you ever just get distracted
by how nice you look shirtless?
because this is a new thing to me
admiring what a skilled surgeon
was able to craft out of
so much extra
wasted
useless
skin

and i spent 9 years
clawing at the inside
and outside
of my body
trying to cut out
what made me feel so trapped
and wrong

i was not nice
to my body
this vessel that houses
the very essence of who
of what
i am

i did not know how
to love the peaks
and valleys of flesh that
i only wanted gone
soft in what felt like
all the wrong places

and i am still learning
to love this body
sculpted into a form
i know how to live with
to live in

pt.2
and i am apologizing
to all the parts of me
that bore the brunt of
this journey to
the man i was always
meant to be

this is a love letter
to my body
to the scars where my
******* used to be
that a dear friend
and then my mother
carefully bandaged for weeks
when i couldn’t bear to
look at them

this is for my
soft tummy
my thighs that jiggle
when i walk
for every part of me
that i once hated

this is for being able
to look at myself
in the mirror
and speak softly about
the softest parts of me

this is a love letter
to the little girl i never was
to the little boy i yearned to be
to the man i have become
and the body that carried me

this body that
sustained me
and this body that
refused to die

dear mustache,
i used to hate you
because of how dark and prominent
you were against the almost pallor
of my skin

people would
make fun of me for you
in middle school especially
but kids are mean
and i stood out in more
ways than my mustache
that would have been more fitting
on a prepubescent teenage boy
than an angry lesbian

i was
shamed into waxing you away
which hurt so much the first time
that i almost cried
but what hurt more than the hot wax
was my father
whose genes gifted me with
darker and coarser hair
always encouraging me to
bleach you away into an acceptable
shade of invisible

and then
when a switch was thrown
inside my body that had
been crying out from the still
tender age of seven that my being
called a girl was
wrong wrong wrong

you were
there still having always
come back after the wax and bleach

but that
fine line of hairs above
my upper lip
you made me feel more masculine
you made me hate myself less

you make me feel more masculine
you make me hate myself less

stinging and salty spray
off the bow of a weather beaten ship
let alone the freezing shock
of ocean waves
has not touched my skin
in six long years

and i am ready, my love
thick ropes of scars
begging to be touched by
the cold of the open ocean

i wonder if all that
clear blue water
hiding so much below the tide
has missed me, too

i am a parched man
laying in the middle of the desert
thinking of her lips on mine
my face in her neck
her sharp sharks teeth leaving
pin-****** in my shoulder blades

and i know i have not loved
a man, nor a woman
like i have loved the sea
knowing that great uncaged
beast runs through my veins
always welcome and wanting

my love, never meant to be tamed
fills a void in me
right below my rib cage
packed with salty kelp and sand
if the infection doesn’t **** me
then the longing surely will

for the sea
she knows what i desire
and it sounds something
like please

something like home
something like you
something like you you you

born a host in a body
that was not mine
curled up against small ribs
nestled between vertebrae
so invisible but still there
still real

teeth ground down into
a snarl in the first feeling of anger
at the name and gender
slapped onto this new body
a body whose tongue is too
floppy and unlearned to protest

wrapping tighter around new body parts
blossoming like bruises after
that initial contact of skin on skin
bursting at the seams of this vessel
that can only cry out
wrong wrong wrong

because i have always been here
bursting into full-fledged existence
at the tender age of seven
when my girl-body still lacked the
words to say that this body is not mine
and being called a girl makes
my guts curdle
makes me want to peel off my skin

and here i am now
just like i have always been
making my home in a body
that was meant to hold something else
a daughter
a sister
a neice
a granddaughter
and maybe a mother

but this cage of flesh and bone
it will not hold another body
because in a way i have already birthed
myself up out of the years of pain
and confusion

because i have always been
i have always been
i have always been
i have

I say your name
and my heart becomes
a little kid
pulling me towards the
candy aisle with both hands
ignoring my protests
of no time
no money
and it’s been too long
since I last saw a dentist
so who knows if my teeth
could handle your sweetness

I say your name
and we’re just two
kids in love again
stopping in the middle
of an empty street
to kiss open mouthed
like you are an oxygen tank
and I’m at the bottom
of the deepest ocean

I say your name
and I’m looking at
engagement rings
while calculating costs
and telling the clerk
behind the counter
that I plan to marry you

I say your name
and it is like water
after a hundred year drought
sweet and light
on my tongue

I say your name
I say your name
I say your name
and it’s like coming home

the sea chases a sailor
from one port to the next,
licking at the well-worn tread
of his cracked leather boots,
soaks the cuffs of tattered breaches,
pulls at thread-bare long-coat sleeves

maybe the ocean reminds him of you,
and how even the deepest bottles
of *** must eventually come to an end,
licking dry lips to find the
last vestiges of salt

or the taste of you
still on his tongue,
wild and carefree, an unbroken thing

like this heart that still beats
within his chest,
undeterred by the passage of time

maybe this is a waiting game
that you both know well,
waiting for your voice to ring out
over the swells to warn this weary sailor
of the rocks just up ahead

(besides, a ship is just a ship
a sailor is just a man wed to the open ocean
a lighthouse is just another lonely port)

a welcome and a warning
that drives the two of you further away,
asking himself if it’s worth it
to crash upon the jagged edges
of your cliffs again

and already knowing the answer,
as he stops and turns
to meet the waves

i shower
this is not an unusual occurrence
i like to wash off the ***** feeling
that having nightmares
constantly
night after night brings upon
my body and soul

today i
shower not to cleanse myself
of a person
but to force the feeling of texas dirt
deep into my marred skin
i harshly push the sound
of lightning storms into my eardrums

i let
the stinging nettles
really my own fault for not
wearing boots out in the texas woods
wrap themselves around my sweaty ankles
dragging me deep into the ground
closer to him

though are
you still above ground
my dear uncle
you would think that after all
the funerals i have been to
i would know how
these things work huh

i don’t
want to imagine you cold and alone
in a lifeless and
sterile morgue
so instead i will imagine you at the lake
when you and lana built a treasure chest out of sand

i wonder
if you locked away her heart that day
so that when you had to leave
she would only feel a floating brokenness
like the distant ache of a broken bone
always there
but just in the background

i know
that that is not what my father feels
i remember talking on the phone to you
and answering the phone with hi pops
but then your laugh gave you away
your laughs are different
but they both come from deep in your bellies

if i
could take away my fathers pain
i would and i would
transfer it on to myself
so he could only feel that broken bone ache
because my dear father he went from a whole
to half of a soul

there is a choice to be made here
a crossroads, if you will
and i very much do,
thank you

i can either keep beating
the dead horse of what
you did to me

or, what,
forget you?

like how you made me feel
when we first met and the cliche of
this boy is gonna break my heart
so i better break it first
ran through my head

isn’t it funny,
dearheart,
the lies we tell ourselves?

but you lied to me, too
in more ways than one, and
the coercive and manipulative man
i spent five (miserable) months with
was not the kind artist i
really could have fallen in
love with

i don’t care what happened
to that version of you anymore
because melancholy and remembering
do me no good

you taught me a lesson
unintentional though it may have been,
that flowery words and pretty poems
don’t mean anything without actions
to back them up

you knew just the right way
to break down my walls
to make me feel safe and loved
and i won’t forgive you for that

but i will forgive you
for enough
to forget

i was an addict at twelve
but it wasn’t a needle that i shoved
up and under my fragile preteen skin
pushing the euphoria in with a single movement

it was a blade that i
pulled across my ****** flesh
splitting the threads that so skillfully
held me all together

it didn’t hurt the first time
boy oh boy did it bleed
through a *** of toilet paper and a washcloth
it was like a period that i could control

and that’s what got me hooked
the pain that i could control
when my life was going down the rabbit hole
i just wanted to feel in control again

i’ve been in therapy since before
i took the scissors to my wrist
had a suicide scare in sixth grade
though back then i didn’t know what suicide meant

i was just a messed up
kid sitting in the counselors office
abused converse scuffing the floor
i poured out my heart to her

it didn’t help the first time
the second went by in a blur
only three appointments
maybe less but he was nice and had kind eyes

i used a variety of instruments
playing the strings of my skin
back and forth with the blade
back and forth

scars layered upon more sloppy scars
my left arm and wrist and shoulder
though that came later when i thought i was being sneaky
were a battle field

it lasted for four ******* years
four long years that nearly killed me
i still wear layers because the paranoia never left
and i still don’t feel beautiful without that familiar stinging

1..when i think of you,
i find myself as a teenager
again, both of us standing
in the middle of my messy
bedroom, with the curtains
and door both shut

and i don’t remember
who kissed first, but i
know how it felt when you
bit the inside of my lip,
and hot blood ran down
my chin

maybe there’s a greater
metaphor wrapped up in that,
but you were my first in more
ways that just a kiss
that ended ******

first girlfriend to first
boyfriend, growing into
who we were supposed to
be, side by side

until we stopped, and
i lost you somewhere
along the way, and i
never did find you again

i don’t want to
find you now, my first
and last of so many things

i try not to think of you,
and i wonder if you feel
that way about me, too

2..when i think of you,
i am 14 years old and
in what i thought was
love at the time, again

i’ve done a really
good job of forgetting you,
can’t even remember the
color of your eyes,
or how it made me feel
to wake up in your arms

you were simultaneously one
of the best and worst things
to ever happen to me

but i remember how
it made me feel when we
met for the first time at
the mall, and you took my hand,
looked me in the eyes and said,
‘i’m not afraid of people seeing
me holding your hand’

3..when i think of you,
we’re eating sushi and
drinking cokes,
meeting for the first time

it should have ended
then, but i’d gotten a taste
of what it was like to be
looked at and seen,
and wanted more

you never did look
at me like that again, though,
and it still makes me angry
to know that you wouldn’t
hold me, or even touch me,
unless you were ******

4..when i think of you,
we’re kissing in the cold
garage of your ex boyfriend’s
townhouse, and you’re touching
my cheek like i’m something
that deserves to be held tenderly

walking home in the
dark, feeling drunk off of
what might have been love,
i drafted a poem in my head
about another man
and we both wanted
there to be a love story
for us so ******* bad

but all you did
was use me up and then try
to take even more after
you’d already bled me dry

5..when i think of you,
it’s in the context of all
those pretty lies you fed me,
that i happily lapped up

and you were surprised
when i’d had enough and
bit the hand that held me
in a way that could have been
tender, but only made me bitter
in the end

6..when i think of you,
there is good food warming
my belly, and *** in my glass

we could go play
pirates together, and forget
what it is that holds us down,
that which we must carry,
if only for the night

and i don’t regret
loving you like i did,
oh captain of mine

7..when i think of you,
it’s like coming home again
after having been gone
for just a little too long

and i’ve been madly,
deeply, head over heels,
in love with you since i
met you when i was 16

when you read my
own words to me, and
i liked how they sounded
on your tongue, you made
me feel seen, feel known,
in ways i never had before

you know how to
soothe that great snarling thing
that lives between my ribs

you tell me i
am good, i am kind,
i am known and seen and
loved, and i believe you
every ******* time

“love makes fools of us all,
my captain,” the bard says,
and there is no bitterness in
his voice, nor any shake

“but,” he continues,
smoothing down the collar
of the captain’s long-coat,
“there are worse things than
being a fool for you”

and the bard remembers something
from long ago
about how touching someone’s collar
will keep them safe at sea

so he does just that
one more time, for good measure
not just because he can
but because the captain will allow it

for there is more between them now
than a ship tossed about by the
waves on the oceans great expanse

but still, nothing more than
a pretty little dagger
tucked into the bard’s boot
and a daisy behind the captain’s ear

such simple little things
objects exchanged in a way
that is arguably a love language
though, who is to say, really?

what matters here is what
the dagger and the daisy hold

something like the promise of
immortalization through song,
the spoken and written word

and something like a goodbye
that is more a promise of return
and that is arguably a beautiful thing
wouldn’t you say
oh, captain of mine?

there is no drowned sailor
here, captain
just a bard steeping his sorrows
in wine
***,
and beer

and the poetics of heartbreak
can only seem appealing for so long

like a sea captain who does not
know how to be loved
and a foolish bard who does not
know how to stop loving

the bard drinks,
wondering if he is an anchor
and if he is
of what nature

are his hands on the broad
shoulders of the sea captain
a welcomed sort of grounding,
or like being held back?

the ocean always returns
to the sandy shore
in one way or another

and in this way
the bard is like the sea
a constant current

love as stream of consciousness
and whispered into the
hollow of the captains neck
something like a litany, maybe
always too much something or other
to really be a prayer

besides, the bard is not a devout man
only believes in what he can touch
like a battered flask,
the captains long and wind-swept hair,

or the frayed cuff of a long-coat
draped over the bards shoulders
on the coldest of nights

(and, well, if that long-coat
belongs to the captain
then it’s nobody’s business
but theirs)

Last year, when my menstruating was still regular and there was a blood drive at my high school, I couldn't donate because I was anemic. That had happened a couple times before. Heavy flow, not eating enough because of horrible cramps and nausea, I'd lose weight and become an iron lacking zombie with deep circles under his eyes.
Before that, the blood drive, in March when I was at Kerr, I was on my period. That was hell. But, when that stopped, I didn't bleed for a whole year after that. Which of course wasn't good, but I couldn't be bothered to give a **** because it felt so freeing not to have the monthly blood loss and dysphoria hanging over me. I'm never going to have children. At least, not of my own flesh and blood.
My woman's body may be fertile, able to sustain life, but my ****** will remain a barren thing.
And now, I bleed again for the second time this year. My body healed itself of what ever was ailing it, and I am stuck on the couch because it hurts to move and slouching to the side is the only position that will lessen the cramps.
But, the bleeding is slowing and the cramps only come in the morning and at night.
The whole ordeal makes me feel so much older than my almost nineteen years, though.
And it is a terrifying thing to be able to feel myself bleeding, but not being able to stop it.
It comes and goes of its own accord, leaving me sitting in front of the dryer and willing the old machine to go faster because I'm wearing the boxers I slept in last night and I want to shower.
Want to clean myself of the blood, dried and matted in my hair and on my thighs.
I want to listen to loud music while the water turns pink and finally goes back to clear.
I want to clean myself of the shame of not wanting to bear children with my perfectly healthy woman's body.
And instead revel in the freedom I will one day have from this fleshy prison.
Where there will be no more blood, and a scar on my stomach the only sign that I once was able to bring a new life into this world.
And I will not be ashamed.

1.Time is man-made
2. Gender is a social construct
3. You paid fifty dollars for glorified rubber and fabric
4. Shut up

an ulcer waiting to happen
sits in the metaphorical pit of my stomach
it has been there for years

I feel it in
the shaking of my hands
from medication that made it chronic
and the fidgeting of myself

my feet tap
my knee bounces
and sometimes it is only the
1 2 3 4 of counting my glasses
an earring in each ear
and my septum piercing
that keeps me sane

but that is often not enough
these movements do not quiet
the urges to flee

and I curse my anxiety
a disorder that is slowly
eroding my insides and outsides

I curse this disorder
from the cuts chewed into my lips
the blunted and bitten fingernails
down to my legs that are always
ready to go go go
because this isn’t who I was supposed to be

coyly, oh captain of mine,
you glance at me over the
soft curve of your shoulder,
and my mouth fills with saliva

i am a pirate, down to his
last dregs of ***

and i am a cowboy, dying of
a thirst in the desert that only
you can slake

and i am a bard, whose lute strings
have all been snapped by his own hand

to put it real bluntly here,
i am ******* starving

and there are so many ways,
to starve and be starved in turn

it is your touch that i yearn for,
tenderly on my cheek,
and ****** in the collar of my jacket

let’s curl around each other,
just this once,
share some body heat and a
six pack of cheap beers

and if i asked really nicely,
batted my eyelashes up at you
just so, would you let me
carry a piece of you with me?

let me sink my chipped and crooked
teeth in to that junction of shoulder
and throat, right above your collar bones

and we can pretend that your red,
red blood
on my teeth is a construction paper
valentine that i hand to you and
then shyly glance away

******
the first time that i saw you
something woke up deep inside me
a thing that i had not felt in so long
it hit me like a lightening bolt
like the first time john got drunk
and took a swing at me for mouthing off
but instead of a bruise
that nobody asked about
because being a hunter causes these kinds
of things all the time
just a casualty of the job
dad said to explain it all away
this thing
it shot through my whole body
starting from my toes
sizzling up my bowed legs
sammy said that they were for the
better to carry the weight of the world
on my shoulders with
and it exploded behind my ribs
but not like a broken rib
this felt good
but in a terrifying way
i was so scared
that i acted the way that i was taught
growing up
in this friggin life
and i stabbed you
god baby i stabbed you
and if i could take it all back
i would fall to my knees in front
of you
and beg you to take me back
to make me whole again
to make me a better man
a better son
a better brother
a man that mary would have been proud of

and
i kept on seeing you
for so many years
you healed my wounds
my cuts and my bruises
my broken bones
you placed your hands on me
my face
my shoulder
you made me believe
in angels
even though god is absent
you made me believe
in sammy too
even more than i already do
and you told me
time and time again
that i deserved to be saved
you showed me
with a determined set to your shoulders
fists and teeth clenched in
naked and vulnerable honesty
that even sinners can be redeemed
but since
“****** dean you are not a sinner”
that i didn’t need to be redeemed
“i saved the world
i saved you
i saved sammy
i saved you and you and you
it was always you
when all i wanted to do
was lay down and die”

you
just kept on giving and giving
emptying yourself
for me and my kind
this world full of godless heathens
you rebuilt me
from the ground up
made me into a good man again
but it began to take it’s toll on you
your grace dulled
and your eyes didn’t shine as bright
though they still lit up when
you saw me
and sammy
but your shoulders
they sagged beneath your
ridiculous trench coat
that yeah i kept in my trunk
for that hellish time without you
and i cried into the dusty fabric
when i found the picture of sammy and i
in the pocket
and your hardships
and selflessness
they showed through
your tough demeanor
and i’m an angel you ***
mantra but i know what it is like
to hurt
to want to die
but you always made your mistakes
with the best intentions at heart

and
all of your scars
and wounds
because being human hurts
and the drugs
because you wanted to see
the colors again
only made me love you more
i wanted to keep you safe
and even in the midst
of your insanity
you said
“you know me
always happy to bleed for
the winchester”

but
****** cas
i wish you had let me
bleed for you
maybe just once
i would have gladly
carried you
when you were too tired to walk
and et wouldn’t go home
because he loved his human charges too much
and we love you too
cas
we love you too

i have ugly hands
chewed cuticles, bitten
down nails and blunted fingertips

still, she says that i do not
tells me that my hands are beautiful
the hands of an
artist/writer/painter

the hands of a lover

but until these broken and
scarred hands of mine
have explored every dip
and contour of her body

how can i be sure?

i am awoken by
the sounds of rain
thundering down onto
the patio outside the window
of what used to be my room

dragging myself from the
warmth of bed, i go
through the motions of
pulling on clean clothes
and brewing coffee

pausing for a sip,
i take a peek around
around the corner of my
laptop, and find that the
pond has flooded

water laps further up the
stone steps like a
hungry ocean, and rain
continues to fall

waiting for the flood,
like it will smooth out
all my jagged edges,
i imagine myself as
a fish

maybe a trout, caught
by a starving man,
held aloft in strong hands
as the hook is pulled
from my mouth

and when that knife
slips down the seam
of my tender belly, i’ll
welcome the gutting, because
it’s him wielding the blade

take from me what
is of use, and discard
the rest, like plucking
thin bones from between your
teeth, and i wonder if you’ll
think of me then

when the reaching and
pulling, and dragging arms
of the ocean i willingly walk
into, take me into the mouth
of that verdant beast

and the house floods,
sends coffee mugs and
empty bottles tumbling,
smashed on the rocks
of this longing

and when the rain
lessens just enough for
sunlight to arc out across
the expanse of that endless
sea that stretches from one
end of the horizon to the other

and you’re out there
on your paper sailboat,
you’ll realize that we’re
under the same blazing sun
once again, and smile like
you do, just for me

i make breakfast for two,
fried eggs with unbroken yolks this time,
coffee, toast with butter and apricot jam,
a mango that i cut perfectly in half
and quarter like my mother used to
when i was a child

i’ll take the candles, keys, cat treats
off the top of my rickety dining table
and drag it into the middle of my kitchen,
pull two chairs out from between
the fridge and overflowing coat rack

maybe sheepishly admit that i tend
to eat my meals at the desk in
my bedroom, makes me feel less
alone with music in the background

and you’re really there this time,
sitting across from me, knees almost
brushing under the table,
because you picked up the phone,
made the drive,
hopped more than one bus

let me love you in this way,
through nourishment and a
home cooked meal

let me gift you my smile,
a deep belly laugh,
and leftovers for later that night
when some of that familiar darkness
starts to creep back in

let me love you in this way,
and maybe you’ll stay longer
next time, and feel a little
lighter when you go

my parent’s do not want me
neither one does
that is two of them
count em
fits on one hand
took two to make me
and both of them to send me away

i do not have a home with my mother
she has made that more than clear
kicked me out three times
and it was because i had decided that
i was no longer going to let her abuse me
giving her my childhood and 11 years of my life
was more than enough
and for ***** sake
i had already tried to **** myself to get away from her
and it didn’t work
so ****

my father is an *******
never has known how to be a parent
he can do weekends and overnight once in a blue moon
but ask him what’s for dinner
and suddenly he’s your slave
and you’re holding him hostage because of how fickle you are
yup sounds about right
and he just can’t stand not to have his living room any longer
he needs it
he just needs it so terribly
but no no dear one dear heart apple of my eye
he is not kicking you out
just being an abusive and manipulative ****

and i really do wonder
why my mother and him didn’t work out
because after all
they are just the same
abusive
prone to substance abuse
both have been alcoholics
though my mother may be more of a lush now
i don’t know
i don’t live with her anymore
but i guess they didn’t work out
because it must be really hard
to see yourself in the person that you are *******
and not just in a ****** way
but they are just like you
and ******* you hate it so much

so you leave them
don’t bother being in your only child’s life
until they are seven
and the child cuteness has left
and has been replaced by
a something
this is not your daughter
this is a ****** up kid
who doesn’t know what the hell they are
but is too afraid to ask or tell
either one of their parents
because mommy just wants to put bows in her daughter's hair
and daddy just wants to sleep all the ******* time
so hush little baby
keep it under wraps until it kills you

and *******
i come from a **** sandwich of a family
neither of my parents want me
two slices of abusive and crazy
with me right in the middle
and god
please don’t let me turn out like either one of my parents
i would rather die than be like either of them
and isn’t that sad
but who is surprised
at this point

because these two people
pathetic excuses for a parent
both of them
each of them
in the same and their own special ways
can’t even be bothered to try and glue back
together the broken vase pieces of their
son

and you know what
i hope the ******* step on the glass

he carries the forest
in the rolled up cuffs
of his black slacks

the finely creased lines
right down the middle of each leg
have now turned to wrinkles

the rocks and the twigs
deep puddles of rain
soak and scratch his ankles

what once were proud and powerful
wings now drag behind him
burned black from his shame of falling

there are holes in his shoes
but he harbors the promise of the sun
shining again between his bare toes

if i could
i would write myself a father
who was not too tall
just enough so i could fit my
head under his chin

and he would always have
a smile for me
even after a long day at work
and the floor is still wet
from where i mopped

he would hang drawings
and report cards on the fridge
and tell me he was proud of me
even when i hadn’t done anything
that day except remind
myself it’s okay to just breathe

he would be an example
of a father that i could write about
and make it sound realistic
because nothing would
be made up and what
i imagined a father should
be and do

i would write him so
he would want to be my father
and he wouldn’t hate my
mother or me

he would be kind
and never yell at me
or hit or throws things
and he would just be there

this father
i would write him so he
would have found a way to
go to my high school graduation
and tell the people sitting next
to him that i was his son
with a smile on his face

but even as a writer
i’m not that good
of a liar

i am not a cigarette
i will not give you a
multitude of cancers
your teeth and tongue and fingertips
will not be stained by and with me
your clothes will not hold my smoke
like your blackened lungs
in and out
i am not the tobacco you breathe
like the air is not good enough for you
i am so much worse than that

i am not a razor blade
i will not give you rows upon
rows of neat little cuts
i am not the reason your hand holds
steady enough to carve those
straight lines
like train tracks
into your skin
until they become your impenetrable armor
layers and layers
i am not your addiction
i am so much worse than that

i am not a bottle of pills
i will not give you a false sense
of medicated calm
or the hollow of a stomach empty feeling
when you are bent over the toilet
at four in the ******* morning
spewing your guts up and against
and all the way into
a white porcelain bowl
this whiteness will be more stark than
your skin when the sun does not touch it
brighter than the walls of the hospital
the sinks and the toilets and the shower stalls
and even the towels
this is the whitest white you will ever see
i am not the things you do that make you sick
i am so much worse than that

i am not the empty beer cans
along with the empty promises
of just one more
it’s always the same with you
but us humans are a pathetic bunch
destroying ourselves and then turning
to a story book deity to wash us of
our sins and wrong-doings
and make us whole and good and clean again
i have never been the beer on your breath
or the only thing in your stomach that day
i cannot make you drunk
i am not the reason why you get ****-faced
i am so much worse than that

i am none of these things
these vices and addictions
i am so much worse than those
i will fill your head with my breathe
the smell of day old sweat and self loathing
i will make you want to live ******
we will make half empty promises to
throw away our blades together
until my mom found mine
and i wondered where you disappeared off to
i will not make you puke
up anything but your lies and fears
i will wrap them in bubble-wrap and rub down
all their jagged edges until you can no longer
feel them jabbing into your lungs
and vocal cords
keeping you from asking for help
and oh baby
i can make you feel so much better
or worse than any type of alcohol ever can
i can get you drunk off my skin
the soft curves of my waist
and my pillowy thighs
i am worse than any story book
hero or villain or otherwise
because when the lights get turned on
and the closet gets checked for monsters
i do not go away
you think of my always and every day
my name is constantly on the tip of your tongue
and i know how you long to wrap your
arms around me and hold me close

you see i am worse than
all these things
because
i have a heart beat

mama didn’t raise no quitter
but she sure as hell
raised a fool

i am a fool
for hope
for love
for you

and for this
bottle of *****
like drinking the whole
thing will actually help
and not just make me
puke my brains out
later

and i have so much
love to give
but mostly to those
that don’t know what
real and true
love is

and the chokehold
hope has on me
only tightens

but i have learned
to let it, lover
eating matches to
burn off the darkness
inside and leave only
love and light and hope
and you you you

i want you as a lover
and isn’t that selfish of me?
here with all my unrequited love
i am still trying to choke down
like the ache of you
not being able to
love me back

and i don’t want nakedness
no skin on skin
aside from cupping the side of
your face in the palm
of my shaking hand

i want to feel your breath
remnants of coffee and cigarettes
a candle burned at both ends
watching the sun rise twice
in the same day

and i won’t try to hold your hand
run my fingers through your hair
kiss you with all the tenderness i have
or try to make you stay
but ******* i want to

on a cliff by the sea
there is a cottage
with a lighthouse rising up
behind the slightly slanted roof

though isolated, there is
no loneliness here
only the howling wind
and rolling grassy hills
dotted with daisies,
dandelions, and clovers

a bard resides there
that loved a sea captain
to the point of becoming
a beacon,
always more welcome than warning

and isn’t that a beautiful thing,
loving someone to the point
of creation?

after all, every living thing
needs some kind of constant

like a weather-beaten ship,
coffee always warm on the stove,

or a bard, tirelessly keeping
a light burning
in order to guide his
sea captain home

unsolicited and unwelcome
a man bigger and taller than
i am demands to know what it is
that i believe in

and when i tell him that
i believe in love
he tells me that i am wrong

and i tell him he is
making me uncomfortable
and finger the cap on the canister
of mace in my jacket pocket

i do not tell this man
that he doesn’t know what he is
talking about, nor do i
ask just who the hell he
thinks he is to tell me
that my belief is wrong

i believe in love
in the way my friend wears
the pajama pants i bought him
and makes me pancakes and coffee
for breakfast

i believe in love
in the way she hangs the art
i make for and send to her
in the houses of her home,
willing to bring a massive
canvas all the way to alaska

i believe in love
in the way they welcome me
into their heart and their home
and lets me make them dinner
and clean up after like
domesticity is what you make of it

i believe in love
in the way my sister
calls me her brother
for the very first time
and doesn’t laugh when it
makes me cry

and i believe in love
like one could or would
a god,
but my god is not cruel
my god is not distant

my god
is in the bus fair he makes sure
i have, and then offers if i don’t

my god
is tangible and believes in
me like i believe in it

my god
makes sure i’ve eaten and drank
makes sure i get home safely
and asks me to text them
because they’ll worry if i don’t

i saw that post on facebook
with the picture of you
always smiling
was what the caption said
and i guess yesterday was your birthday
i think you would have been eighteen
right
i’m not really sure
i’ve never been good with numbers
but eighteen seems like a good age to be
you probably would have been driving by now
maybe i could have coerced you to drive us
to the movies
if i promised to buy the tickets
and if you were still with us
yesterday
and the yesterdays before that
all the way back to that fateful day
i would have made sure that you knew
how loved you were
by everyone you knew
and by everyone that knew you

it rained today
the day after your birthday
and yeah okay part of me
is glad that it was all nice and sunny
for you and i hope that you got
outside and danced around in a really
flowy and poofy purple dress
maybe you wore your red glasses
i have a pair like them
they live in my grandparents kitchen
up on a little shelf inside of a glass jar
sometimes when i am there
i try them on
and pretend that i am in fourth grade again
and we are sitting next to each other
and you are teaching me how to draw monkeys

i prayed for you
yesterday and today and i will
do the same tomorrow
though my version of praying is just
angry and yelling and swearing
sometimes i beg for you back
because i wanna go back in time
and make better friends with you
but i was just so shy
and you were this radiant ball of light
i could see you in all your focused glory
even without my glasses
you shone like your own galaxy
the moon
and the stars
and the sun
everything orbiting around you
growing better and brighter
in your presence
you were an angel even before you
had to go back home

it didn’t feel right to
wish you a happy birthday out loud
i didn’t want to cause your family any
more pain than my inane way of trying to
help probably already has
but all i know is words
they flow through my veins
in place of the blood that i am trying
really hard not to constantly spill
and you made me think twice about
wanting to die so young
knowing and hoping and wishing
that you were watching over us all
is what has gotten me through this
rocky and turmoil filled years
some say i am too young to be this sad
too young to want to die this bad
but heck i just wanna sit next to you again
feel your warmth
seeping into my frozen skin
you thawed my heart from it’s icy casing
but then you had to go back home
and my heart froze up again

it still doesn’t feel right
to put the word happy before birthday
when i am thinking
speaking
writing
or talking of and about you
but i sang happy birthday yesterday
lit imaginary candles
and baked you a cake that looked and
tasted like the sunrise and sunset
and i know that for a fact because
i ate three pieces and made myself sick
the party inside my head was so lonely
though the voices and i did hang streamers
and we all wore party hats
but your invitation must not have gone through
maybe your wings were too tired
to fly down to my little corner of the universe
and that’s okay
i’m not angry
i just wanted you to know that i still think of you
and i did wish you a happy birthday
even though it was quiet
and the party just wasn’t the same
without you

a bard falls in love,
writes ballads and poems
and plays those strings
until his fingers
******* bleed

out in the desert,
the horse spooks and throws
a cowboy down into
the hot searing sand,
leaves him gasping and staring
up at an empty and blue sky

on the high, unforgiving seas,
a pirate falls overboard,
sinks like he was always supposed
to return to the ocean

and i watch myself in two
different mirrors, in a bathroom
that is not mine, cutting the cord
around my neck and holding
these two rings in my hand

these hands of mine do not shake
this time, and i briefly consider
swallowing the rings,
cracking my teeth on the cold steel
like so many empty promises

instead, i pack them away,
and do not look at them,
like these other things i will
not look at

because, while i may be
a hopeful romantic,
and a lovesick ******* fool,
i refuse to let these torches
i carry for others burn
me any longer

i will rebuild these walls,
brick by brick,
and plant rose bushes with thorns
to keep away that which does
not serve me anymore

the blood in me loves you
and other sweet nothings
i can make real
simply by speaking them, lover

with your head in my lap
my hands in your long hair
and the night fraying at the
edges around us

giving way to dawn
for the second time
what a treat to watch it
become light once again
with you

and other sappy ****, too
because that’s what i’m good at
putting more poetry
and romance into whatever
it is we have

whatever it is
we had
than there ever could have been

and sometime it feels like
all that’s left between us is
an empty bottle of ***
two ***** shot glasses
and the shaking of my hands
the aching of my teeth

and what an ending that is,
lover

what an ending this is
giving back the time
i had tried to borrow
for us

hey!
yeah you
listen up
step away from the keyboard
and watch as my fingers fly
nimbly over the keys
never mind if it sounds like
i am smashing them into submission
chances are i am

but please try not
to cry or cringe
at what you see
it is one word
three letters
and i even went to the trouble
of putting spaces in between
B O Y

do you see that
that word
that wonderful magical
true and encompassing
word

it is you
and you are it
one and the same
B O Y

and even on the days
when you do not see it
there is someone out there
who will **** hickeys
into your chest
that spell out the word
and you will see that word
when you shower
or change
it will be there
like a bruise
blooming like a flower
against pale skin
B O Y

for this is what you are
through the good and the bad
whether you realized it at three
or forty
that is still valid
you are valid
and you always will be

you are a boy
******
you are male
and ***** be ******
because your ***** are
still bigger
they just hang from a different spot
but i understand the need and
the want to cut them off
and that does not make you a
bad person
it makes you
a survivor

you are doing
the best you can
in concerns to your body
and the world around you
i know this
i do

because i hear your voice
whenever i see a picture of you
and you are telling me that you
love me
and i know that you are scared
but you are still here
and that makes you a hero in my eyes

you are a boy
you are a boy
you are a boy
you are

this isn’t my first rodeo
and by that i mean this
isn’t my first poetry slam
but my hands still shake
and sweat breaks out on my
upper lip and slides
down my spine
like cold fingers

the judge
the white
cisgender
heterosexual
old man judge
looks at me like
he’s trying to figure out
what i am and i want to
tell him that he’s not
the first person to ****
their head to the side at me

and my shoulders hurt
under the tight fabric
of my black chest binder
and i wonder if it
is showing through the
fabric of my white and pink
striped button up

i run a hand through my hair
bright and blond
and in your face
and wonder why all the poems
i read and write
fall under a category
that is not strictly
“family friendly”

maybe it’s because i
am a deeply angry person
from living in fear
since i was seven years old

or it’s because i
decided i was going to
be as loud as i could be
about being transgender
and queer
and mentally ill
because being quiet
felt like giving up

but this judge does not care
about how it felt to
kiss a girl for the first time
to fall in love with a girl
and then to fall in love with
that person again
outside the constrictions of gender

this judge does not care
because he cannot understand
and he does not want to
and this is a poetry slam that
i am not going to win
because the cards of the majority
are stacked against me

but i don’t care about
not winning
because my voice doesn’t shake
when i out myself to a roomful
of people in a town that
i am afraid to use the men's room in

and in that moment
i am not afraid
my voice is strong and loud
and these people are listening
and that judge
can’t hold a candle to the
bright light that burns within me

and just as i know this
he knows it too

I’ve managed to, at least partially, convince myself that what we had was all *******.

That she didn’t mean any of the things that she said.

That I was just a convenient little something to show off until she moved on to the next flavor.

Just something to manipulate and play with.

I was warm clay under her scarred and burned hands.

She made me into pretty shapes to satisfy her mood swings.

I was putty to her.

Just a mass of scars and good intentions turned sour by the cruel hands of time.

She never loved me.

She used me.

And, I enjoyed every minute of it.

I loved it.

To be touched.

To be told such sweet things.

I tell myself that it was all *******, every single ******* second of it, because, pretending that it was all fake, is easier than admitting that I am too damaged for anyone to love.

For anyone to fall in love with.

I am no longer damaged goods.

I am just damaged.

my gender dysphoria
plays the part of schoolyard bully
punching me in the face
with all the things i am doing
that make me less of a man

i spit something back
no room for being witty here
cotton candy pink and blue
stains my teeth
drips down my chin

girlhood feels like a rot
deep within this body
that i am slowly sculpting
into a shape
that doesn’t make me want to
hack it to pieces

but you call me “she”
and dysphoria gets in
another fist
and i can no longer tell
if i am crying
from the pain of you so
callously misgendering me again
and again and again
or the betrayal
because i thought we were friends

but you call me “she”
and so many things break inside me
seven year old me
feeling too big for a body that
is already like dragging
around a coffin
shrinks under the fear
of not knowing what i am

but you call me “she”
and dysphoria drives a foot
into my ribs
grows into this thing
that is too big for me to
keep inside and it comes
out as confrontation that all
too quickly gives way
to tears

because i did not
languish inside of myself
for nine years
stumbling through trying to be
a lesbian and nearly dying
as a girl
for you to call me “she”

i did not spend $175
on changing my name and gender marker
to reflect who i have always been
*******
for you to call me “she”

i did not make the decision
to have a needle the length
of my pinkie and
roughly the size of a pencil led
stuck in my lower back for
the rest of my life
for you to call me “she”


i did not risk
shortening my life span
to 40 years
instead of the 75 or 80 it should be
because people destroy what
is different
for you to call me “she”

i did not survive through
who i used to be
to become the man i am today
for you to throw this
gender i never asked for
back into my face
no matter how many times
i plead with you to
just give enough of a ****
to get it right

i do not get back up
every time that my gender dysphoria
is made stronger by someone
like you who
so you can look
me in the face
see the tears in my eyes
the tremor in my hands
and still call me “she”

the proverbial blood
that runs through my veins
taking on the colors of a sunset
drips onto your hands
because you can’t see past
the things i can’t control
the things i am able to change

you can’t see the man
that i already am
that i always have been
and you still can’t give me
a good reason as to

why why why
you can look at me
with my visible ****** hair
the button clearly stating
my pronouns as he and him
how i light up when someone
calls me sir or mister
and still stoop so low
as to add fuel to the fire
that is my gender dysphoria
by calling me “she”

(what the **** is your problem?)

the ocean calls to me
in a voice that sounds like yours
playful waves soaking the cuffs of
my tattered jeans

cold sea breezes kiss the
skin of my knee
through the patch you sewed
over the jagged hole
but even those stitches are
unraveling now

and i think i see you
out past the breakers
waving at me like we’re some
long-lost lovers in black and white
and i’m running after your train

but my well-loved boots
become too big
and the hard concrete rushes to
meet the tender skin of
the palms of my hands
of my exposed knees

impact takes my breath away
like when i saw you the first time
on dry land and sitting next to me
and i wanted to hold your hand
so much it made me ache

i want you
because i am a selfish human
i yearn for you
with the tenderness of a poet
and i will follow where
you lead me

out past the breakers
boot tracks left on the sandy shore
your siren song calls to me
and i answer every time

the captain asks if you
think the moon misses him
as much as he misses the moon
and your stomach lurches
but not because of the crashing waves

must you be in competition with
something as great as la luna?
millions of miles away
when you are right here
the captain’s right hand man

is that really fair?
who would you ask
if not the captain
and the moon refuses to answer
while the sea only cries
out your name

there is something besides
the captain that is
begging you to return home

and you wonder if a
wolf loves the moon the
same way you could
love a man

torn between wanting that
coldness of the open ocean
on your skin
and craving the captain’s
mouth on your own

is that a selfish thing,
you want to ask,
willing and wanting to follow
the captain
your captain
across the oceans and the constellations?

so be it, then
you tell yourself
because you will remain
after the *** is gone
and the moon has fled
the night sky

you will remain
tethered to the captain
to your captain
and the promise he carries
of the open ocean
with the open sky above

I’ve been in two
different wards
I slip casually into conversations
like this is an
every day thing
like it’s not life
ending
starting
shattering
stopping
beginning
again and again

I pretend that I
didn’t die the night
I took 40 Trazadone
and fell heavily asleep with
my heart in my throat

But my last thought
was how dare I take my life
when she barely got to
live through hers
and I’m glad that I
woke up

Still I’m sorry that
she didn’t and I’m
still afraid of large bodies
of water and hell
I don’t like being older than her

I’m glad that I woke up
but sorry that she didn’t

watching the ****** suicides
it makes my wrists hurt
i see myself in cecelia’s eyes
the hurt and the pain
though i was always more of a pill popper
than a wrist slitter

watching the ****** suicides
my hands shake
mostly my right one
fingers trembling in tune to the beating
of my heart
bound to rip out of my chest

watching the ****** suicides
i feel the luke warm bathtub water
sloshing over my thighs
as i sat there
with the blade in my shaking hands
imaging the red water that remained clear

watching the ****** suicides
my head hurts
my chest tightens
i feel like crying
maybe dying
just resting for a little while

watching the ****** suicides
i thank god that i told someone
before it got any worse
the months spent cutting and overdosing
in silence
now i just regret them

watching the ****** suicides
i think of all my friends
that have hurt themselves or attempted
think of about how i am one of them
and a text message or a blog post
is a pretty ****** way to say goodbye

watching the ****** suicides
feeling like i am one of them
knowing what the signs look like
like the back of my hand
i am so glad
i have yet to become a statistic

my father broke my heart
but my cousin took it with him
when he left for college
leaving us all behind
in this podunk town

i scraped the stubby remains
of my big toenails against the soft
downy bottom of my shoes
and bit my nails down to the quick
so i wouldn’t cry when they didn’t say your name

i looked for your name
in the R
the D
and the S
but you weren’t there

my eyes kept on straying
back to where your name
wasn’t written
not even once
and the voices called your name in anguish

my scars showed up for
the occasion
and i wanted to make them deeper and more there
but that wouldn’t have made you proud
i’m glad you never saw how broken i really am

i want to go back
to fourth grade before i knew that suicide
is and was a permanent thing
that words hurt more than the blades
and not being able to say goodbye hurts even worse

as we were paraded out
of the theater
after all of the graduates
i said goodbye to three people
i didn’t look for you

look at me ******
i am the festering wound
of an abused child
forced to grow up too soon
thrown into adulthood
with nothing but the scars on my arms
and the mean words that you
drilled into my brain
bouncing around the walls of my skull
maybe a drill-bit to the temple
would make them cut it
the **** out
but it would probably be easier
to muster up the guts
to ask my mother
why she resents me so

and my ribs are nothing
but another cage
keeping my heart from leaping out
of my chest
of exploding into a better life
a life without you in it
because *******
twelve years old is way too young
to start cutting myself
i was too naive to even know
or understand that death was
the end of all ends
but now i understand it
all too well
spend my nights
restless in my sweat and blood stained sheets
blankets kicked to the floor
the want to die
the need to feel
those clammy hands wrapped around your throat
long fingers digging into scarred flesh
pulling you into the dirt
with the promise that you will never
have to open your eyes into this nightmare
again

and can you really blame
me for wanting it to
end this way
i always said that i was going to
go out with a bang
but ******
i clipped my wings for you
pushed the fishhooks of your
hugs and goodnight kisses
deep into my feet
through my wiggling toes
rooted myself to the ground
endured it so that you would
leave my little sister alone

what i had was no
childhood it was a ****-poor
excuse for a place to call home
and ****** it still is
but when you look at me
all you see are my flaws
but have you ever stopped to
look in a mirror
because i can assure you
it is not my face that you will find
staring out at you

and i think that
choking down the brightly colored tacks
handful by handful
would be less painful
than you telling me what a failure i am
but i don’t know how to make you understand
when you have known nothing
but a mother and father’s love
it is hard to be shunned by your own family
and i just want it to end
but can you really blame me

look at me goddamit
i am nothing but a walking sore
an open and weeping wound
instead of tears
pus and blood drip down my cheeks
still i paint you the same word
over and over
sorry sorry sorry sorry
i just want you to love me
why do you hurt me so

look at me ******
i am a poster-child
for a missing childhood
because cruel words
and the coldness of soap
bars and liquid
the growing amount of cuts
now faded scars
but still there forever
are all that i know
all that my mother gave me
my self-hatred and destruction are
the blanket i wrap myself in at night
cry into my pillow
so you won’t hear my sobs
and find another reason
to bring out your claws

i tuck the knife
that was in my back
into my front pocket

this thing inside my
chest, it keens when
i wipe the blood off
on a tattered sleeve

and i’ve just been
cold for so ******* long,
i don’t know how to
feel any other way

and what do you
mean, when you say that
you won’t hurt me
this time?

the knife trembles in
my grip, and i won’t
believe you,
i just can’t

i won’t beg to
be touched with gentle
and caring hands,
won’t ask nicely,
won’t ask at all

this thing, seeking a
safe harbor nestled between
my ribs, bares crooked teeth
and snaps at anything,
anyone, that gets too close

and so i take
solace in what i know,
tell myself that’s enough until
i believe it

and i do not
yearn, and i do
not ache, and i
do not wish

and there’s a knife
in my hand, and blood
on my shirt, and there
will be no rest

there will be no rest

there is an empty stretch
of highway
somewhere deep in my bones
cracked tarmac and faded center line

dandelions blooming up out
of the divots of
my sleepless nights
and it is beautiful

and sometimes lonely
like being 7 years old
and knowing i like girls
but also that i am not a girl
and not having the words
to bring that part of me to life

and the first time i kissed a girl
flowers exploded out of
every chip in my armor
making me feel like i could
build a home in my own body
for the first time in 5 years

but everything burns eventually
and flower stems become matches
way too easily
and a hollowness beyond dissociation
something i couldn’t dig out
no matter how hard i tried

and the first boy i liked
i couldn’t tell if i wanted
to kiss him or be him
but both sounded pretty nice

and after the right man to
make me stop being a lesbian
turned out to be myself
the first boy i kissed was on accident
but i wanted to kiss him again
and that stretch of highway seemed less lonely
and more like it would accommodate two
people holding hands
walking side by side

i can be gone when you wake
if you want me to be

it helps that you sleep in
choosing not to greet
the dawn twice

and i don’t know how
to ask if you still
want to see me
once the alcohol is gone

some things are easier to say
to do
when liquid courage sloshes
around in my belly

like forcing my tongue
to cooperate into the words
needed to lay
my heart on the table

trusting you to do with it
with my confession
with my affection
with me
what you will

and i want to bring you flowers
and other silly little things
that i hope you’ll keep
but i opt for other things
that can be shared
though made with you
in mind

and i wonder if this
will go anywhere
beyond sharing drinks
and so many words

and i wonder
if whatever we have
did go further
would either of us
be able to stand it?

there’s this thing i have
a way to cope with the
anxiety that even though i am
almost done with therapy
for as long as i like
is still a constant thing

you see, i count
by even numbers
maybe because ending
on an odd number
makes my breath puff
out before leaving my lungs
and my head starts to spin

i count evenly
on each inhale and exhale
the number of scars on my arm
the years i spent putting those scars there
the times my mother told me she never wanted kids
and how long it took me to get over that
before she went and said it again

and i count the times that
my mother has said sorry
though that takes less than all
five fingers on one hand
because the things that she has
not apologized for
still keep me up at night

like sending me to school
with fresh bruises in the shape
of her fingers wrapping around my upper arms
like chasing me up to my room and cornering me
and shaking me with spit landing on my face
from how much and how loud she was screaming
like trapping me up against the corner
and pressing her ******* up against my back
and grinding up against me
until i said “enough”
and she replied in swears and blaming me
like her basically sexually assaulting me was
somehow my fault

and when i told the counselor
at my school what had happened
after my friends agreed i should go
that led to my telling a cop through
sobs and so many tears what my mother
had done how she had used me
i counted the number of pills i had taken
two years prior
in an attempt to take my own life
and felt a feeling like i should have known
that forty wasn’t going to be enough

at seven years old
when a switch was thrown
and suddenly i knew that
something wasn’t quite right
i did not feel courageous

i was so scared
feeling nailed inside
this coffin of a body
that no longer felt like mine

there were no words
that my tongue could wrap around
to verbalize how wrong it felt
when i was called daughter
so i swallowed that bitterness
and felt it like a
twisting knife in my guts

and i did not feel courageous
i did not feel brave
as i clawed my way out
of that pink box i had been
involuntarily thrown into

but i have been told that
i am brave
i am courageous
i am strong
for being transgender
and i don’t know what
to do with that

and it was not bravery
that had me telling my mother
i needed her credit card number
to buy a cheap chest binder
off of amazon
because i was really a boy

i had decided i would
not be dying as a woman
and be buried in a nice dress
with the wrong name
and gender on my tombstone

i decided then
standing in the kitchen
of the little cabin we lived in
16 years old and terrified
that i would make myself
into a bright light of a boy

and i really don’t think
of that as being a courageous act
it was one of preservation
of finally deciding that
living was better than surviving

and the funny thing is
that makes people see me as brave
and i don’t know what to do with that
because i was scared then
and i have been scared since

the only difference is
i am going to live long enough
this time around
so that i just might be
able to see what people mean
when they tell me i am brave

tell me, cowboy,
just what would happen if
you were to turn and face that
wild animal which chases you
across the desert, and into
your dreams?

when the only sound that
echoes out across those
great sandy dunes is the
jingle jangle of your spurs,
do you ever think of me?

does that wild thing have
something to say to you,
or will it simply knock you
down and press yellowed fangs
against the soft skin of your throat,
and which one scares you more?

tell me, cowboy,
can you tell the difference between
a tender caress and a choke-chain,
or do they both feel the same
to that wild thing in your chest?

because i can, cowboy,
and i’ve got the bloodied knuckles and
split lip to show for it,
having wrestled that wild thing into
a shape which i can hold dear

and i think of you, cowboy,
when i’m laying under that
same desert sky, with nothing to my
name but the whiskey warming my guts,
a threadbare jacket under my head,
and your name, sweet on my lips

i tell myself
i don’t care that
it’s been two years
since the last time
i saw my father

i tell myself
i don’t care that
he wasn’t even really
in my life until i was 7
and before that i just told
people i didn’t have
a father

i tell myself
i don’t care that
my father hates me

but i’m crying like
my dog just died
so it’s not very convincing

and i can pinpoint when
he stopped loving me
later on in my life
than i've thought for years

but can you really blame me
when he’s not around to ask?

and it’s this book he gave me
a memoir
the summer before i started
my freshman year of high school
where he called me his darling
and signed it “love, pops”

i read that book
last week
cried my way through
almost the whole thing
holding the bent pages and
cracked spine like i wanted
him to hold my hand again

but i did something
when i was growing up
to make him stop loving me
and for years i thought that
if i just went deep enough
i could dig it out
but that thing goes
deeper than my bone marrow

and he’s not around to ask
and i’m crying like an idiot
over this man that
probably won’t even know what
i look like
in 5 years or 10

and i have so many things
to ask him
to say to him
like why he didn’t want to be my father
why he wasn’t proud of me
why he doesn’t love my anymore

how i feel like it’s all my fault
and he probably agrees with me
and that might have made me
resent him
maybe even hate him
a year or two ago
but tonight
it just makes me cry
harder

what kind of love
do i think i deserve?
a thing that yields poems
sweet platitudes and flowery words
but no romance
a loveless and lonely
kind of something?

and sure, love can be elating
wouldn’t be such a popular topic
of poems and songs and ballads
if it weren’t

but an unforgiving love
can be such a hollow feeling
like having my chest opened
and emptied
and sewn up again

and i know what that’s really like, too
but this kind of love is more numbing
than cut nerve endings
and the scars that that leaves

glad to have never been in love
since there are only so many ways
to say that you’ve made me cry
and make it sound appealing
but a bard with a broken heart
is something no one wants to see
a broken heart yields no coin

but my heart is weak
my heart is wanting
and i am helpless
in the face of how i feel
how i ache
how i yearn
for you

singing your praises
like any good bard would do
even though you’ve never liked poetry
and isn’t that just my luck,
my love?