I'm somebody's daughter
Made of sugar and gasoline 
I wash away the filth until I bleed 
Desperate to be clean

I'm somebody's daughter

A small and hungry crime scene 
Made of guilt and strawberry cream 
But I never cry in my dreams

I'm somebody's daughter

Trying to become untaught 
They love the sound of sorry 
Even when they know I'm not


Sincerely, someone's daughter

if it weren’t for my sliding mirror closet doors, my room would look much darker with only one lamp turned out.
that’s what i’m thinking about at 12:11am when i can’t sleep and have to work the morning shift.
dozens of friends have come and gone through my room, marveling at the 80s design and dusty gold colored edging that doesn’t match the accompanying oak trim along the walls in my house. they stare and stare at their reflections, our reflections. take pictures, post them on social media. watch the comments rake in. is this what we’ve come to?
i switched where my bed is in my room so that i don’t have to look into the mirror as i fall asleep; it felt too narcissistic and depressing. now i have my bookshelf in front of me and the little lamp that jumps off the mirror next to me. i have my fan blowing and my window open to the late autumn, early winter night air that i love.
i take deep breaths out of sight from the sliding doors that keep clothes i hardly ever wear safe. i sleep without it’s stare focused on me. i sleep without you on me, around me. i close my eyes, see the stars there, and sleep.

was once a wild dog,
reborn a man, for just a brief moment in this billion year odyssey.

was once a demon,
sent to earth to destroy, instead fell in love with the woods and her toys.

was once a frog prince,
tongue-out beside a pond, with his princess to never arrive.

was once a boy,
forgot about time, scuffed knees and chin, to grow old and die.

was once a dreamer,
fell asleep and got lost…

                            [each harsh yet beautiful minute proceeds into the next, time telling its stories of love and death]

took his bike to the end of the street and disappeared.
he was laughing.

maybe today, just find a way
to bell the bones of magnificent fun.

she thought he was funny. he
took to the day like a wild oat.
took a bullet to the chest, still had long to go.

that old bless of a naked always-stretching lung
     [can we account for nuance?]
took.  took.  took.

holocene compounded, brain aneurism expounded.
he knew the city suffered, city slumbered, never, not ever.

your number? he asked her.
or about some kind of snake wrapped around the heart.

war chest, drum the chest, bone or breast.
twas rhythm, not explosion.
rhythm/blast.

city/socks/electronics.

the humdrum conundrum of ***, thumbs and time.
we are surrounded yet alone.
stone’d yet liquid.
remember the lung?

city/shoes/blood.

he thought she was funny.
stoop, stop to think about a text…
send.

she is a happy ending,
not everyone can wait for.

you know me, I play
pianos just where I find them
and smile at my zeal