i don’t want to analyze poetry
i don’t want to sit at desks
i don’t want to forge meaning
from a void
                     i do protest
i want to rip apart my flesh
and feed my friends the
        tattered
                      bits
i want to rip apart my friends
and feed my flesh their
        hurried
                      quips
i don’t want to analyze poetry
i don’t want to stick band aids to my words
i want to destroy the cage of resolution and unleash the dying
fleas
         and i sure as hell don’t want
         a dependable rhyme scheme,
         either.

I am a helpless hopeless witness
sitting idle on a courtroom bench
as if in church
kneeling backwards beneath slanted
   stain                         glass
                     light
with my hands clasped tight
and pressed neat against my forehead
but there is
no
one
to pray to when
there is no faith;
I am invisible in the eyes of a clairvoyant god.
My heart beats rough
almost
p
  o
    u
      n
        d
          i
          ­  n
              g
straight out of my chest
to the beat of the grand judge's gavel.
"Guilty,
guilty,
guilty,"
they chant, and
"Selfish,
                selfish,
                          ­    selfish," too.
"We find the defendant cowardly."
They never even put me on the stand.
They will not sentence me to execution--
          for that would be too kindly.
I am destined to a life
of praying for death without parole
and                                     folding
a plethora of pervasive glances
tightly between the
         lines
         on
         my
         palms.
They shoot their looks from
                       all
    different
                                          angle­s,
                      and
even with this accumulation of grayscale smoke above my head,
I
can't
escape
it.
After every much belittled blink
they taunt me with another slice of glass
that scrapes off my skin cells
         one
                 by
                       one
and leaves my body hair in a standing ovation
pulsing with anticipation--
           but they never draw blood. A cruel
and unusual punishment.
At confession I can never find the breath to reveal
the heart I've taped to my chest to keep from f
                                                               ­                a
                                                               ­                l
                                                               ­                l
                                                               ­                i
                                                               ­                n
                                                               ­                g
or the soul in my hands that's been
              crushed
between sweaty fingers.
How can they punish me when I am already a walking jail cell
with skinny white lines for bars on my wrists?
I am to repent until I am no longer human, but here's the thing--
             I never was.
I am much

much

more.

Sorry.

Not for the bruises inscribed in my knees at six years old,
or gravel-shaped cuts dotting my palms
after being kicked off my bike like a rodeo bull,
or even the sliver of a scar on my right index finger
from closing it in a van door when I was seven.

No, I have no remorse
for the innocent;
not a twinge of sympathy regarding the unfortunate results
of relatively harmless careless actions
and playful worth-it memories.

I’m sorry for the other things.

I don’t mean running
or swimming
or dancing
until the soreness embedded itself in my muscles, my
heart racing, pulse pounding
in my ears.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry
for the other things.

I’m sorry for hating you.
I’m sorry for all of the
preening and plucking and
shaving and waxing and
hair burning.

I’m sorry for the countless repulsed glances at the spot
where my stomach puffs out
and all of the daggers I stared into the place
where my thighs meet.

I am sorry for getting slashed at
by the perfectly intact glass
of the bathroom mirror, for feeling severed,
just by seeing its reflective surface.

I’m not sorry for taking up space,
but I’m sorry I ever was.

I am sorry for
switch off the light,
lock the door,
the scratch of fingers in my throat
and the starkness of the cold linoleum floor
routines
I practiced because I loathed
the way you curved
and the fatness of my pseudo-waist.

I’m sorry for falling into patterns of self-hate
that I aimed at you. Patterns
not unlike that of an alcoholic,
commencing with afternoon drinks or slightly restricted meals
and ending with wildly depressing stories to tell
and crying on stranger’s floors—
but there is no Lackers of Self-Esteem Anonymous,
no chips to collect
for every time I tell myself I’m beautiful
or, better yet, value more
than my appearance.

I am sorry for thin red lines that ran deep into my wrists
and I am sorry for the faint-inducing heat
that followed,
caused by the oversized and long-sleeved sweatshirts I hopelessly donned
to cover you up.

I’m sorry for discarding that one dress
(that you looked stellar in, by the way)
because I had degenerated into such an unhealthy
and addictively abhorrent relationship with you
that I feared
even the slightest tightness
in my attire.

I’m sorry for habitual body monitoring. I’m sorry
for using my fingers to count calories
and not positive attributes. I’m sorry
for all of the aforementioned repugnant routines
I’ve picked up over the past few years,
whether I’ve stopped them or not,
I’m sorry.

I am.

So, body, when I say
that this is an apology note,
I don’t mean I’m sorry for  the time
I skipped salad and went straight to pizza,
or even the countless dinners when
I put an extra brownie on my plate.

No, I have no remorse for that.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry for hating you.

But, like a sinner coming up after sinking
in a blessed lake of holy water,
I am ready to fill my lungs with new breath. I will repent
with the radical act of self-love

and I promise that I will treat you better.

Oak tree
You are brooding
Exponentially grand and simply looming
At the edge of the yard that lines my childhood home
Fading into the tree-tinted horizon
One with the picture in which you paint
You
Are not a focal point
You are more like a subtle brush stroke easing its way into the foreground
But you don't mind
Oak tree
You are patience
A hundred years have touched your membrane
Stiffening and caking it in
The wrinkles of an old man's skin
Somehow still soft
Somehow still able
To reach into your moss-covered heart
Nestled neatly within your wood
And find the bravery to reach out
With winding branches
Providing the birds a place to nest
The squirrels a home to burrow and
The termites a space to feed
The worms make playgrounds of your roots
Oak tree
You have no eyes
But I know a small part of what you've seen
The burst of spring in the warmth of slanted sunshine
And the near suffocating scent of
Blossoms, seeds, and
Sweet struggling saplings
Life
Death
The stifling absence of birdsong
And presence of snow
Crumbling leaves
Rotting trees
Ice sleek to the touch and the barren shadow
Of being alone
Oak tree
Through all of this
You grow
In pursuit of the sky
You live with the will the pulsates straight up through your roots
And radiates to the end of every one of your golden branches
Oak tree
I can only hope to pick up a fragment of the wisdom you emit
As I ponder your existence
In the shade your glorious leaves provide

Mania is red ice cream
blurring my vision in sugary swirls
and decorating my stoic kitchen sink
in rainbow sprinkles
chocolate syrup
whip cream
because I can do anything
Until I'm left with the ache of empty bowls
and nothing but cold, cold
cold

The fluttering breeze
Gently begs the trees to dance
Smells of sweet blossoms

Snow seeping softly
Dissolving to a rhythm
Returning to spring