if you are ever at a bus
stop then take a good look at the person not standing near
everyone and know that this person is a
writer. know that their hands are in
pain and know that they have cried themselves
dry in front of darkened
mirrors because they can’t stand the sight of
themselves. know that the night into which their lover
fled is that which owns their
soul. they know much more than
you yet they would give anything
not to understand. they’re wearing long sleeves for a
reason and they are taking the
bus only because they know that their life has no
purpose, no more than that of an abandoned
cigarette. know that these people with the very melancholy
eyes and the pigeon-toed
feet are writers and that they will love
you even when they can’t
love themselves.

I might've been an only
child but I was never the
favourite. you trailed behind us at every
social event, pulling on my
hair and stepping on the backs of my
shoes. the bottoms of them were so
worn out from years of me trying to run
away that I could feel every footstep in my
lungs. at christmas none of my presents could be
wrapped, because we'd learned the first
year that it wasn't a good
idea. she made me spend hours tearing it off in a straight
line, using a ruler as
guidance. I was too young to read the
numbers on it. this year, I bought her a
necklace. I knew I had to give her something even though I wanted to
take. she never mentioned it on our Christmas cards, but it was
there, it was
there in the spacing of our
names and the negative space between our warm
bodies; we weren't allowed to
touch. she hates you so
much that she could never bear
leaving you. vacuums became my
lullaby and my father quickly grew
used to never getting kissed on the
mouth. I hate you. you were a thorn
stuck into the centrepiece of our perfect
family, and my psychotherapist says you're the
reason I still let myself
bleed.

Remembering the first time you kissed me kinda hurts
Because you never asked if I wanted it
It's strange that where we came from is a place of such pain
Such malice and misunderstanding
The floor there is still stained from my tears
Same with your pillow cases
And my old tee shirts
     (do you remember the first time you cried on me?)
I do

I visit sometimes
Lay down in the soft embrace of your cat haired covered sheets
     (we have the same sheets)
Close my eyes and feel your weight
I don't resent you anymore
I never would've resented you if I'd known you back then
But I didn't
I knew black slacks
An Iron Maiden tee
     (I have the same one)
A [REDACTED] license plate

I open my eyes and
You walk in with a pizza
     (Dominos, they had a 50% promotion)
It has sausage and spinach on your half
Mushrooms and green olives on mine
I'm glad I know you now

I dig into my pockets and find
lint
gum wrappers
the invisible switchblade
of mirror ride and wind’s roll—
the KABOOM!
of diluted catastrophe
or how your mother screams in her sleep

now I understand how seasons
faint from peppered emotion—
strong enough for teeth
to bite and rip the leather
or at least scratch patterns into
that old belt

smooth breeze down the throat
tastes as September dies down
at the alley cat’s feet—
dead prayer
and the leaves swoon to
twitching whiskers

for me, it has always been
an ocean, a sea, a body of
salty water. for me, it does
not matter if it's just a little
a little wave is shaking my entire being
imagine i
have to stand tall in a surfer's board, i
am drowning. i am drowning
can't save myself

so funny how i feel so small
with such a large body
how i feel powerless with
such a strong hip
how i feel empty with
out a gap between my thigh

s

for me, it has always been
the ocean, the sea, the body
of salty water. i want to wear
so little and show all skin. i
want to be seen. i want to
be all skeleton and float like a lifesaver.
but i
drown
i drown
i keep drown
ing. i drown. i am drown. drown

i cant give up my heat
to what i really need
arent i   just like
my mother? clumsily
birthed a child, again,
and another, tearing
a *** hole, bleeding
lifetimes, swallowing
salt with a mouth like wound. i
wish i never hurt i
an apple tree
blossomed
carrying entrails
like knowledge
i devour, an eater
fell in love
with  famine. arent i
just like   my mother?
a lady, sword  on her hand
scale ingrained on her heart
covers her eyes, but never
forgets to count. how many years
do i have left?
outlive me, or rather
i'll let you
have my youth.

hey, aren't you well?
staying ill in this weather
won't take you anywhere,
bruising heart into cracked walls
and damp groin
i see your hair is falling out again
collecting grease
shedding scalp
i said i loved you, i did.
what are we anymore, we used to
collect each tear drops
call them different names
i forgot what your face looked like
when i see you
        how can i be sorry,
how can i

there are beautiful things in this world
one of them was being with you,
painting the blanket of the earth
mint green, lavender, sky blue
-- aching red burst
and now i can't see   any of it
we were vast, transcending galaxies
like something immense was on the way
but it got caught and dried and hung
like a head with horns
like a head    with fangs
like a head, trophy that says, defeat

if i were to find you
would you let me hold you
carry you
tend you
would you like to take the time
to heal?
in my chest. in my arms. would
you let me build for you  a mending place?
or would you tell me off
tell me: pretend
not to hear your screech
not to get your hurt
would you ask me to look past it
like you did
before

what am i going to do with you?
i can't love you if you aren't here
i can't find you if you disappear

what am i going to do without you?

if your body is a home
who would make it a hotel room
look at you and think:
cheap enough. pretty clean
sleep on you and think:
tomorrow i'm leaving
if your body is a home
who would make it a playground
come to you to play,
get tired and think:
fun enough, but it's getting dark
i gotta go
if your body is a home
once lively, with a garden of blooming flowers and home-cooked meals
who would make it a haunted house
who would cut the power at night
who would make it a ****** scene
if your body is a home
who would make it impossible to live in

Crosses still hang
as remnants of the past
Reminders of old traditions.
Only few years have gone,
but /decades/ Says her heart.

The life they gave grows older,
No longer sewn to the Mother.
The hope and faith in their eyes
dimmed in her years past,
So while the crosses still hang
It seems they’ve lost all meaning
For the Mother and their beliefs
died with her youth.