your face is something like
rotting wood full of bodies of people i knew
(rough to the touch and cold inside)
and there's nothing 'magic' in the air of graveyards
or the morgue
or the funeral home (even though some people
feel that there is) but there is
blood and make up and
prosthetic chins  
that  make your dead grandfather (rest in peace) look twenty-eight
even though he was eighty-two.
please don't tell me that your spirit feels trapped
and your body feels wrong (even though i'd listen and nod) because
i already know what it feels like to be trapped  every morning (and sometimes at midnight) and waking up with my eyes shut and my
mouth sealed like a coma patient who didn't tattoo
NO CODE
on her chest soon enough and can hear her family whispering about what kind of
coffin and
what size dress she wears so that she looks pretty for
the reaper.

The last time you trusted
me with yourself,
I knew it would never happen again
so I

ran away with a mouthful of you
and burrowed into the ground
and added you to my nest
  of people I never wanted to forget
  the taste of

cheeks puffed out
and scurrying feet
  I was gone before you had time to notice
  that I had
  taken a piece of you with me

They hardly ever notice

   because I only steal mouthfuls of
   things I know they won't miss
like distrust- which I'll bet you didn't know
      tastes like cinnamon
or fear- which tastes like milk
      that's just a little bit too old
      but when you add a squirt of chocolate syrup
      you can hardly taste the sour-ness
or anger- which has that charcoal taste
      of anything that's been cooking for too long
      
and it all makes me wonder
  if I had stuck around
         long enough
to steal a mouthful of your love

what would it have tasted like?

I hate myself
for wanting to be pretty
but even more, I hate the world I live in for
   making me feel like I need to be
pretty
in order to amount to anything
   but it's been etched into my brain
      like the alphabet or "I'm fine, thanks, how are you?"

I guess I ran
out of words
when I stopped believing
   that I needed you to love me back

sometimes I still think of you but only
in the moment between tracks on a CD
or at stoplights
or in the the spaces of light between my fingers
  when I shield my eyes from the sun

but there are a lot of things I
sometimes think about
so maybe
   you're not so special after all
just a speck of static
I clung to
  when I had nothing else to hold
  or when there was no one else
to fill the space around me

My father used to say
Only the special ones succeed
So I sang the loudest
And the music teacher heard me
And I landed the solo.
And my mom videotaped it
And cried the whole way through
And everyone cried
Even me
Especially when I realized
How proud they were
And how happy that made me feel
And those were the days
Of running on the playground
And hitting my head
And being rushed to the nurse
And my father said
Well, that’s what happens
When children play around.

My mother used to say
I was born to be a star
So I sang the loudest
And wrote the fastest
And dreamed the biggest
And wrote a book
And joined the band
And my mother told me
She was my biggest fan.
And she hugged me tight
And told me she was right
And even when the flute gave me a headache
I kept playing
And playing
And playing.

When I was fifteen
I wrote poetry
In the dead of night
Inspired by
Cruel words exchanged below
Fueled by alcohol
And a daughter’s disgust
But sometimes
When I disappeared
Into the black-and-white world
Of pen and parchment
My sister would drag me out
With her new red car
That would later be repossessed
Because mother forgot she had bills
And we would eat ice cream
And never talk about what happened
To anyone who mattered
Because that’s what happens
When children play along
And even though the nights
Kept me awake and kept me
In and out of doctor’s offices
I would just smile and play it off
And kept playing
And playing
And playing.

My father used to say
Life ***** and then you die
And I never believed him
Because he also used to say
We were the only reason
They survived this long
But then one day
In a fit of rage
He leveled his gaze
And told my sister
He would choose her over us
And that was the day
I decided I believed him
So I threw away my book
And I forgot about the flute
And I sang quietly
And I lost my smile
Hidden among the pages
Smeared with running ink
Because I am an adult now
And playing is for children.

I wonder
if the lobster chested
  orange women
regret the youth they spent in the sun

My momma always warns me
to wear sunscreen so I won't look
like one of them and sometimes
   I do but sometimes
I have trouble
finding fear in the lobster chested
   orange version of me
              because the sun
              makes me happy
and if being orange skinned and
lobster chested means
I was happy once
would I really be ugly at all?

and when I see the
bruises on your throat
    soft and
          orange, it
makes me jealous
because your version of love is so easy
to come by but I
just can't swallow it.

I've heard some girls boast
about swallowing because I guess
it's supposed to make boys like you
   well
I can swallow too
I can swallow
   my fear and
I can swallow
   my insecurities and
I can hide them deep within me
    where
I don't have to show anybody
    and
I don't have to tell anybody

because the summer rays of sun
run circles round my eyes
and all I'll ever need is
to know that I survived

My body becomes the problem.
I cannot move my arms,
I cannot feel my legs.
My back cracks,
my knees are weak.
Ill, Ill, Ill.

i can't always remember
if the sun sets in
the west or east
but it's okay;
i want to be remembered for thinking
the sun had a choice.