my mother has taught me ten things;
1. *** is a sin. pleasure is a sin. cursing is a sin.
2. happiness and selfishness are equals
3. drugs are only bad when you are a teenager, but it is okay to sulk about them if they are a part of your damaged past.
4. the mirror you stare into each day should be looked at with disgust and agony.
5. when looking into another human's eyes be wary of swimming in the colorful veins and muscles of each iris. you will get too attached and become broken.
6. love is to be given, not taken, nor accepted. every compliment is undeserved and every wound is earned.
7. let a man take your life and crush it into powder the jet-rockets up to your brain. let him dissolve into your bloodstream and control every muscle movement.
8. a mother has the right to every possession that you call your own. she brought you into this world through unholy actions, and she may take you out the same way.
9. the world breaks you body down into soil that will be dug up and replaced with busy sidewalks. you are impermanent.
10. you will never be complete on your own; you must always lay your heavy head on someone else's shoulder instead of learning to balance it between your own.

You’re my entire universe. I see you in every single star. Every single planet.

2. I don’t need you but I want you so much that I can barely breathe.

3. Please stop smoking cigarettes.

4. Come to bed.

5. I wasn’t afraid of dying until I met you.

6. You’re mine. If I could tattoo tastes, I’d get your coffee soaked lips stained onto my tongue. I don’t care how much it would hurt. I want to swallow you down with everything I touch.

7. You’re a wildfire.

8. I feel you in my fingertips.

9. I can’t get enough of you. Even when you’re here, pressed up against me, intertwined with me, so close that I feel the blood flowing through your veins, I’m still finding ways to get you closer.

10. I’d sit through some horrible french film without subtitles for a few hours if it meant getting to accidentally brush my knee against yours.

I am fourteen
and my skin has betrayed me  
the boy I cannot live without  
still ***** his thumb
in secret
how come my arms are
always so ******
what if I die
before morning
and mother's in the bedroom  
with the door closed.

I have to learn how to dance  
in time for the next party  
my room is too small for me  
suppose I die before graduation  
they will sing sad melodies  
but finally
tell the truth about me
There is nothing I want to do  
and too much
that has to be done
and mother's in the bedroom  
with the door closed.

Nobody even stops to think  
about my side of it
I should have been on Math Team  
my marks were better than his  
why do I have to be
the one
wearing braces
I have nothing to wear tomorrow  
will I live long enough
to grow up
and mother's in the bedroom  
with the door closed.

i.
i think i have a bug bite
for every
kiss that you planted on my
neck ,
arms ,
chest .
ii.
my jaw is set on
vibrate
and your legs are between my legs .
sensative .
i can't speak ,
and i can barely breathe straight ,
but i can feel ..
iii.
pretty .
like i matter .
my body is outside
and inside
and i can see you and me ,
feel you and me .
iv.
lights dance on and i start praying to a god
i don't believe in
that we're not caught and it's not ruined .
and that this isn't a dream .
and that you're real .
vi.
you come over the next morning .
and you smile .
and i smile .
and it starts all over again .
over and over and over and over in my head
on my neck .
on my arms .
on my chest .
in my mouth .
v.**
i love you .

at fifteen i drew a map of my high school
and stuck gold stars on all the girl’s bathrooms -
this is the best one for crying , for hiding , for skipping class because you are afraid of the wrath of a teacher whose class you skip too often .
i used to sit in the stalls and draw hearts on the scars on my knuckles .
at fifteen i was afraid to raise my hand , to break the spell of invisibility .
i thought nobody could see me
and i liked it that way .
but today , on the edge of eighteen , feeling golden
i went to the bathroom that used to be the best room for hiding.
i went to wash my hands and check my makeup ,
not to run from any demons except the fullness of a lit class lecture .
and i expected to be alone ,
but i wasn’t .
she was on her knees in a stall ,
high school sophomore , sobbing and coughing and gagging .
when i came in she started gasping
and scrambled to her feet .
here she was , hiding like i had for so many years
and i was banging on the stall door .
because i have always been the unfunny tall one ,
unable to connect or understand or relate .
i have always felt like an alien , gasping words in a foreign tongue
before an audience of unforgiving strangers .
it isn’t funny ; it’s scary .
and when you are tired , kneeling on the tile floor of your high school bathroom ,
vomiting lunch and flushing ,
you understand more than anybody
that hell is not in the afterlife :
it is a place we visit on earth .
so i was banging on the stall door ,
praying she was a stranger .
she said , “ leave .”
and i said , “ god , i can’t .
hell is a high school bathroom .
will you talk to me .”
she was fifteen , blonde with scars on her knuckles and makeup stains on her cheeks .
i said , “ listen to me .”
i said , “ you are brave simply for existing .”
and she cried , and she cried , and she cried .
she said , “ i’m only fifteen and i’m sorry .
i didn’t mean to end up here , with a stranger staring me down .
i didn’t mean to be so ***** and worthless ,
but i don’t think i can do this anymore .”
i gave her a tissue.
she said , “ i’m failing math and english class and i have a D in science and my friends can’t stand me , and lunch is awful alone ; no one ever invites me to parties , and boys think i’m fat and i’m ugly and i’m lonely , god , i’m so lonely and no one can save me and nothing’s worth saving .”
when i was fifteen i used to practice writing suicide notes in my diary .
it was never serious ,
it was just an idea to play with when i felt unwanted :
letters from the deepest cracks of high-school society .
god , it was like looking into a mirror .
i saw the blush in her cheeks , the brightness behind her eyes , and the fading scars on her thighs .
high school sophomore , you know you will not be this girl forever .
beyond the unfinished homework and the test scores is an entire world worth seeing .
she said , “ i am in love with a boy and he doesn’t love me .”
i said , “ it’s the same for everybody .”
“ i don’t want to live , but i don’t want to die .
i guess i don’t want to do anything .”
she was fifteen and as wild as a poisonous berry .
i told her i could hear god in her raw throat and see infinity in her eyes .
there isn’t much you can say to a girl who doesn’t want to die ,
but at fifteen i didn’t feel like doing anything either .
i told her , “ a year from now you will see things clearer than you ever have before .
a year from that you will be back in the bathroom , looking at the floor and seeing ghosts .
there isn’t a lot you feel like doing , but right now you don’t need to .
i feel happy for you .
soon you will be lifting yourself from the floor of the bathroom , and walking swiftly in the direction of your dreams .
at the first sign of change you will feel your insides exploding .
it is beautiful ; there is so much to learn about living ,
so much to learn about humans and strangers and the feelings that keep us connected .
what is happening now is not worth forgetting .”
and she said “ i’m scared because i skipped class for the first time two months ago , and now i skip an average of eight classes a week . last month i smoked **** for the first time and now i feel guilty .
my best friend hates me . i don’t know what to do because i keep crushing delicate things with my fists . there is a scar the shape of a cross on my wrist, but last week I burned my bible .”
i smiled and looked in the mirror .
i told her ,
“ at fifteen i was just as lost as you are . i’m still lost , for the most part . i still want things i don’t need and feel emotions too deeply , but i’m learning .
and i learned a lot more by burning on the floors of bathrooms than by sitting in classes .
keep your face forward . trust everyone . you are living in the world like a wildflower , and you will be just as beautiful .
god , high school sophomore , you will find everything you are looking for .
just remember nothing matters
as much as you think .”

my four-year-old sister asks me where we live , and I tell her
that we live in a land where america is the punchline
to one of god’s jokes
that half of us are busy debating
the existence of ,
while the other half of us are holding
our bibles like they’re grenades that we can lob at
anyone who doesn’t agree with our opinions .
I tell her we’re still busy digging through the mine rocks
of our subconscious for some hope of gold ,
while on the other end of the world there are tribes of people
who are happy just to have charcoal to eat for dinner .
we live in a world ,
I tell her ,
where streets are filled
with the bodies of people who work harder trying to find
a place to live than the people with 5 million paychecks ,
and those bodies get stepped over like doorsteps just the same .
where “ soup kitchen " is a synonym for “ system failure ,"
where sometimes the pops of firecrackers and gunshots
are indistinguishable .
here in america ,
I say , we wear
those pops like bling rings on our index and middle fingers ,
and we flip the middle one at anyone who dares to suggest
that handling a gun like a solution is actually the thing
that creates the problem in the first place .
my four-year-old sister
wants to know about how come
we tighten our coats and purses closer to our bodies
whenever we pass someone of a different color on the street ,
and I tell her that in america ,
we only trust the people
who’ve got the same color of a mood ring as we do .
we live in a place , I tell her ,
where the system has failed
but then again ,
the system wasn’t very much
of a system in the first place.

i have a problem with jealousy.
for example, when lucifer was ****** and body-slammed to hell
i was ****** it wasn't me.
i was made to be a demon groupie instead of the lord of the underworld.
so i'm sorry i get ******* when you hang out with your friends
instead of talking to me on the phone.
it's just that it gets so ******* hot down here and there's no AC.

i just miss the air from my wings sometimes.

i check my facebook page 36 times a day for the sole purpose of making sure i have not accidentally posted a **** photo of myself

i reread an email 13 times before pressing send to ensure i have not written something in the email that could convict me of a crime

if i ever end up taking a stage , when asked if i allow flash photography i always want to say “ no ” because i’m terrified flash photography will give me epilepsy
i know it doesn’t work like that , still

i never eat nuts on an airplane out of fear of that i will suddenly develop a nut allergy and if i have to asphyxiate
i don’t want it to happen at 30,000 feet

twice in the last two years i’ve been aborted from an airplane for running screaming down the aisles as the plane was taking off

i can’t walk through san francisco without worrying my indigestion is the beginning of an earthquake

i brace for tsunamis besides lakes in colorado
i’m not joking
the last time i saw niagara falls i couldn’t take it
it was too much much
i had to plug my ears to look at it and close my eyes to listen

generally i can’t do all my senses at the same time they are too much much

like if you touch me without warning , whoever you are , it will take everything i have to not hate you

imagine your hands are electrical sockets and i am constantly aware that i am 70% water
it’s not that i’ve not tried to build a dam


ask my therapist who pays her mortgage

my cost of living went up
at five years old when i told my mother i have to stop going to birthday parties because every time i hear a balloon pop i feel like i’m gonna get murdered in the heart


last year a balloon popped on the stage at a concert and i started crying in front of the whole crowd
plugged my ears and kept repeating the word “ LOUD LOUD LOUD LOUD ”
it was super ****

that’s what i have to do
super ****

like when i asked the super cute barista 11 times ‘ are you sure this is decaffeinated ? are you sure this is decaffeinated ? are you sure this ’ - YES
i drink decaffeinated and still jitter like a bug running from the
bright bright bright

i have spent years of my life wearing a tight rubber band hidden beneath my hair so my brain could have a hug


i only ever wear a tie so that when i convince myself
i’m choking my senses have something they are certain they can blame

as a kid i was so certain i would die the way of  meteor falling on my head
i would go whole weeks without looking at the sky
because i didn’t want to witness the coming of my own death

i started tapping the kitchen sink seven times to build a shield

my mother started making lists of everything i thought would **** me in hopes that if i saw my fears
they would disappear

bless her heart ,
but the first time i saw that list i started filling a salad bowl with bleach and soaking my shoe laces overnight
so in the morning when i ironed them they would be so bright i would be
certain i had control over how much dark could break into my light
how much jack hammer could break into my heart
my spine it has always been a lasso that could never catch my breath

i honestly can’t imagine how it would feel to walk into a room full of people and not feel the roof collapsing on my
‘ NO NO NO '

i am not fine

fine is the suckiest word
it never tells the truth

and more than anything i have ever been afraid of i am terrified of lies
how they war the world
how they sound by our tongues
how they bone dry the marrow

how did we get through high school without being taught dr. king spent two decades having panic attacks ?
avoided windows
jumped at thunder

i think we are all part flight the fight
part run for your life
part ‘ please please please like me ’
part can’t breathe
part scared to say you’re scared
part say it anyway

you panic button collector
you clock of beautiful ticks
you run out the door if you need to
you flock to the front row of your own class
you feather everything until you know you can always ,
always shake like a leaf on my family tree and know you belong here

you belong here and everything you feel is okay
**everything you feel is okay

my dad
"found"
my tumblr blog ..

you take a girl.
average weight, average height, average smile, average tone of voice.
you give her a pen.

you give her a pen and tell her she is golden.
that she can do anything she puts her mind to and that she is a shooting star and you tell her to collect all of those scratch-and-sniff stickers that her teachers put on her tests.
you give her hope and love and anything else good that you can think of.

you tell her she can fly.

you buy her a cape, and when she climbs to the roof and jumps off, only to sprain her ankle, you kiss her.


but she will still have bad days.

it was may twentieth and
he asked me
why I always tried to **** myself .
I never liked this question ,
but I loved him ,
so I told him .

I was like a broken table ,
in the kind of way
where nobody wants to have me
because they're scared I'll
break ,
and even though they know
I'm going to break ,
they keep putting bricks on me ,
expecting me to be **strong .

if you
can't see anything beautiful about yourself ,
get a better mirror .
look a little closer ,
stare a little longer ..
because there is something there inside of you that made you
keep trying , despite everyone who told you to quit ...
you built a glow-in-the-dark cast around your broken heart so that in the night
when the darkness tries to swallow you whole ,
you have a light to hold onto ..
you built a cast , and you signed it yourself .


you signed                                                           ­     **" they were wrong ."

I sit before flowers

hoping they will train me in the art

of opening up

I stand on mountain tops believing

that avalanches will teach me to let go

I know

nothing
but I am here to learn .

here to breathe
and live a new life
among stars and planets .

here , where
your mind
and
your body
are desperate for the same thing
desperate to learn
to know .

to know the secrets
of the universe you fly in
and the happiness your soul
has dived in .

to know love ;
to know life ;
to know all .

I always spill my stupid feelings
and they always
get all over the floor
and I've got to clean

because no one cups their hands
or gets a towel
or helps , or anything

they all just stand and watch
as you try to wipe it up
and they smile
because it's their house
and you're cleaning it for
free

and my godfather
definitely isn't
a fairy*

grandmother's ice - cold words
frosting a gown
a pair of glass slippers
that you smash on the ground
bleed
keep walking forward , like you're told

and my mother isn't a step
up from anyone I've met
she's just like everyone else

my father is silent
dead

i.
silent words are mouthed through silent bodies ,
and if my love was not enough i don't know what to tell you ..
i have nothing left to give .

ii.
heavy hearts come with loose sleeves , but you're wearing your great grandfather's cuff links ,
so i won't have to worry about your soul slipping .

iii.
sleep doesn't do much for me now ,
neither love , nor singing , nor reading Shakespeare out of an English textbook with twenty owners ..
but when words snake out of those torn lips , honey , my breath travels with them .

iv.**
you're gone ....
honey doesn't flow as easily now , but the bees still sting just as fiercely .
flowers hardly bloom this time of year .
snow piles on the driveway , and my car is stuck .
i can't come visit you ...
you're gone ....

we met on a
busy
new york sidewalk .

how about this ..
I'll save you from yourself ,
and you give me your heart .

I look at you .
skeptical .
shaking in heavy boots .

okay .

you are reliable , and safe ,
and your eyes look like leaves on trees
and you smell like a forest .
I can't help but give you all of it .



you didn't lie ..
you saved me
from me
but we stood there , and you got bored .

I have to go .

and you dropped me heart
on the cold pavement and went away .
it was a black , disgusting mess ,
and you and I both left it there
to rot .


to die.


and I see you sometimes .
we pass each other on the sidewalk and
look into eyes
that are glazed over and haven't seen anything
worth while
in centuries .
I can't muster up a smile .
you can't muster up strength to wave .
we walk by .
silent .


I shot myself that night ,
and I left you a note .

please give me back my heart .

so you picked up my heart .
went to my funeral
dressed in all white
like the angel you are
and dropped it six feet under
along with my sealed casket .






thanks .

the spring after we both killed ourselves ,
I with a box cutter to the wrists and
you by leaping off the roof
of your business partner’s fourteen-story office , the crocuses
came up as usual , yellow tongues
like saxophones poking
through the earth .
when you arrived to pick me up ,
I answered
the door in my underwear since ghosts have no need
for either clothing or modesty .
you stood on your tiptoes
to kiss me , and when our mouths touched we felt
that old familiar wound
of self-pity .
at the tattoo parlor ,
so I could get the vertical scars
on my wrists inked back on in a
stronger color ,
the artist
would not let a dead couple through his door .
I pleaded with him that we would tell no one else ,
that we were not like the usual dead , not scary ,
not like zombies or ****** gang members , but to no avail .
at the café where we next stopped for raspberry lattes ,
the other patrons stared at us without inhibition ,
searched the air for the smell of rot .
there was none .
later , at home after the movie in which everyone left
to sit in another theater after we entered the doors ,
you gave me a bouquet of flowers that wilted in my hands
as soon as I touched them .
we were lovers
that had lived and died together , and our date ended as
they always had in life : with both of us trying not to cry
looking at the floor and wishing we could be more
than our shared self-hatred .

there's no easy
way to say
these things
but god you
break my *******
heart sometimes
what's worse is
I no longer care
because its you
breaking it
and I can feel
the pieces of
my heart splitting
and falling away
from the vessels
like rocks from a
cliff
i don't know if
I can breathe the
right way or talk
the right way or
if it is even possible
to be the same
person as I was
before the first day
of summer
when your lips
touched mine
and I kept my eyes
open because I
wanted to see how
you acted
I wanted to remember
you by this moment
by how you took
off your glasses
and by how you
looked at me
and ran fingers
through your hair
and how you acted
like a child holding
death in his hands
holding me in
your hands
but they were big
enough to catch
all of the cracked
pieces of my
heart and you didn't
give up on me
when I bit my lip
and said

i don't know

it's what I needed
it's what I need
but you've slipped
out of my grip
my hands are not
as big as yours
and I lost you
to something else
or someone else
or whatever else
you are occupied with
it's not me
and I feel selfish for
saying such things
but I can't help
thinking that you
should answer when
I am crying
because your hands
are not beneath
my heart right now
and the pieces are
stabbing my insides .

**I can't live anymore .

for the longest time I thought that maybe
I
could suffocate you
and
your demons ,
so that you could die
and live
but your parents refused
they said that you would have to be
shocked
and have water that they had to kneel on their knees to make holy
poured onto your face .
it's a little funny though ,
because I don't think anything could shock you more than I did
the night we both heard the
crackcrack
of your ribs as I told I didn't love you
as much
and that I have made you cry
more than twice ,
and your demons know how to swim
because of it .
I never saw you in the hospital ,
but I bet you looked beautiful ,
and vulnerable ,
and scared ,
and scarred ..
I regret it now , not visiting you
because at least you were feeling something there ....
and I would've liked to have seen that ;
I would have liked to see you live
as they watched you ,
and as you died .

i feel void of words ..
                                  paragraphs and sentences are the same number of letters and 60 seconds is only a minute from now .
our minds can't think that far ahead , but the
hour glass that i'm staring at is the most mesmerizing thing i have ever laid eyes on .

we're never done killing time , but at least the stopwatch hasn't hit a mark that has made you feel
hollow inside .

  people say that love is young ,
but sweetest our love is centuries older than we have ever known .
we are the time lords .

the day you left me in the cold was the day i knew you loved me .
love isn't a dish served hot ,
but a flower that is frozen in an ice cube and put in a cup so that it may slightly touch your lips
every once in a while .
i told you that i thought icicles were magic ,
and the next day you brought me an icicle from the neighbor's roof ,
so sharp i could stab a hole in my heart ,
and placed it in my freezer .

i kept that magic in my freezer for 4 months , until i broke my finger and needed something to reduce the swelling .

love is like that ,
not always magic ..... sometimes it's just
melting .
sometimes it's black and blue .
sometimes it hurts the most .
last night i saw your ghost
peddling a bicycle with a basket past a moon as full as my heavy head
and i wanted nothing more than to be sitting in that basket
like E.T.
with my glowing heart beating out of my chest
and my glowing finger tips point toward our home .

you built me a time capsule full of juicy fruit and promised never to burst my bubble .
i want our first date to be at the batting cages ,
where i'll miss every hit , but you'll still look at me with your starry eyes like i'm a home run in the ninth inning of the world series .
now every time i think of love , i think
going , going ......

the first week you were gone to college
i kept seeing your hand wave goodbye like a windsheild wiper in a flooding car
in the last real moment i thought the hurricane would let me out alive .

yesterday , i carved your name into an ice cube and held it against my heart until it melted
into my aching pores
today , i cried so hard that the neighbors knocked on my door and asked if i wanted to borrow some
sugar ...
i told them i had left my sweet tooth in your mouth .

love isn't always magic ,
but i offered my life to a magician ; i told him to cut me in half just so i could come back to you
whole
and ask for you back , would you listen ?

i wrote too many poems in a language i did not yet know how to speak ,
but i know now
it doesn't matter how well i say grace if i am sitting at a table where i am offering no bread to eat .
so this is my wheat field ,
you can have every acre , love ..
this is my garden song
this is my fist fight with that bitter frost .

tonight , i begged another stage light to become that back alley street lamp that we danced beneath
the night your warm mouth fell on my timid cheek
as i sang maybe i need you
off key ,
but in tune ....
maybe i need you the way that big moon needs that open sea
maybe i didn't even know i was here til i saw you holding me
give me one room to come home to
give me the palm of your hand , every strand of my hair is a kite string ,
and i have been blue in the face with your sky , crying a flood over iowa so you mother will wake to venice .

lover , i smashed my glass slipper to build a stained glass window for every wall inside my chest ..
now my heart is a pressed flower and a tattered bible ;
it is the one verse you can trust .
so i'm putting all of my words in the collection plate ,
i am setting the table with bread and grace .
my knees are bent , like the corner of a page ;
i am saving your place .

you spilt love too young

too young to know how to bend ;

too little to carry morning dew on your back
you fretted about things that made god angry ,

who sends a wolf to a praying child ,
even if they were born running .
forget dreams that make you old

learn to make love

without breaking everything that  you touch .

she stepped out
into the light of day ..
bare .
she was completely alone ..
and worthless ..
and small .

she swallowed silence
like she had not eaten in years ;
she looked just the same .

the silence and beatings
and numbness
she felt
was poured from her wrists
in hundreds upon hundreds
of beatings of her own .

her skin was pale .
her bones were fragile .

she was eighteen ,
born on an april tuesday .
she had lost her name
to the voices inside of her .
they had named her ana .

she trusted no one .
she loved no one .
she was harsh and numb ..

but most of all ....
ana
was lost .

i want a good heart .
i want it to be made of good stuff .
i want the stain glass window builder to be my drinking buddy .
i want to drink only the punch of a million gender queer school kids taking free martial arts lessons to survive recess .
i stopped calling myself a pacifist when I heard gandhi told women they should not physically fight off their rapists .
i believe there is such a thing as a non violent fist .
i believe the earth is a woman muzzled , beaten , tied to the cold slinging tracks .
i believe the muzzled have every right to rip off the bible belt and take it to the patriarchy’s *** .
i know these words are going to get me in trouble .
it is never polite to throw back the tear gas .
just like its never polite to bring enough life rafts .
they crowd the balconies where the wealthy shine their jewels .
but sometimes love ..
sometimes real love
is ******* rude .
is interrupting a wedding mid vow just as the congregation is about to cry .
to stand up in your pew to say 
“ is everyone here clear on how diamonds are mined ?” 
hallelujah to every drag queen at stonewall who made weapons out of her stiletto shoes .
hallelujah to the blues keeping the neighborhood awake .
to the activist standing in the snow outside of the circus 
holding a ten foot photograph 
of a baby elephant in chains ,
when it’s probably some little kid’s birthday .
hallelujah to making everyone uncomfortable .
to the terrible manners of truth .
to refusing to clean the blood off the plate .
bend this spine into a bow 
i can pull across the cello of my speech .
love readies its heart’s teeth ,
chews through the etiquette leash .
takes down the cellphone tower after millions of people die in wars in the congo fighting for the minerals that make our cellphones . 
love blows up the dam .
chains itself to the redwood tree ,
to the capital building when a trailer of mexican immigrants are found dead on the south texas roadside .
love insists well intentioned white people officially stop calling themselves color blind .
insists hope lace it’s ******* boots 
always calls out the misogynist , racist , homophobic joke . 
refuses to be a welcome mat where hate wipes its feet .
love asks questions at the most inappropriate times .
overturns the defense of marriage act then walks a pride parade . asking when the plight of poor single mothers will ignite our hearts into action like that .
love is not polite .
deadlocks our rush hour traffic with a hundred stubborn screaming bikes .
hallelujah to every suffrage movement , hunger strike .
hallelujah to insisting they get your pronouns right .
hallelujah to tact never winning our spines .
to taking our power all the way back to that first glacier that had to learn how to swim .
to not turning our heads from a single ugly truth .
to knowing we live in a time when beauty recruits its models outside the doors of eating disorder clients .
that is not a metaphor .
this is not a line to a poem .
an indian farmer walks into a crowd of people and stab himself in his chest to protest 
the poisoning of his land .
a buddhist monk burns himself alive on the streets of saigon .
a united states' soldier hangs himself wearing his enemy’s dog tags around his holy neck .
may my heart be as heavy 
as a tuba in the front row of the mardi gras parade five months after katrina .
may it weigh the weight of the world 
so it might anchor the sun 
so it might hold me to my own light until i am willing to sweat as much as i cry .
until i am willing to press into the clay of our precious lives .
a window .
might our grace riot the walls down .
may the drought howl us awake
may we rush into the streets 
to do the work of opening each other’s eyes .
may our good hearts forever be 
too loud to let the neighbors sleep .

once upon a time I felt
your hand on mine
and I loved you
and you loved me .
my mother always said
that love was a treasure
that pirates tried to take
from peter and wendy
in neverland ;
our love was kind of the same .
always needing guarding .
always needing tender care .

you flew away to be with the mermaids

I stayed to protect the gold .

her.. only her.

she pulls at my insides while you whisper i love you
behind the backs of your dearest friends.
she knows that you never hid your affections for her from anyone.
not even me.
and she sits in my skull,
begging for me to break in and release her broken bones
from behind my weary eyes.
because until she feels at peace, until she has been released from
the captivity of my cranium, she will never stop.
not until he stops loving you.
it should be me. you know that miranda. this is all a facade so that he feels
better about you not being 100% most days.

i ask if you still think about her.
you say yes, but not as much as i think of you.

and i know then it is the end.
she takes the swords of her tongue and
shoots them through the ashes of my nervous system.
**** yourself.
he would have never loved you had i not left.

a continuous loop of negativity and hatred slipping its' way
through my veins and arteries. almost as bad as heroine; twice as deadly as heroine.

you tell me it's all in my head;
that if i would just breathe that i could get through this.
in
but you don't understand the pain that runs as hot as lava
down my throat when i take that first breath of oxygen.
out
how when she screams it echoes through my head
while shooting pain sneaks its' slithering poison into my dreams.
the medication will never erase her.
they will never get rid of this swallowing pit of loneliness or
the fact that you will never love me in the same way you did her.

her.. only her.

still faced child ,
the memories slide against your skin
almost as easily as your makeup .

you don't forget on accident ;
you forget because it's convenient .

something tells me
that it's getting hard to juggle the memories
that you want to remember
and the ones you want to make disappear .

your atlas eyes
take me
to the trailer in petersburg ;
to the cozy neighborhood in warsaw ;

to the dead man in the basement
in dayton ,
with his head on the tile
that was stained red
and the needle
next to his limp hand .

lucky you
that you got to see him .
that you saw his face .
that you were the first to see his
body as relaxed as it was .

a couple days later
you dressed in black
and saw his body again ;
not quite as relaxed ,
and without the lazy smile tracing his closed eyes .
he was stiff as a board ,
and had as much emotion as one .

his sister has gotten a tattoo ,
her arm still sore to the touch
as she recieved hugs
from family and friends and other people
who had that same
lazy smile on their lips
and around their eyes .

the tattoo told you the year he was born
and his name
and the current year
and that he had gone fishing somewhere .
there was a colorful fish between
the sloppily-gathered information ,
greens and yellows and browns .

you look her in the eye ;
she looks like you do
when you are trying to catch the good times that are flying
away ,
caught in the breeze
of ****** ,
and of the funeral feel .

it's sad .. because she has bad memory
and you can tell .

you hug her ,
and make sure not to touch her arm .
it's a sacred limb
that she will skim her fingers against in the mirror
so that she may collect
the good times
and sit down to dinner with them
on sunday evenings
instead of going to church
and sleeping through a sermon .

....

maybe
she will invite you over
for dinner
with her beautiful stories
and her memories
caught fresh from the sky .

**the lord only knows
how much she needs to move
her mouth ;
how much she needs
to speak .

drinking
is bad for you, he says
I told him that my
numbness
was worse than any shot of liquor  
it's getting difficult to wake up
again
and I wish I could be a
better
friend
and I feel so bad for the people
who hurt like I do
your
hurting
and I don't know what to say
because I'm
not
sure that it will be okay
this poem doesn't mean anything
and I hope that means something

let me hold your hand

life isn’t that hard, he says
sometimes you just have to get in the car without putting your seatbelt on
sometimes you have to get in the wreck
you have to lose five huggies of blood to know what you’re made of

I tell him I don’t have the muscle for that type of therapy

he tells me I’m a fixer upper
the good kind that looks beautiful before she curls her hair and puts mascara on
the kind that doesn’t know how to walk in a straight line because there are too many possibilities
that always looks drunk when she’s driving because her heart doesn’t have a gps

I tell him to leave me alone

he says that when he saw me on that fateful sunday morning he knew I would be his only religion
I’m someone he can have faith in
someone he can believe

I haven’t drank in almost four months
he’s proud of me
he says he loves me, and I believe him

most people ask me
why aren’t you happy ?
like they’re happy , their spirits bent in the shape of a
smile . fools, who haven’t noticed philosophy ,
or that the heart is a domino , stacked in a line of many .
black dots separated by black lines .
i'm always trying to rub my tender-flesh thumbs across the surface .
my heart is blind , but the braille doesn't translate into blood .

my love for you never seemed to be in english , but in sign-language ; our hands
knew just what to say to keep the happiness flowing with the sweat dripping from our heavy heads .
we held hands in public last week for the first time .
my heart jumped from my chest to my fingertips as your fingertips tapped
i  love  you  in morse code .
i had never felt so bold in my life . i wanted to run down every street corner
with your hand in my fist sceaming "LOOK AT THIS"

my love doesn't know how to be silent yet .
my heart just keeps thumpthumpthumping out of my chest , and i know that if i say the wrong thing
you'll leave .

i told the map in my soul to take me home , but the word error kept covering the screen .
it couldn't find you , so it panicked . i panicked when my blood attacked the dashboard like a
flash-flood .
you always used to be standing next to me . love is not a pair of domino-dotted hands .
love is not a language that my mind or my body understand .

sometimes goodness comes

from treating yourself

not like you burned earth to dust

but like you made it

into a beautiful body . 

crowned it with stars ,

put a precious coat over it

and called it home .

I am what I am. I am a hormonal ***** who doesn’t really understand why ***** describes girls.
I am drained and have been on autopilot for nine years.
I keep on forgetting I am sixteen, and that makes it ten. I am the Buddhist of a Christian family. Hidden meditation before forced services and watching my grandfather on a stage for three days a week. I’m still trying to get by. I am what I am.
The sweetest and most sour liquid that has ever
met my lips is *****.
I feel pathetic for writing that. I am what I am.
A ****-wrecked liver at age sixteen. I am what I am.
A role model for five children younger than seven, and then there’s me,
drinking Grey Goose from the bottle.
It’s going to make my throat warm and my swarming soul pain teeter-totter to a rest.
The best past time I have found is trying to fix myself.
I am what I am. That’s not good enough.

My grandmother says that because I am depressed there are demons living in the rooms
of my chest.
I want to tell her that if she would peer into my stained-glass window eyes
she would see that no one lives in me; not the devil, or demons, or God.

I just pray that she doesn’t open the basement doors and find a swimming pool of the
clear stuff.
I am sixteen. I have to keep writing this or I feel like it’s not true and I’m not real.
I am an aspiring alcoholic.
I am what I am, and I need change. Bad.
But the habits are even worse, and I’m stuck with these bruising memories.
A curse from my past. Heroine and Marijuana.
Highs that never lasted long enough for a mother of one.
Bore a daughter, but wanted a son, and I’m stuck not being good enough
for the thousandth time in my life.
Getting mixed between the names Matthew and Miranda when she was on the low side.
Fast forward to high tide; she’s on cloud nine and I’m locked in my room.
I can smell the scent of smoke that she tells me is perfume, and I’m wondering
if I should be married to a boy, or a girl?

Same year. My first beer handed to me by the father of my first sibling.
“It’ll put some hair on your chest.” he says. I am what I am.
“Girls are not supposed to have hairy chests.” I say.
My mom sends me to my room. I feel so horrid that I don’t eat for days. Two years later
I find out about shaving my legs, find out that razors are sharper than the butter knife
in the kitchen. I still have the word BOY? carved into my thigh.

I go to therapy weekly. My mind is made of Latin words that I don’t know how to translate.
I’m seeing now that how you raise your heart is crucial.
I’m seeing now that not drinking for five months is a triumph.
I am what I am, not what I was brought up to be.

i grabbed you and i
asked you how i
could possibly make you
happy .
and you looked at
me , and told me
you'd be happy if
i was happy .

i tried so *******
hard to
fix myself ,
but you were gone
by the time i started to smile .

I met you four years ago
and I hated you .

four years later ,
and we are holding each other
on you mattress , and I'm
stuck between finding warmth
in arms that aren't mine ,
and mining trees to make sticks .

you always end up holding me .
you always end up holding me .
you always end up holding me .

and I'm realizing now
that you aren't holding me
so that I will feel better ;
you are holding me because
you see me cracking
and you see the pieces of my
heart breaking off into your hand
and you don't walk away .

you're good at making things ,
and you know how to
put it back together .

and it scares me
that you take so much time
and care into looking at each
piece and finding its place .
because you see things
that I haven't seen .

maybe you're an angel
sent from god to prep me for
eternity ,
or maybe you're a demon
sent from hell
as a house-warming gift ,
but at this point
it doesn't matter ;

just as long as I got to keep you
for a little while .

when I wake up in the morning I want
your sheets to be tangled between our legs.
I want your arm to be swung lazily around my bare back and
I want your warm breath on my skin. when I wake up I
want you to love me. I want
the forests of your chest and the city streets of your
fingertips.

I want your smile to sneak around your lips and pull me in
close
because my fidgeting body of morning awoke the landmines of your pores. I want
that first yawn and
the sound of you
stretching your lungs. I want

to feel your eyes on me as I get dressed, as I brush my hair.
I want to see you t-shirt tug across your arms and
land on your torso. I want to curl up
beside you and drink coffee as I trace the
constellations of freckles on your forearms.

I want you to kiss me.

It’s Whatever

Multitasking is impossible, did you know that?
Especially when you’re focused on one thing,
And not really worrying about the other.

When you love someone you give them your heart, did you know that?
Then they carry it around with them,
And if they love you in kind, they’ll hold it close and keep it warm.

I gave you my heart, did you know that?
I gave before you were focused on another,
And you shifted your focus a dozen times since then, yet never once onto mine.

It sits in the crook of your arm, did you know that?
Like an afterthought in what little space is left, while you press another into your breast,
And mine bounces around as you step.

It gets cold here, did you know that?
Sometimes the wind is chilling,
Yet that little warmth you spare is enough to live on.

Sometimes my heart falls off, did you know that?
It tumbles off your arm, into the dust and the rocks you might even step on it,
Yet before long you pick it up, brush off the shards

Dragging each bit

Rending its flesh,

Leaving tiny, almost invisible bleeding slashes,

Not because you don’t care,

You just don’t take the time to notice.

Then you set it back in the crook of your arm.

…

Tiny cuts add up to a grievous wound, but you already know that.
And it’s too cold out here to heal.

it’s 3:50 a.m. and I am laying here

thinking nothing

feeling nothing

dreaming nothing
I have no fate

no destiny

just plans that never turn out right

plans that I make

plans that I destroy
I regret it now

the day I looked at you

and my heart stopped beating

and my mind whispered

" you will love him , and he , love you ."

it never goes according to plan
because I love you now

enough for 
7 billion 46 million people

who have the audacity to

think they matter

feel they matter 

dream they matter
and you 
have not given me

a second glance ..

let alone 
a first one .

Please do not spit on your words with a sugar-laced tongue.

I hope you're furious. I hope there is foam flowing out of your mouth like Niagara Falls, and I hope that god doesn't open the gates for you.
I hope you don't expect me to love you like a daughter is supposed to.

it wasn't just the way you
looked at her
or the way that you didn't even
flinch
as she accidentally placed
her hand on yours
when you both reached for
the same thing
it was the way you
talked to each other
the way you guys spoke
like she never broke your heart
in the first place
the way your eyes seemed to
shine
when she made a comment
toward you revealed that
your feelings for her
would never change

and though it seems
like all I've ever wanted is
for you to look at me
like a blind boy who
had seen the sunrise for
the first time
and talk to me like we have
known each other
for years
I can't hate her

I can't even pretend
because she makes you so

*happy .

this tornado was made of light..
it was breaking apart all the darkness.. in this shaded world
with orange skies, tornadoes of light color the black and orange
and bring forth shine..
but light is not always a sign of goodness and hope..

this dark world would seeing the end of itself..

a pause                                 a little emptiness

each year harder to live within .

each year harder to live without .

and I'm finding it hard
to live at all
with the loud pauses ;
with the tiring emptiness .
something has to give .
oh , what I would
give
to have you here .
it's black outside , black enough
to hide my sins ,
and I want you to see me
like this .
pure .
innocent .

I love                                                   you
more than you will ever
see ;
more than you will ever
begin to fathom .

blind yourself
with the dark of night ,
and visit me
with closed eyes ;
visit me
with open lungs
and an open soul .

you told me that
drinking
was bad for me
I told you that my
numbness
was worse than any shot of liquor  
it's getting difficult to wake up
again
and I wish I could be a
better
friend
and I feel so bad for the people
who love me against their will

you're
hurting
too and I don't know what to say
because I'm
not
sure that it will be okay

this doesn't mean anything
and I hope that means something

**let me hold your hand

hands on her shoulders
hair down her back
lying to her daughter at home
making barely enoough money to feed
the posibilty of another mouth
another life

she drove seventeen hours to be crumpled
like dust

words hurt when you wait too long
words hurt when she is in your arms
words hurt when they're spat out of a poisonous mouth
words hurt when they're inked to her flesh

but in her anger
she's a fire
raging
in her arms she holds her heart
not on her sleeve just yet
but pretty ******* close

she is honest
not to her daughter
but as a mother

where he sleeps
is where she falls

to another addiction
to another shot of liquid feel-good
to another love

she has a broken heart
that she is trying to sew up
and a tattoo
to prove it

death is pretty with white funeral lilies .
death is expensive with the new black dresses and shiny mary - jane's .
death is quiet .....

unless you were there and you heard them cry out
hold me !
unless you sat beside them and listened to there hoarse breath and saw the blood they tried to hide
in a napkin ..
unless you saw then try to pay for their own funeral arrangements , and hospital bill ..
unless they asked you what they should get carved into stone and placed on top of their skull .

accuse me .
tell me i'm the one who let them go ..
who let them slip through my fingers , which are just as cold and as numb as the dead ..
tell me i'm the one who sat in the hospital for some extra cash ...

death is pretty with white funeral lilies .
death is expensive with the new black dresses and shiny mary - jane's .
death is quiet .....

where were you ...?

when she kissed

the moon good night 
stars bashfully twinkled .
the black on her lips

stained the night sky
 .
everyone thought it a bad omen .

I said

this is how the heavens love
 ;
this is how you love
 .
you paint home your favorite color
I put lavender flowers in my heart .


everyone said

this purple
doesn’t make you king
 .

I said

*this is how
you start being human .

there are days when my poems feel less like bruises
and more like crop circles waiting to spread their soft bones across
the earth of my page- these stories need to be told .
my voice used to be just a side effect of having a body ,
until it found paper and learned how to scream ,
the kind of scream that evaporates in all the noise .
i’d rather write about people who got lost in the cracks of my sidewalk -
so i can write about them clawing their way out -
than write about people who were born with every limb already above ground .
because sometimes every word is an act of therapy ,
and there’s no better listener than the reader who finds relief
in every oil spill of ink . because sad poetry is the truth ,
and i’m tired of biting my lip .
because the people i write for have been going through hell
and sometimes , if i spellcheck my words carefully enough ,
a line or two will flame brighter in that person’s heart
than the flames they’re so used to being burned alive in .
when i was a kid , i used to try mending the broken wings
of all the moths and butterflies that crossed my yard ,
until some of them gave up on flying with stitches ,
and i learned that sometimes people quit on life like that too .
so now i write all these poems to teach people
to start giving to themselves
instead of giving up or giving in .

these words aren’t about you .

they’re about the person I let rent space
inside my heart .

they’re about the times I wished I could go back

and say to them ,

*“no
it’s okay , you can stay longer ;

I don’t care
if your payment is late ."
*

because having you there was enough.

but these words aren’t about you .

they’re for the person still hiding behind these drained eyes .

these shaking fingers .

these weak limbs .

and I’m still not sure which is better ;

to feel everything at once or nothing at all .

because sometimes it is both ,

and you are the gushing waters drowning my lungs .

and sometimes it is neither ,

and you are the words I wish I could drink from the sea .

*we always left so many of them unsaid ,
*
letting our bodies do the talking .

but now I wonder how many conversations 
we’ve had with each other when we

thought we were asleep .