To be all the better
for you and me,
and I will try

for this.
Everything we said
to be all the better.

Child, the swing set
squeaking in the familiar way.
Father, in the familiar way,
swings me, pushes the chains, my back, my everything,
every time I was back he would whisper or coo,
animal noises, ghost haunting wafts,
the dog barking, the boos.

Swinging so strong the set jumps up from its
Georgia clay grounding,
that fear,
I will topple, or head diagonal in the stopping,
that fear.

When we moved,
the trampoline stayed.
The next house had one.
A new swing set, in front of a pond.
A croaking bullfrog-*******,
fake ducks gurgling under fake fountain.
The fear, falling in the water.

Dog once, now dead,
scampering across the thin layer
ice, the pond in winter,
me screaming me bawling, debating the worth of jumping and saving.
She crossed, me on my knees, both
alive
a prayer.
Saved.

Said the world, “Sorry, I’ve got too much feel."

So she gave me twice as much, told me to deal.

Said I, “I’m sorry, it’s just too much."

And said the world, “Well, that’s too bad, and you can blame the world," and such.

So I waited it out a little bit longer.

Said the world, as I advanced in a rage, “It’ll make you stronger."

So I waited and waited, learned to want to live still, learned to want to die.

"Oh goodness, you can do it, please, please" said the world with a sigh.

And so that’s what it’s like, being an empath of the earth.

Having in my heart, all foreign emotions pure and swirled.

And I sift them like flour,

Keep the sweet and some of the sour,

But underneath I am bitter,

Not the first in a long line of “deal with it" emotion sitters.

So it’s been years, and what I’ve learned is never desired or simply yearned,

Don’t let yourself get burned.

Peel the world, let aching fingers soothe,

find the truth,

Don’t let your thoughts and words babble out uncouth.

So you harden and you crack,

Cave your stomach, arch your back.

Find its easier to hate than love.

But world, its worth it if you try.

I’m getting bad at what I do

I’m getting words stuck behind my teeth like pills in peanut butter,

words stuck between my teeth like apple pulp.

I’m getting backlashes of food poisoning,

how my whole body became a devil entity and I swooned  in and of desperate consciousness,

how walking was the hardest.

Like how acid trips give you acid slips

Like how you never wanted me,

like how I’ll stop caring eventually.

But now I’m choking on my words and there’s no excuse

And I used to write poems about self abuse

that I never gave myself.

But for now, words fumble

like I did for you.

Today feels like fire,

smells like iron,

wears its pants low, hanging, slipping off the hips,

is blood edged arount my fingernails,

is bright primary and black, each sliding up next to the other,

companion guides, wordless.

—-

The seeping of oil on paper

the jam jar quietly containing black coffee

a bag of lavender

water through a straw.

—-

Today is a drug-minded sober body,

mine,

is as-usual clawing into the skin around my fingers, by now so scarred, so thick-skinned, my fingers are so red, so often asked of, “why are your fingertips purple?" such a faint violet, such a small count of millimeters raised, such beautiful fingers I would have, they say, if only I would stop bleeding them out.

For once, there is no anger here. Hardly resentment, either
but I'll admit it did throw me for a loop.

The bar at 2 in the morning,
the grasping,
the car.

The bed 2 weeks later,
still I am in it.

You leave at the end of the month, but
this isn't a military decision,
it is only for you
to leave
for you.
And I am proud of that,
and of you.

My body, a ceramic vessel.
Yours, a bruised one, but not a fixer-upper, never. Already proud. Already
ready.
Your body a cave.
Your body a permafrost-stuck-mammoth,
all things worth exploring,
but I'll admit I am not interested in
having *** with the prehistoric, or those with tusks,
just
you.
My body, weak. Weak to heat, weak to panic, weak to restoration even.
My body a liar.
My body a liar.
My body a liar.
Scared fool, scarred easily, but bruise-lovin', achin for pain and then collapsing in it,
so masochistic, so ready to be weak.
Because the scarred know how easily to scar again.
Because my body a memory, my body a collection of organs, of dark organs, of working organs.
Because our bodies ready to scar again,
because our bodies know what it's like,
because our bodies know
it's worth it to go.