it starts in a bathroom with me feeling
sliced open, like a bird that has just
been gunshot-down from the sky: this boy
does not belong to me. I do not belong
to myself. nobody belongs in my skin.
it is all I can do not to cry into his mouth.
I will not cry into his mouth (I refuse to cry into his mouth).
instead this boy will press his palms into my body as though
I were something smaller, something holier. I like him mostly
because his wrists do not bend the way yours do.

there is no sun shining today,
but somehow the ocean still finds a color to cling to--
a muddy blue.
perhaps it is reflecting on itself.

you taught me that blue
is the warmest shade of lonely,
and that the blues
can cure just about anything,
but feeling sorry for yourself
will only make you more sorry.

there are entire days that i spend
thinking only of you,
and your words;
wishing
and missing coffee kisses in the train station.
in the train station,
you said “jump in my suitcase."
you were kidding.
i would have.

i’m too young for “impossible” to be so easy to pronounce;
rolls from my lips like native tongue,
i’m too young to be heartbroken already.
my spirit shouldn’t deflate this easy.
why did fate let me love you so easily?

it isn’t summer anymore,
but it isn’t fall yet either.
i pray that my heart will turn with the seasons,
and that my tears will fall away with the leaves.

i used to believe that loneliness was only
the distance you are from yourself.
i didn’t think anyone else could play a factor.
but bleeding and boneshed
in the deepest bed of hurt i have ever lay,
i have begun to measure loneliness as the distance i am from you.
rather, the distance i am from home.

the first
was a backseat freestyle
half-Catholic, half-alcoholic
rampaged my underage
with whiskey and wallet,
a secret
only until

the second
alexander the great
undefeated in battle
he knew my worth
but not its weight

the third
disguised as hymn
soaked our nest in sin
led me in a prayer every night
baptizing my body with his white

the fourth
****** me like corpse
gold cross beat collarbone
and hands like Caesar
overthrew me
into

the fifth
traced the contours
of my wrists
he was a righteous king
until
“this will feel good”
robbed me of
my womanhood

the sixth
looked at me
like I was the sky over Judah
vowed to be loyal
crowned me royal
then stormed my capital
at dusk

the seventh
rough and
in Hebrew tongue
“this is the first time
i’ve done this sober
in awhile”

the eighth
graced me
with misogynist faith
made me kneel
until my knees
were just bruises
on his floorboards

the ninth
warrior’d his way
into my walls
a Trojan prince
who could’ve cared
less about the outcome
of a broken one

these are
the nine good men
who i let hero-storm
my temple with their chivalry
inside-out my worth
into bible verse
crucified by ignorant white

i actually believed by some light or reason
that a man might cleanse me of my demons

i tried to love each of them
like i’d never known broken
tried to marry my wounds
into Magdalene

moaning a beggar’s cry:
treat me like new, brand new!
untouched, like virtue
us, we, come together are purity!

but they had all been in search of their sin
from the beginning
nine worthies
who made the rules
only so they could know where to
break them

all religious

all deemed / worthy
praised / King
self-proclaimed / God

On Saturdays,
we rise with the sun.
I am dressed in my best dress,
next to you in tattered tee.

We pack into the Jeep:
ma and her girl, father and his son.
With the infinite Pacific on our right,
we speed down Route 1.
You ride shotgun,
as light spilling over the horizon
knocks salty sleep from our eyes.

You win the teddy bear prize
for sending the lead puck the highest
with your Carnivàle mallet—
I didn’t get to try,
because Dad said my dress
was too white.

In the early hours of the night,
a couple on the street stops and beams,
saying we are a family
that ought to be in the magazines.
(It will take me many years
to understand what this means.)

After pork and baked beans,
mom buys me ice cream
and we window-shop
while you guys fish off the dock
and talk about things
that mom and I find silly.
When we reconvene,
it is time to leave.

You sit with me in the back seat,
and as I nod into sleep,
I see Dad pat your knee,
gifting you with a smile—
one that he has never given me.