I was young when I learned to sing
to the rhythm of fists
flying through the air
like birds too angry
with the season to call.
I was young when I thought a tune
could drown the sounds
of my mother’s sobs
crashing through hallways
in tidal waves and monsoon misery.
I was young when I carved
songs in the wallpaper
and into my delicate skin.
I turned bruises into syncopated beats
and scars into major scales.
My stepfather hated music
but I was an ornery child,
and I sang of joyous things
just to see if his soul could dance,
but instead,
I got two left feet in swift kicks.
When I was was young I was afraid of sticks
because I thought my body was a drum
to be beaten and battered
to a punishing rhythm.
I was young when I learned
that the taste of blood on my lip
was merely the flicker before the intermission;
the finale would be a grand display
of pomp, punch, and unlucky circumstance.
My mother was a tone-deaf drunk
who never learned to sing.
She belted begging in B flat octaves
like it was the only note she knew.
She wept an ocean of sorrow
as I sang my S.O.S.
“God, save our sinking ship.”
“God, save our sinking souls.”
“God, save our sorry stepfather from himself.”
And when I thought to cry,
I sang my little heart out instead.
I sang of devil's meeting end,
and I sang of daughter's finding love,
and I sang of mother's finding
strength enough to leave,
and I sang to the happy families
that only existed in sitcoms,
because my stepfather hated music
but I hated him far more.

I feel my body ignite when you look at me, and it hurts.
It hurts to want you.

Can you see the fire tearing holes in me?

You've inched your way into every corner of my mind like a disease.
I see my breath in the frigid winter air and it reminds me of you.

When I close my eyes, I can almost feel your hand on my waist.
My heart quickens and drops into my stomach.
I open my eyes.
You're still not there.

Can you feel how much I crave your bare skin against mine?

Listen for me in the quiet crunch of the dirt as you run.
Listen for me in the puff of smoke from your lips,
and the bright orange of a sunset.
Did you see the bird that just soared by?
That was me.

If you saw me everywhere, like I see you,
Your heart would constantly beat faster, and your stomach would do flips.
You wouldn't be able to sleep at night.
Your bones would ache every moment of the day.

But you don't.

It's okay.
Sometimes I think I'll never stop wanting you, though.
Sometimes I think that my heart will always beat faster when you look at me,
that my breath will always catch, and my stomach will always twist into knots.

Sometimes I wish I could explain to you how much it hurts,
how much it hurts to want you.

I turn a year old next September.
Meow, I'm getting bigger.
I think the old man is cooking something, but I can't see him.
He yelled an awful lot at the little girl before he hurried out the door.
He was in such a hurry that he forgot to leave her any money this time.
Something is definitely cooking.
It doesn't smell good.
It must be people food.
The little girl is taking a nap.
Tired thing, she couldn't even make it back to bed.
Face down on the floor, I thought she said she'd never do that?
I suppose the old man had finally convinced her to try it.
Sleep sounds really good right now.
Actually, food sounds really good right now.
Actually, scratching the **** out of some curtains sounds really good right now.
I must find some curtains, there aren't any hanging from the window.
Weren't they there just a second ago?
There's some strange light dancing where they usually would be.
There are strange lights everywhere; is it already New Year's again?
No, it couldn't be.
I turn a year old in September.
I guess I'll just scratch at the carpet a bit, and then I'll find some food.
There might be food in my bowl on the counter, right by where the old man's money would normally be.
What a weird day, even the air tastes strange.
It tastes heavy.
Maybe if the little girl forgot to feed me, I can try filling up on this black air.
Such a good girl!
She remembered to feed me, now I don't have to wake her up.
Yet!
The dancing lights look so pretty from atop the counter.
I'm reminded of looking out the window at night.
So soft . . . so warm . . . I can practically hear music.
These must be what street lights look like up close.
I wonder if any of these lights are a moon?
I hope so, I really like moons.
The little girl always sings a nursery rhyme with a cat, a fiddle and a moon.
I wonder what a fiddle is; maybe I should get one?
Maybe the little girl will get me one for my birthday.
I turn a year old in September, I met the little girl when I was just a week old.
She said I looked cute and innocent, and I had a long life ahead of me.
She said she would make sure I had a better life than her.
Meow, that's really sad.
I would go cheer her up, but it's so warm and I'm getting really sleepy.
Maybe I'll just wait by her until she wakes up.
What a mess!
She must have spilled some of that "wine" stuff on the floor.
Poor dear, she's face down in a pool of the stuff.
I hope she gets a chance to see all the pretty lights.
I lick her cheek before I make my climb and curl up on her back.
She's a really nice girl.
I like her.
She named me Tabitha.
Silly little girl, I'm not a tabby cat.
I have all white fur.
At least, I did.
There are some black spots in my coat meow.

Get away from me,
My evil twin is just around the corner.
You see,
She's very protective.
You need to leave,
She is not going to be merciful.
You see,
She wasn't born this defective.
A boy she thought was man
Told her she had a pretty face,
And she lost her footing on this cliff,
Trying to kiss the space bellow his eye and above his cheek.

Nobody dies of a broken heart!
That is what everyone says.
Time heals all scars!
That is what everyone says.
The pain dims, the memories fade
New and important things happen
People move on, make a fresh start
That is what everyone says.
Tell you what, I make a fresh start every Single day!
A resolution, not to look back
Not to care, not to feel, not to hear.
And yes, I succeed.


Sometimes.

Stone pebbles
Rolling through skulls
Like fireworks
Speaking dead Latin tongues
To cigarette fingered teenagers
Progressive and hardly realized
Healed imagination to start.
Red and Blue lights ink
The shaman's circle
And green smoke fills iron.
Half clothed, half chilled
Waiting for the world to be.