The thing is

I am made up of terrible jokes,

some I make up on my own

others were forced upon me in the cruel kinds of ways

that happen to everybody.

I still feel like I am starting over,

I still feel like every day should be a new life that I could be living,

but I sit with my colors

and I do not use them.

If only fate were so kind as to ring the doorbell,

if only those red threads of what some call destiny or at least something close

weren’t also the kind that you can trip over, bruise your knee over,

find yourself in a collapse over.

——

I am trying.

I say this everyday.

I am trying.

Dress me in lace,

color me porcelain,

drench me in white cloud and blue sky and dandelions.

Touch me yellow,

Tell me you’re swallowing sunshine, tell me again

how I am the floating door and you are the ocean.

Even if we do let go,

our love doesn’t need dressing up.

It doesn’t even need poems.

It doesn’t need glitter and flash and spark pop sizzle

but we still like those things, regardless.

Our love is the crooks of elbows.

Our love is 250 miles apart, is so close to the sea, is

a word that doesn’t feel big enough.

Our love is floral, is ******* boots, is seashells and lime-green goggles.

Swallow me whole,

shower me love,

our bodies may be brittle but we can still breathe,

can still sing,

can still dance in the kitchen,

can still have chocolate-chip-pancakes-lots-of-smiles-kinda mornings.

I am forever regretful that our brains have been unforgiving,

but I’ll try to never let go

and I’ll always know, your collarbone dip and soft hip and laughter laughter laughter

are the best things I’ve found in a while.

So dress me in lace,

color me porcelain,

cover me doily and southern sky and make me breakable.

I will be breakable for you.

I will be antique-shop yellowing whale bone corsets, I will be glass on the floor, I will be the floating door.  

And I’ll try

to never let go.

There once lived a family of rats, caught up in wires and tubes and they probably thought they had it good until

the car started.

That car’s air conditioning smelled like death stench for weeks, until we

got it looked at.

Who knew we killed a family, who knew they ate their way under the hood,

who knew we killed a family and they reminded us of it for weeks.

——

My mother and father killed my dog, barely big enough to not be called a puppy anymore,

they ran over her,

as she slumbered in the tall weeds and grasses of a field.

——

We had a chicken named Thumper, his body grew big but his head never did,

and he teetered and tottered on ballerina pointed feet, and

the other roosters wanted to

eat him alive.

When we sacrificied him,

my parents plucked his back,

and they saw that his skin was a green-purple secret,

hidden by a humpback and so

many feathers.

——

Our third horse got caught in the river.

Big Mama got caught in Little River.

I guess it’s not surprising when big things die when they get caught in little things.

——

The coyotes got the rest of the chickens.

——

The rattlesnakes almost got the rest of the horses.

——

Most people don’t know that farm-fresh eggs are covered in blood.

——

We had two of the largest, ugliest geese.

They flew away.

——

The cat died under the hot tub,

we couldn’t find her for days.

——

The forest is always a graveyard,

is always hallowed ground,

is where we buried the animals.

Then they built a subdivision.

My grandmother sends me a birthday card, all glitter

and for the child in me.

The cover shouts,

“Happy Birthday to a granddaughter who has a sparkling personality, good looks, and a great sense of humor!”

and my sister asks if she has seen me lately.

We laugh.

The only handwritten inscription within declares

“Carson fell again—had to go to hospital this time.”

Happy Birthday to me, with love and

the unintentional reminder that I’ve not yet reached an age where a simple slip could result in

broken hips

or worse.

I’ll send her a thank you card, detailing my ambition,

what I will do with the money,

and a big thank you.

I suppose the most secrets I keep from anybody,

I keep from her.

I figure grandmothers don’t need more stress, don’t need to worry about

the somewhat-problems of life from a girl who will always seem too young,

who will always be glitter and

a child within.

A superglued mouth

(this isn’t a metaphor)

******* superglue

This morning I was all black daffodils and headless mannequins,

the hours turned into twisted clouds that always look like rain,

this morning I was ripped white duvets, spindle bookcases,

thick laminate book covers stolen from library stacks.

Tonight I am a yawning cat stretch, a heart one beat off,

a tiny jar of salt from leftover tears.

I shoved my face into a towel today, let out one sob and

went about my day.

(I can’t even find the effort to cry.)

Tonight I am a half-deflated balloon, forgotten in the corner of a room,

I am the sun hiding on the other side of the world,

I am a smile just waiting to burst,

I am sore muscle ripped sweatshirt blanket cocoon.

This morning I was an unopened window and tonight I am

blinds hiding the night.

I figure I’ll find out more about myself

the more I break

up myself

into little tiny pieces.

I figure my mother might find herself after she’s cleaned up the house,

but hoarders can only do so much,

and she sought salvation with crystals and books and hiding away our pasts in boxes and boxes that are stacked from floor to ceiling.

I figure my dad has found himself; he used to

eat lunch alone in his car at work,

just so people would stop bothering him and he learned how to fly

but he hasn’t flown away

and I don’t think he ever will.

Annie is simple. Loves to laugh and

wants a white picket fence and all the

easy stuff and I am just

the stubborn kid who still pushes her nose up on car windows and

leaves marks of her face to see later,

the girl who my mother says will make

the worst mother and the girl who mother says

is too driven for her own good.

They know about the every-night

nightmares and the way I make my fingers bleed when I’m bored.

Dad wants me to write and open a restaurant,

I think he knows the most though

he says the least and gets

drunk the most

and loves killin’ those

**** Zombies

or what-have-you.

I figure I’m just some sort of

****** up rich white kid

with too much time on her hands

to let herself feel happy,

because it’s far far easier

to just drift and sink in

something deeper and worse.

One time my teacher told us

to write a poem about anything

but not about our “boring teenage ****.”

This is the boring teenage **** poem I never got to write,

this is

boring teenage ****

but I’m sorry,

it’s all I’ve got on

a Tuesday

or actually it’s Friday and I’m not very good with

days or

even months and the numbers are getting even worse.

And it’s almost 2 AM so

this is what the fourth in a family writes when

there’s something stuck in her throat

that she can’t quite scream out.

Teacher,

here’s your

“boring teenage poem.”

Eat it.