let me hold you, he said.
he wants to help me open up my lungs
but another man has his fingers
clamped around them.

and I don’t want him to let go
I don’t want to breathe
if it means being
alone.

I understand
why some girls call their lover “Daddy”
or at least why I would.

Bare feet, rubbing against jeans

free
for yesterday’s
moon to pour itself into today

the craters like petals,
he loves me, he loves me not. It doesn’t
matter because he will protect me
anyway.

Wrap me in his veins
and we

‘ll blow as cold air swims past my lips.

I paint my nails from that feeling
in two strokes,
small, flat umbrellas for dirt.

Baby, baby,
I hear that calling now,
your hands are chilly, let me touch you

well, I guess that’s okay.
Put me on your lap and I’ll behave.

Please, I want to know everything about her
and why what happened
was not about me. I never did ask, but I never learned
how a person can not love someone and still
break someone else’s heart about it.
All I see is the pillow you abandoned at my house,
the warm patch of **** on its case
I put there in case she could ever lay on it and drown.
If we are marking territory, I do not know who
would win you. She had your “I love you”
before me, adolescent and as rocky as a mountain top.
But I ****** your ****. Held it up with my right
hand as if reciting some vow.
Mostly, I need to know which you preferred
whose mouth was more comfortable –
one spilling lies or one with drool, dripping ***. I
have a memory of you telling me what
her voice sounded like, but I cannot remember now.
I think that is a good sign. I think
it is beautiful that she hasn’t come chasing after you
and I hope you are not hurting for it. But
I think, too, that I have finally fallen in love with all of
what you are and not just all that I know you are.
No part of you is a phantom anymore.
I know how you sound when you want to lick another
girl’s ****, now I need to understand why.

My childhood
was stubbing toes on pool railings
while trying not to drown
four foot tall, six feet under.

I sat by houseplants
on cold tile.
I lost my teeth to salt water taffy.

My parakeet was named
after a character on Full House
who had frizzy hair
and did not have her mama either.

One day,
she broke her beak.

It was my fault, I brought the
blood to my face as I would salve
to apologize

but it was far too late.
Daddy set her free while I slept.

I would rush to the
school supply aisle in Kroger
for pens and pencils
and bought Barbie dolls to glide
against the bayou’s surface.

Later, Katrina came
to sink everything I ever touched.
  
I thought
about the black men and their
saxophones downtown

how I wanted to replace the reeds
so badly
to hear New Orleans jazz
one final time before we moved.

The whole time
my sister was made of sage.

My brother slept on my Powerpuff
Girl sheets so often that
I kept my ******* in another room.

And I thought that
mothers came from fireplaces
because mine
hid her liquor in there sometimes.

Beyond dilation scuttle eyed pin hole magnetic stigmata
I swear if you rub red the right way it scores points with the Almighty
Crystalized She used to run around with ***** fingers
She was made in a bathtub
Towhead floating face up  

Like a deep breath doll laugh goodnight
I'm balanced hypodermic in the chamber
Reading from the black stenciled numbers 100cc
Here is the end's beginning
A brand new case of rigs
She's dancing on the counter
Dancing in my head
She's won't let me sleep
And my dreams become electric
25% oxygen not counting waste
Or the tingle on the back of my throat
25 seconds until we reach the half life Wear the dunce hat.
Bruised arms  
and a 90% isopropyl bath
Two weeks non sleep

they call it depersonalization
dee-person-nile-zaytion
and it means i did the impossible:
found the switch to turn
everything off
so i can do what feels good
and stay away from what feels bad
and never have any real feelings
about any of it

at all.

In 2010, I mostly thought about *** on the beach.
Someone falling into me
when waves crash a whip into their back –
I, on mine, my heart filled with the weight of sandbags
packed for a Miami hurricane. When I was that
young, I believed I could show up
at a grown man’s house and hide the evidence in my
****. He would listen to music with a lot of
rhythm, it would influence the way the ocean breathed
and came salt beads on my skin.
The conversation was. The ******* was never –
I went to a smaller beach four hundred miles from his
anxiety and songs without guitar riffs. I
vomited every made up memory,
did not ******* for three weeks because I realized
the gulf could not break my ***** alone.
Broken-hearted. The end. We were so good and
my touch so smooth he thought it was just seashells.

everything's funny
everything hurts
and it will all be gone
in the morning