I am about the age of trees. When I scream,
my breath smells like my mother’s when she drank herself to sleep
and so I spent the night in a neighbor’s garage because
his cat just had kittens, one was like
a pumpkin in color whilst I had the roundness on my jaws.

I showed him the green canopies I
would jump from, and he got caught: the man I called dad
had to work his way through the jungle (-gym)
or the McDonald’s play area
to fly us by our potbellies like Superman in the cerulean above.

I never thought what it meant,
that I was already sleeping in an old man’s covers at six and seven
but now I feel those nights like bruised elbows.
Now I am the same afraid girl trying to find wombs in men
the age of trees, yet I still climb them just to ask to be carried down.

I prayed last night
For the first time
In a long time
And I didn't know what name
To call God by
Something that rolled off the tongue
And tripped the switch inside
Beer
Felt right
Fear of the unkown
Maybe God's name is Celexa
Buspirone
Prozac
Any number of things that come in pill form
Night time thunderstorms
Waking up with the sun
Driving to church
Or Krishna
Vishnu
Shiva
Allah
Yahweh
My last gold dollar's
Got something sacred with it's spending
Or maybe Miranda Lambert
Or mom
Or the back of a car
Just before curfew
Saturday night
For the first time
A 40 mile hike
Your trusty red bike
Maybe the feel of strings
Under your fingers
Or a frozen snickers
Maybe the way your wife
Of 30 years
Stays appealing
Or maybe God's just a feeling
A million words
Humanity needs
For the state of being
Alive
Amen.

In the end they're just men; they're not the products of a Disney dreamer's imagination.

And I'm a three-beer girl with tattoos, trust issues, and a heart of gold.

Your name is Rachael
and I am supposed to sweep you up like a moth
or the baby spiders you think are yours
but they ate their mother, too. Like you will.

You will see yourself in a diagram
the size of dog paws.

You will see yourself on the owl stand:
artificial, do you like it? I am sorry I said no.

You will fracture an oyster
and expect babies to queue out, to call you mom
out of every egg is a memory not your own.

Your name is Rachael but
you are hardly a woman, not a person, or a bug.
A moth is more alive than you
because its wings can blister on light-bulbs.

Your name is Rachael
and so you are of artificial skin and thoughts.

She said,

"I am happy with the occasional dash of rage,
anxiety, or depression.
In the end,
it makes for a beautiful portrait,
and you've been here
to witness the brushes of my past six months
painting something incredible, "

and I was in love.

I wish that I
                     could turn myself into love;

From head to finger-tip-toe
                                            and to each broken strand of golden hair.

I'd stretch myself outward until
                                                    love encompassed you.

facebook was so desperate to have me stay
just one more worthless day
or a few more hours wasted away

they said, we'll miss you
is this really what you want to do?
but i had to stay true

"but think of all the people who care
about the things you buy and what you wear,"
the things you post here are always there

never deleted off the page
your secrets hidden in the cage
of internal places evoking rage

because i never intended to do that much
it became an addiction, my loyal crutch
always there for me at a finger's touch

but what the hell are we meant to do?
when facebook crashes and we can't use glue
to patch it together or make something new?

we'll have to spend some time together
remember how it felt to feel the weather
instead of looking at pictures in the nether

you are wasting your life, your time
spending hours stuck to feeds must be a crime
because it's a terrible addiction of mine

i finally left without remorse
and went outside and found the source
of how to finally change my course