We are ugly
with bitten-down tips
shaking and smeared
rough sides from the constant
indentation of teeth
moles and scars
some on purpose
other paper cuts
litter our surface
we feel and caress
the paper and the pen
the book and the laptop
hangnails caught on fabric
yet still we come back
we are hands
nimble and quick
always hungry to create
wanting more and more
the need to make beautiful
things overwhelms us

i had a dream that i cut my eyelid in half
and then when i put a gauze piece on it
and taped it up
people kept on pulling it off and poking at
my bleeding eye
and this is what it feels like to be born
and loved
and hated
and told goodbye for the first and last times
just quit poking at my eye
because it ******* hurts
and this is what it feels like to be
in a hospital for the first time
after you have taken forty
of your favorite pills and hoped to never
wake up again
i wasn't even born in a hospital
but man
i don't wanna go back
but what if i need to
does this make me weak
my eye hurts

I will not
for I too
look forward to
an eternal sleep

Love rips out your heart
***** you dry
but the exhaustion is welcome
because it means that you're
still alive

Carrying books like
one would a baby
nestled in one arm
and tight against the hip
he wonders
is he an idiot
or just nostalgic
heart-sick with memories
of him and mother
reading together
and she called him
her little girl

Even
when
I
don't
want
to be
found

Abuse
mental emotional verbal physical
Neglect
Alcoholism
it's lasted way longer than that
and not just seven
it's enough for a
life-time

After 72 hours
without sleep
insanity sets in
but what is worse
a caffeinated blood stream
or bruise-like hollows
under lifeless eyes?

I will do this
even though
her skin burns my lips

for when I kiss
the stars mapped out
on her skin

she lights up like
the sun on a cloudy day

and my heart soars like
a bird to be burned up
by her light

I dreamed
makes more sense than saying
nightmared about
dying
taking my life
I choked on stomach acid
and blood
it felt so real
and it just kept happening
I thought I was in hell
I thought I'd never
wake up

Scorpio
and ox
set in my ways
my own
worst enemy

There used to be
stars in my eyes
constellations
on my skin
but now there is
nothing left but
black holes
and scars

Whatever is is
any tighter
and
it'll **** me

May as well just
push me
down the stairs
and end my suffering

Being myself
my TRUE self

I do not stitch
hands shake too much
for that
but I will carve
the words
into the tender flesh
of my *******
boy
boy
BOY

My arms
they are like
train tracks
but the trains have
stopped running
and the path I follow
only leads me further down
and I am so tired

Let me take you
into my arms
paint your body into
immortality
I will let you
burn your fingertips
into my heart
and you'll never be forgotten

You will hold him
cupped in your palms
but this is not beautiful
it is dying
and you can't tell
whose heart is stuttering
but your chests are both heaving
and when he goes still
like the key being yanked
from a wind-up toy
and the light leaves his eyes
you can't help but feel
responsible
for snuffing it out

I have
again and again
some have dropped it
others have taken off
small pieces
and I forgot to ask
for them back
maybe they needed the pieces
more than I did

But then you were there
and when my chest
cracked wide open to
let you in
my heart was not
dropped for the first time
in years

Thank you

So
you want the good old days back right
when it was only a few cents to
see a movie at the theater
and you could take your girl out
for a night on the town
for less than twenty dollars
and even having that much money
made you feel rich?

Fine
I can understand that
but that’s not what you mean
when you say that
like a parrot
it’s the same thing over and over again
make America great again
let America be America again
make this great fifty state
existence of ours
meet your impossible standards again

But
if you really want to make America “great”
and restore this land to it’s original beauty
then we need to clear out
give the land back to
the Native and Indigenous peoples
that were killed off by the white man and
their small pox and guns
and their constant need to expand

This
land is soaked in the blood
of many wars fought
but most of it is not white man’s blood

No
it is the blood of people
who just wanted to live
and raise their children
and meet their grandchildren
and keep the world beautiful

But
the white man just couldn’t stand for that
now could they?
especially if they weren’t in charge of it all
so the bodies fell
and then the trees
the animals and native plants
all shriveled and died under
their cruel hands

And
when that land would yield
no more grasses or plants
they moved on
and on and on
riding horses that were not theirs
bringing death and plague
and sadness
a sadness so profound
that even the earth herself
wept

So
you say you want
America to be America again
that you want to make our country
great again
but all you can think about is
war and genocide and
****** and death and pain

This
is not for the good of all
or even the few
it is for the good of the one
it is for the white man
and his money
and his towers
and the countless empty buildings
springing up
and choking what little life is left
out of the earth and the land
but the building’s will stay empty
because the rent is too high
and if you do not have money
or power
well then
your voice is not heard

And
you continue preaching
about how bigger walls
and gun towers
will keep everybody else out
but all I see when I look at you
is a spoiled rotten little brat
taking his sandbox toys home with him
so no other children can play with them
just because their clothes
are not as nice as yours
and their faces and hair
are not as scrubbed clean

But
the pigment has been leached
from your heart
and all that is left
is a shriveled up *****
it is not doing its job
because if you really did have a heart
you would understand that not everyone
shares your disillusioned vision
of a “greater”
a “reborn”
America

(And
I have met some pretty
evil men
I have seen them on TV
with their greasy selves
and empty promises
but you
well
you’re the ******* Antichrist)

when you first look at me
and i mean more than a furtive passing glance
what do you see?
and i only ask because i have read
that employers have this thing where
they will analyze a hopeful-hire
in 30 seconds
and then they go off of that
mere 30, 29, 28
and so on
all the way down to 0
of whether or not they will get the job

now i am not asking you for a job
because i do not want to work for you
and you are not offering me a position
as caretaker, worker, cleaner, lover
and even if you were
it would not be accurate
because i am so much more than
30 seconds

because in such a short amount of time
that only allows a quick once-over
all that you will come away with
is a mix of stereotypes and an impression
based off of what gender you think i am

30, 29, 28
purple haired freak, clown, butch
27, 26, 25
girl, must be a lesbian, what a ****
24, 23, 22
must have been a cutter at some point
maybe still is, but who can really say?
because the world we live in is getting colder
and hotter and colder and layers upon layers
is the only way to go
21, 20, 19
is she a girl or a boy? who does she think she is?
what should i call her?
18, 17, 16
she she she
15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1
0, 0, 0,
girl girl girl

(now let me tell you what
i gleaned from the 30 seconds that
you looked me up and down
like i was nothing more than a slab
of meat and you wanted to
dig a knife into my and cut me into little chunks

what i saw in your eyes
it was not nice
and i saw the moment when you
labeled me as a female
because of my *******
soft and supple and right ******* there
and the societally stereotyped feminine pear shape of my hips
all the way down to where there is no bulge
because how can she be a ******
when she hasn’t got any bottom dysphoria, huh?

and sure that’s a great question
it’s so clever and original
why can’t you just be a tomboy?
why can’t you just be a lesbian?
why not try being bisexual?
but really the question
the million dollar question
is why can’t you just be a girl?

well because i’m not a girl
and i have known this
since i was 7 years old
and that was ******* terrifying
because i knew for a fact that
i was something else than the doctor
had labeled me as after glancing at
my new born baby self
and thinking: yup, ******=female

and i tried being a tomboy
wearing ripped jeans and converse
and keeping my hair short
wearing baggy sweatshirts to hide
my *******
but it wasn’t enough

and i tried being a lesbian
actually since i did not know what
transgender meant
let alone that there was a word to describe
what i had felt like inside for
9 long **** years
i rationalized that i must have been a lesbian
because that was a quick-fix-easy-answer
to the cuts on my wrist and the misery
i felt whenever someone called me a girl

and i tried being bisexual
which came after a lesbian
and before transgender
and yeah sure i guess it worked
but not for long
and then it happened and i knew what
transgender meant and that
i wasn’t a tomboy
a lesbian
or even bisexual

and i tried being a girl
but it very nearly killed me
and then it happened
and i knew who and what i was

i am a transgender male
my sexuality is pansexual
and no i do not have *** with pans
though that’s really original and not something
i’ve heard so many times already

but i know that i am not a woman
and your 30 second analysis of me
does not help you at all
because you see me through a lens
of female, butch, lesbian, she, she, she
and that is not who i am at all)

Either way
I don't care
because I write for
myself only
and alone
keeps the demons at bay

Honey Bear came home today.
I am still in awe that somebody who was so big in my life and in my eyes can be made so small.
The box that she came home in is on her bed with a piece of bacon, a card, and her paw print.
I can’t bring myself to write happy poetry about her.
It’s still too soon.
Dear god, it’s too soon.
I need my friend, my confidant, my sister, my family, back.
Bring her back.
You give her back.
You vulture.
I know that she was sick.
And in pain.
But it’s still so hard to let someone so dear to you go.
That **** dog.
We’ve all cried as much as we did at Great Grama’s funeral.
Every day I am greeted by her empty bed.
I still expect her to come limping into my room, nudging the door open and laying down.
I have dreams where I stand at the door and call her name over and over again.
I wait for hours for her to come back.
But she never heeds my call.
Though, she never was good at listening.
And I think that maybe, if I get mom to call her name, she will come.
And I think, maybe, if I help mom search for her, we will find her, happy and healthy again.
Because moms can find anything and everything.
But what happens when she can’t find the pieces of your heart that Honey Bear took with her?

I have never really
written letters
just poems
but if the letters
I were to write
would make you feel
beautiful
then I would write
you letters
everyday

sore and sweaty in the
dishpit at work,
well-worn boots on my feet
that i’d had for years before
i even knew what the words
queer and trans meant

and the black jeans that
i’ve been wearing for two days
to go with the black box dye
staining my hair

laura jane grace sings to
me through the radio
speakers about being androgynous

and i think about my gender then,
feel the ridges stretch where *******
once sat when i reach just far enough
to grab more dishes stacked beside me

mostly, i think about how
my girlhood felt like the steel jaws
of a spring loaded trap,
and no matter how hard i tried,
i could never gnaw off my
own limb to get free

i think of the testosterone for
a little over five years,
and a double mastectomy,
and the $200 to change my
name and gender marker

i ran from my girlhood
as far and fast as i could,
into the arms of the man
i made myself to be

and then i think of you,
long hair and longer legs,
twirling around in that skirt
i gave you

your womanhood is a gift,
one that i am forever humbled
to witness you reveling in,
watching you embrace everything
that i felt held back by

for you, to be a woman
is not a steel trap,
nor a choke-chain
or something to run from

for you,
to be a woman is a
beautiful thing,
and how beautiful you are

I used to be able to
count to a thousand
and walk backwards
with my eyes closed
and these were
to my little kid self
great feats of skill
but then
later in life
I resigned myself to the fact that
I would never feel close
to how alive those
small things had made me feel
but then
there was her
and when she left deep purple
hickeys up the length of my arm
nine in total
one for every letter of
her name
they were only on the surface
of my skin
but I felt alive
all the way down
to my bones

Before going to bed last night, my last thought was, I hope I die in my sleep. Well, actually, that’s only part of it. Imagine a train colliding with a truck full of fireworks and then having somebody throw you into the flames. That’s about what my thoughts were like last night. Ah, sweet suicidal tendencies
22. Unfortunately, no.

I cannot.

23. I’ve felt like stabbing myself in the eye with a pen.

24. Is that in dollars?

Hell.

Pencil sharpeners, CDs, and books.

29. I stayed up until 12.

Because my sleeping pills hadn’t kicked in, and I was too busy blaming everything on myself for sleep.

39. I am wearing fluffy pajama pants that make me feel about 5 years old.

Afraid of the dark
yet I live in
shades of gray

your name leaves a bitter
taste in my mouth
this has happened before
but never with such
a sense of
finality

i remember when we
first met and i was
a closet lesbian and you
were the new girl with the
colorful skirts and long
brown hair that i wanted
to bury my face in

and you were my
first kiss
my first girlfriend
the first
and only
person i ever fell
in love with

you were also the
first person to break my heart
and break it again
and again
and again over the course
of the next ten years

but i was young and in love
and so naive
believing that we
deserved a happy ending
that i would marry you
that you would want
to marry me

i have been in love
with you for ten years
i loved you as a girl
as a lesbian
and then as a queer man
and i thought
i hoped
you loved me back

but i’ve fallen out of
love with you so fast
it stole my breath
like a punch in the gut
laying down on cold cement
until my breath stops
coming in shallow
painful gasps

i feel used up
like you took all i had
and gave nothing back
we were never meant
to be symbiotic
were we?

well here i am
saying goodbye to you
for what will be the last time
because i just can’t do this anymore
all this back and forth
are you or aren’t you?
are we or aren’t we?
is making my head spin

and i hope you are
able to claw your way out
of this rut before it becomes
your grave

but i am untethering myself
from the mast
of your sinking ship
and i am not
looking back

----
1. i dream of breaking off needles in my thigh
2. twelve years old was the first time that i wanted to die
3. maybe the needles are a way of making that feeling stay away
4. because there is something inside of me that needs to get out
5. i refuse to die inside of myself
6. and i already tried cutting it out
7. and i already tried taking so many pills that i would sleep forever
8. and i already put so many notes into so many words
9. but that’s all just scars and potentially messed up organs now
10. though much of my writing still reads like a goodbye
11. but old habits die hard
12. and sometimes the only reason i don’t go back is because of the dates on my arm
13. and the ink is not a way of mutilating myself
14. it’s a way to cover up my past mistakes
15. because even though the scars have faded i know they’re there
16. and i am ready to have new scars that do not signify pain
17. but a way of finding my true self under all of that

The number of days
means nothing
when one has only been
surviving
for years

Stickers pressed hard
on to the ceiling
held tight against the paint
with an unwavering
child's belief
that the stars and planets
would watch over him
while he slept
and the moon was his
first friend

The cradle
his home
made from coat hangers
stray hairs from pink plastic brushes
and twigs and sticks
pressed up against his mother
sharing her warmth

One day though
he wakes up
mother gone
and no home left
down on the ground
instead of up in the trees

Little bird is so cold
and all alone

abby abby
eyes of gold
what does your
reflection hold

abby abby
actually eyes of green and blue
like the ocean after a storm
your eyes hold depths that
we cannot fathom

abby abby
perfect smile
light up a room
make others smile too

abby abby
beautiful flower
strong like a tree
roots sunk deep into the heart
of the earth

abby abby
my rock to lean against
when the going gets rough
i don’t let many people cry on my shoulder
but you are certainly invited to
when and if you need to

abby abby
keep me up at night
but in the best possible way
the dreams where you are in them
leave me feeling rested

abby abby
gonna do great things
just have to stick around
to see what the future holds
a future as bright as your eyes

abby abby
platonic love of my life
i love you
i love you
i love you

abby abby
my dearest friend

abby abby
eyes of gold
what does your
reflection hold

abby abby
actually eyes of green and blue
like the ocean after a storm
your eyes hold depths that
we cannot fathom

abby abby
perfect smile
light up a room
make others smile too

abby abby
beautiful flower
strong like a tree
roots sunk deep into the heart
of the earth

abby abby
my rock to lean against
when the going gets rough
i don’t let many people cry on my shoulder
but you are certainly invited to
when and if you need to

abby abby
keep me up at night
but in the best possible way
the dreams where you are in them
leave me feeling rested

abby abby
gonna do great things
just have to stick around
to see what the future holds
a future as bright as your eyes

abby abby
platonic love of my life
i love you
i love you
i love you

abby abby
my dearest friend

i hug you
on tiptoes
with arms around your neck
like “girls do”
but i haven’t been a girl
since i was 7 years old
and i know that how you see me
doesn’t match up with
who i used to be

and the first time i
hugged you like that
i told you
i loved you
smelling like 11.5 hours
marinating in other people’s food
and you said you knew
when i said the day was horrible

and i want you to know
i didn’t mean for this to happen
heart eyes you don’t notice
talking about you like
you’re a new favorite book
pages i never want to stop
running my hands over
papercuts be ******

but i love you
for your long hair
black as ink
and other metaphors
and i wonder if you’d let me
run my fingers through it
like some cheesy romance novel

i love you
for your smile
and how you smile at me
still laughing at my lame jokes
about how queer i am

i love you
for how you said you
just have to
sing along to
in the danger zone and
the wall between us
hid a grin so wide
my cheeks hurt

and i love you
even though i know
this will never go anywhere
because i’m never going to
tell you

just how much i love you
just how much i want to kiss you
just how much i miss you
when you’re gone

and just how much i hope
you might love me back
enough to let me
be yours

new place
new home
not so new city
but newly living there
and riding city busses
in the dark
and the near
and the dusk
makes for new feelings
of trepidation
of fear
of anxiety
of nakedness without
someone there beside

so son
he asked father for a knife
not to use on anyone
and the father asked if the son
would use it on himself

and the
son looked down
bare arms on desktop
six years of hurting himself
and he promised that no
he would not use the knife
on himself
not then or ever again

the knife
given then was a truly beautiful
thing with all that blade
and for an instant the old need
to make bleed flooded
the son like water through a ravine
long since gone to cracked mud

but the
son refrained from that
because cracked mud can
surely be beautiful too
and even dead things can
bring forth life
from what they used to be

but then
time passed as it so often
does in seconds and minutes
and days and weeks
and months and then
the father and the son
were not under the same roof

and then
came the days and weeks
and finally months of silence

but that
knife oh the knife it stayed
not against flesh because that was
one promise that would no longer be broken
but instead inside of zipper shoulder bag pockets
and tucked under couch cushions and shoved
to the back of piles on top of a new desk

and time
how it continued to pass
until the son had graduated
and there was no father
to watch him as he walked down
that aisle and to the row of seats
all proud and head held high
in his black gown that
officially marked the son
as being a male

and time
how it continued to pass
until the son stopped answering
the father’s phone calls
and who can blame the son
because the child should not have to
continuously hold together
that lame excuse for
a father and son relationship

and time
it is still passing
and the son well he still has
that knife in his life
constantly moving around places
in his room that is not just a corner
of the living room and a desk and a bed
because he has all those things now
but the father is not in his life

and knives
and tattoos even gifted
from father to son
are not the same as having
a father that actually wants you

the witch comes to visit
with soup and a story
sets an old *** on
the bard’s little wood-burning stove
and he watches as she works,
perched on a stool

and the witch, she tells
the bard about the stars,
how they always remember
and live for thousands of years

there is one star in particular
she weaves a tapestry about
with her words,
but only where that star cannot hear
taken by pirate ship upon the waves

she speaks, with something like
fondness and resignation
about how this star,
he fell in love with the moon

and when the moon was
too far for him to follow
his love turned towards the ocean
and how it stretches from
one end of the horizon to the other

the bard knows this star well,
of course, often wakes with him
slumbering still, between the
bard and the closed bedroom door

the witch then asks the bard
what he is tied to
and the bard tells her who
he is anchored to

and, setting a bowl of
soup on the well-worn table,
the witch says, with unmistakable
fondness this time,
“then you are a fool, bard of mine”

the bard nods in agreement,
almost tells the witch he
only eats lunch for her,
but suspects she already knows,
so says instead,
“aye, and a fool in love
is the very worst kind”

and the witch will agree,
because the bard is right

but, she will also tell
the bard how this star,
he loves a man
with scars through his eyebrow
and across the palm of his hand
from building a widow’s walk
with the star’s name on his tongue
the whole time

and there is an honesty
in loving someone to the point
of creation again and again,
is there not?

heartache, grief, longing,
that ache of want, of wanting
mostly empty flask in hand,
too much of one thing and
not quite enough of another

cast in shadows against the
brilliance of the setting sun,
this wild thing in the shape
of a man goes out into the
vast desert to remember his
own name, again

there’s a choke-chain, and
perhaps worse, a tender hand,
still trying to puzzle out
which he deserves more

tattered long coat like the
wings of a black bird flapping
behind, voice stolen by the
howling wind, the snarling of
beasts wilder yet than him

finishes off the last drops
in the flask with coffee from
a dented tin mug, wonders how
far he must go, to find that
which he yearns for

still trying to puzzle that one
out, too, but feels like it may
be somewhere beyond the
horizon line, like taking a step
forward and tipping into
something that hurts just
a little bit less

wonders, still, if he’d even know
how to deal with that, now,
wonders if he’s allowed to want
something else than cold desert
nights and that black boneyard dog,
nipping at his heels

wonders if there’s a metaphor,
within the choke-chain and
the gentle hand

and maybe his name is where
it’s always been, tucked behind
breastbone, nestled in sinew,
in that feeling of walking up
creaky porch steps, just knowing
that light will have been left on

and maybe he’s not doomed by
the narrative, hell, maybe he’s not
doomed at all

my sorrow is a monster
ten feet tall
all beady eyes and
teeth sharper than razor blades
nipping at my heels

i cannot run fast enough
to evade this black wave
that has only grown with me

nestled up against my ribcage
like vines crushing the life from
a once mighty tree
covered in all these hurts

but it wasn’t always this way
some monsters aren’t
just the way they are
some monsters are made

and this monster was nurtured
a catalogue of things i can’t fix
things i can’t change
things that were done to me

and there’s only so much
i can drink
only so many painkillers
i can swallow
before i feel nothing at all

my sorrow is not my friend
these claws only know how to
rend and tear
never knowing a touch that
was anything other than cold

this choke-chain i hold
in my shaking hands
hardly seems like enough to
contain such a beast

and i don’t want to be
like my parents
i don’t want to be
like you, lover boy
drowning my sorrow in
whatever i can reach

my sorrow will not
make me as monstrous
as this darkness so
often feels

my word is my gospel
a body made up of snatches
of conversations
kind words from chapped lips
various pen inks
staining the skin of my hands
and blunted fingertips

believing so fiercely in a love
that i can only hope believes
in me too

and i think a lot about empty spaces
so many voids to fill
like how your hand would fit
in mine
and we could laugh about my sweaty palms

like how a girl
i loved held my hand that first time
and said she wasn’t afraid
she wouldn’t be ashamed
walking by people in a crowded mall
and flipping through baby name books
like we deserved a future together

i think about your cold feet
wondering if there are holes
in socks that you keep forgetting
to sew and wishing there
were a way to close
those gaps of darkness
nestled between your ribs

we could plant flowers there
ya know
plants i promise not to ****
painting a black thumb green
if only to see you smile

and i think about kissing you
i think about it a lot
but i don’t have that kind of courage
still trying to believe in love
like i did as a child

writing that darkness into
something tender and soft
smoothing out those jagged edges
like carding fingers through your
messy hair

filling those gaps with
sunshine and smiles
and your name on my lips
a new favorite taste

giving myself a happy ending
and that’s okay

I was drinking tea.

Or, trying to.

The key word is trying.

I kept on choking,

and coughing,

and gagging.

Now my throat hurts.

Almost as much as it did

when I decided to strangle myself.

my hands are shaking
not with anxiety
i tell myself sternly
but with the caffeine
and too sweet bagel i had
for lunch
this is a sugar rush
or it might be the cold
that is turning my toes pink
setting my teeth chattering
and making my chest tight
maybe it is something else
but i don’t want it to be
please just let it be the cold
and not some ridiculous fear
of being alone

i am just another echo
against the walls of
this house

“did you wish you
would have successfully
committed suicide?”

you can’t ask me that
because it is one
hell of a loaded question
and i’ll spend all this time
agonizing over what answer
will make you worry the least
because and ****** anyhow
i just don’t know

it’s just one thing in
a long laundry list of
maybe’s that i took
from therapist to therapist
and psych ward to psych ward
trying to find a definitive answer
on why i was depressed
why i was afraid to sleep at night
why i couldn’t just be happy
why i wanted to die
just why why why

and i don’t know
because my whole life
felt like preparations in order
to die younger than i should have
but that stubborn cursor just
kept on blinking away
saying that my story wasn’t over

but the thing is
that depression has no face
because there were good days
where i wasn’t miserable
but then the nights were hell
and i could never cut deep enough
to find the infection
that made me this way

because even now
almost 20 and terrified
over a life that still
sometimes feels like it should
have ended four years ago
i am still depressed

under the genuine smiling
and laughing where i don’t care
if my crooked teeth show
my mental illness is still there

and i am riddled
with anxiety
and guilt
and regret
though i still cannot
say for certain if that guilt
extends to the fact that i
failed to take my own life
because i just do not know

it’s a long list of maybes
more than the scars littering
my left arm
or the days that i spent
bruising my wrist on
any sharp corner i could
because i can’t say “yes”
and i can’t say “no”
without it feeling like a lie

“did you wish you
would have successfully
committed suicide?”
i don’t know
yes
no
maybe
maybe
maybe

1.1.  i used to hear and see
things that weren’t there
but that all stopped the second
and final
time my mother kicked me out

funny how the brain deals with
years upon years of repeated
traumas, huh?

2. i was 17 years old
a month or two shy of 18
the last time i was sexually assaulted

i play words with friends against
one of the women that assaulted me now
and hate her for what she did to me
and the people i told that
should have helped me
but only called me a liar and
forced me to forgive my attackers

3. on that night
i cut my left arm to ribbons
and bled all over my desk
trying to get that feeling of being *****
and used up off my skin

i still ask myself
if i had still been pretending to be a girl
would people have believed me
or would that ****** assault
have been something worse?

4. i only remember my father
drinking when he had me around
old crow kept on top of the fridge
on the rocks
and a splash of warm water

that man who is
the other half of my dna
loved his **** grog more than
he ever wanted
ever loved me

5. you wanna know how
i got these scars?
and i don’t mean the ones
that were done by my own
trembling hands

the ghost of a child
still wails within me
never stopped being afraid
of those that were supposed to
protect me

6. the shadow of a young man
thin wisps of smoke
like the cherry of a cigarette
held against an arm
claws at this darkness
that only grew with me

i know perfectly well
which parts of me are
too broken to try and repair
the pieces my brain won’t
let me remember

7. and maybe that’s for the best
not having the words to explain
what was done to me
again and again

but that doesn’t satisfy
the hurt and anger
this brewing hatred
towards parents that didn’t know
how to be
and never really should have been

8. you wanna know how
i got these scars?
ripped out every part of
my parents that coursed through
all that red blood and blue veins

made a promise to that
scared little boy
still nestled against my ribs
that i would never be the
kind of monster a childhood
i almost didn’t make
it out of alive
wanted me to be

could you be a lighthouse,
my captain?
a welcome and a warning
all in one

or is that too poetic
of a metaphor for you?
more of a flask
passed back and forth

choosing to mistake the warmth
in my cheeks for
naught but the effects of ***

there is a brightness to you,
though and just the same

my blood sings for you
backed by the sighing
of a heavy heart

but there is beauty in that, too
wouldn’t you agree,
oh, captain of mine?

more than anything, though
captain,
there is beauty in you

that was gonna be me
ya know?
well it almost was
but sometimes
i feel like it really should have been
if only i had tried hard enough

but wouldn’t you know
trazodone is actually really
hard to overdose on
so it seems safe to conclude
that when the paramedic told me
i was lucky i had woken up
he was lying

the bottom line is though
that i thought i was ready
to be that person who so
many others knew
went to school with
grew up with
but then they all would have
continued to age
while i became part of the earth again

and while i was certainly
gone for those few hours
before i woke up
soaked in sweat
tangled in my sheets and
the realization that i had failed
my heart was still beating
and when i was pulled under again
fear gripped me tighter than
my depression and
suicidal urges ever did

because i didn’t want to die
i was only sixteen years old
my sister was in the room
right next to mine
and i wondered what that would
have done to her
if she had found me
and that makes me hate myself
just that much more

but failing that
being an almost statistic
waking up
and voluntarily being admitted
into the psychiatric ward
it made me a survivor
it meant that i wanted to live
and i do
i really do

but there are so many
other scars besides the one
on my skin and possibly some
internal organs
that run like deep grooves
inside of my psyche
and i sometimes wonder
why people that want to die
that do **** themselves
are treated like they did not
want to live
when they wanted to live
the most of all

why does wanting to
have the pain stop
make them bad people?

i remember the day
after you died
how the voice over the
intercom was choked with tears
and my heart caught in my throat

you were only a year
older than i was
and your soul was already
too big for your body

i immortalized you in ink
on my right shoulder
it almost made your parents cry
++++++
i remember the day
i was told that you had died
taken your own life
and the sun had yet to rise

it felt fitting
no bright light to
disturb the tears that fell from
my eyes and into my hands

and i think about you sometimes
like the smile you always shared
how easily you laughed
how that could have been me
that could have been me
++++++
i remember the day
that i read about how you had died
taken your own life
older than me but still too young

i never met you
but you found a place in my heart
and that spot still aches
sitting on my carpet
and sobbing until i gagged

it’s been a year
or maybe two
can’t say for sure but
i still think i see you
almost gotten off the bus before
and isn’t that something?
++++++
we were all just kids
if only for a moment
all growing in our own ways
and then you all just
stopped

i cried for you first
and then both of you
and i cried for myself

that could have been me
that could have been me
that could have been me

i take myself out to dinner
to a place i know i like
because i made sure to
write the name down

i’ll be 5 minutes early
maybe bring flowers if
the right kind is in bloom
just to see myself smile

and i’ll wear my nicest boots
a button-up with the
least amount of paint
and blood on it

clean-shaven, i’ll pull
out my own chair
order my favorite ******
light beer and even
splurge on dessert

i’ll make sure i know
that i am wanted
that i am worthy

that i am loved
loved
loved