my legs itch

the fat little
kid who lives
upstairs wants
to borrow a knife
to cut apart boxes

i give him scissors

and scratch one calf
with the other foot.

my legs still itch

i think it's dead
skin until they
sting up where
i've scrubbed

or tried to scrub
away the past

my mom always
told me i was a
good artist but
she never knew

i'm picasso in
his blue period

and i paint in
one color alone

salt.

the kid hands the
scissors back and
i try not to scratch
try to smile through

cracked winter lips
and split skin
beads of december
sweat all over me

swallow the smell
of burning meat
swallow secrets with
my morning meds
and a glass of cold
heartless blood

and don't ever tell my
mom she was right

that it feels good to
be a ******* artist.

my teeth have hardened
into straight lines and
sealed the rows together
so i can't open my mouth

(i should be
better by now)

and i'm afraid of what's
beating its wings in the cage
of my well-padded ribs and
i'm afraid of it escaping

(they're back again
even with the drugs)

i can't sleep
can't eat and
can't think
straight

but of course somebody
else has had a worse day
than i and of course i'll
be okay after all i've

cracked before and
made it out alive

so i guess i will
this time too

but the wounds
bleed to differ.

Despite how it looks, I forget about you a lot,
I think I do, at least, I've gotten better this year.
This semester took me for a spin, I threw up everything,
but I threw out nothing, just tucked away our belongings,
they gather dust but they wouldn't burn so I kept them,
I've gotten better this year, I think I have at least
It's funny how in March I thought I was dying and
since then I've been using the same sheets because
they smell like you.


You are at the bottom of my cup,
you are residue I didn't finish up,
you are left behind,
bitter taste in my mouth,
you are what I complain about,
but I still make time every day,
to drink until I'm sick,
just to make sure you're still there,
and to feel just as pathethic

You told me she needed to be picked up and I nodded and said okay but i felt this heat in my face this tingling in my head and it wasn't because of the summer's sun. She gets in the car and her perfume fills my nostrils it fills my lungs it fills my stomach i want to spit it out. I turned the radio on loud enough so i couldn't hear you talking ***** to me anymore. I became more dizzy and more squinty eyed the longer you were there. Felt like i wasn't safe anywhere i went, an open target in a shooting range. You mention that night and laugh it off as if it didn't hurt me. As if it didn't rip off my skin as if it didn't pull out my hair as if it didn't slap me across the face every ******* night. My body turns into a malfunctioning machine in a factory, repair men are afraid of the oddity they are afraid I might explode. A broken record i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry my eyes had fallen to the floor my hands shaking my knuckles cracking. "She ***** me".

i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that they are the only things
children will not want to take from me
i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes