god.
it told me the world was better off empty.
there is no such thing as quiet
there is only overwhelming static
leaking into your skull
dripping from the ceiling
burning holes through the floor.
I talked to a tidal wave shaped like god
hand pressed to the third rail.
blue feet in frigid water
palms open to the sky.
waves echoed from its form
its whispers pushed a breeze through my hair.
I talked to a tidal wave shaped like god.
it told me we were better off nothing.

melt your shoes and
drink the rubber
chase it with
some honey.

kneel in church and
rearrange
the stained glass
with your head.

cut your hair and
pull your teeth
a smile made
of ***** rocks.

twist your tongue and
tie it back
a cigarette
stuck in your throat.

dip your feet in
rusty nails and
fill your socks with
peanut butter.

get lost in
the empty space
between your ribs
and your ears.

go upside down and
back in time
to when you
still had shoes.

I forgot to pull out my hair today.
it is termites in my skull
that I can't poison.
they talk to me but
I do not understand.

I forgot to tear off my nails again.
they are pieces of glass
growing under my skin,
that sometimes are pretty
with pinks and bruises.

I forgot to break my teeth tonight.
they are calloused stones
that grind up my tongue,
making my words
sound like spaghetti.

I forgot to press the button today.
the red one that says,
'self destruct'.

marbles in my throat
and beetles in my shoes
take my hands
and pull me apart.

marbles on the floor
and beetles in your skin
pick up my hands
and glue me together again.

glass in my veins
and spiders in my hair
hang me upside down
and drain me out.

glass spilling on the floor
rusty cotton candy webs
put me right side up
and stuff me full again.

grey honey on my lips
and coal in my mouth
take this poison
out of me.

sad honey on your lips
black where your teeth should be
give the poison
back to me.

when Uncomfortable comes,
he crawls in through my mouth
and makes a home on my tongue.
his breath stains my numb teeth
and burns the back of my throat.

when Uncomfortable asks me
to stay a little longer,
with his frail hands over mine,
there is only humming and I am
back in front of the tv, watching static.

when Uncomfortable stands
with his arms out, in the shape of a cross,
there is only smoke filling everything
as I bow my head and pray
to wake up free.

a thread tied around
my rib
holds me in orbit.
the other end
grows through
your palm.

like black holes
and wishbones
we fracture.

you keep most
of me
and I wish for something
better.

space is emptier than I remember.

childhood should not equal tragedy,
but when I think about mine
I only ache and
I want to drop to my knees;
out of grief or of prayer,
let it all fall away
or let it ******* burn.