my mind is filled with shadows and weakness and
he is sleeping in his bed 6 miles away.

walking distance; running distance.

every pore of my scarred skin is filled with missing him and alcohol.
every dent in my flesh was raised by werewolves;
they only turned red at night.
my eyes only flow oceans at the hours I feel emotionless.

my mother puts crayons and coloring books in the backpacks of her children.
says that when they are angry, they should write down what they feel in the color that fits best.
now when I go to school it is all Ticonderoga #2

happy  gray
sad  gray
angry  gray
scared  gray

i pick you up from the earlobes ,
shining in the december of your adolescence .

this morning a 19 year old boy asked me how to spell achievement .

this afternoon i saw exhaustion in a single mother's fingers .

i saw peace in the bald , pink cancer patient seeking holistic remedies at Whole Foods .
the weary barista delights in his tip jar .

and this
this is the tip

of the glacier 
that is hope ;
a shipwrecked shore to call home

you are not from here
sailor .
do not anchor 
your worries to reality ..

we all beat the ocean 
in our sleep

https://play.google.com/music/m/Tyxfxgv67h2wk46xo7f72kke2se

my fire for you is sweet like
melted sugar and i
love that
and it's like kissing a shooting star that's about to **** you and it's
like holding a blue candle in your hands and realizing
you're so pale that the wax turns the color of the sky the day you
told me you wanted to be friends.
i want you to draw a city sky on my kite string arms and a road
of evergreens on my telephone wire hips.
i've never told you this... i never
wanted you, but i always needed you, and that's why i think i love you.
something whispers in my ear when
your fingers wisp through my hair that tells
me to laugh in your face when you tell me
you love me back.

it's like a smack in the soul saying
WAKE THE **** UP

and then i do, and you still love me...



even then.

my father is a blind man.
heavy drooping lids with even heavier dripping blood.

i am his failure that was only good at one thing.
swimming past the others.

and maybe i'm not the perfect daughter;
maybe you weren't expecting the *** or drugs or parties or ****** language,
but ******* for acting like it meant i was dead.

you do not own me.
you will not write my eulogy when i finally succeed after failed attempts.
you will not say how i had a beautiful heart and YOUR sense of humor.
i will write my own goodbye letter.
and yes, maybe every i love you feels like a swallowed, searing coal.
and yes, maybe my signature at the bottom of the loos-leaf sheet of blood-stained paper will remind you to acknowledge your two other children, and stop saying that i am your favorite.
i am not your favorite.
you should be willing to stay for a favorite.

so leave me the **** alone
to bleed in peace.

you will never be let down by anyone
more than you will be let down
by the one you love most in the world
it’s how gravity works
it’s why they call it falling
it’s why the truth is harder to tell
every year
you have more to lose
but you can choose to bury your past
in the garden
beside the tulips
water it
until it’s so alive
it lets go
and you belong to yourself
again

when you belong to yourself again
remember forgiveness
is not a tidy grave
It is a ready loyal knight kneeling before your royal heart

call in your royal heart
tell it bravery cannot be measured by a lack of fear
it takes guts to tremble
it takes so much tremble to love
every first date is an earth quake

sweetheart , on our first date
I showed off all my therapy
I flaunted the couch
where I finally sweat out my history
pulled out the photo album from the last time I wore a lie to the school dance
I smiled and said
“that was never my style
look how fixed I am
look how there’s no more drywall on my fist
look at the stilts I’ve carved for my short temper
look how my wrist is not something I have to hide”
I said
well , I was hiding it

the telephone pole still down from the storm
by our third date I had fixed the line
I said listen ,
I have a hard time
and by that I mean I cry as often as most people *** and I don’t shut the door behind me
I’ll be up in your face screaming

“SEATTLE IS TOO RAINY SEATTLE IS TOO RAINY
IM NEVER GOING TO BE ABLE TO LIVE HERE .”

I sobbed on our fourth date

I can’t live here
in my body , and by that I mean
I can’t live in my body all the time it feels too much
so if I ever feel far away know I am not gone
I am just underneath my grief
adjusting the dial on my radio face so I can take this life with all of it’s love and all of it’s loss

see I already know that you are the place where I am finally going to sing without any static which means
I’m never gonna wait
that extra twenty minutes
to text you back ,
and I’m never gonna play
hard to get
when I know your life
has been hard enough already .
when we all know everyone’s life
has been hard enough already

it’s hard to watch
the game we make of love ,
like everyone’s playing checkers
with their scars ,
saying checkmate
whenever they get out
without a broken heart .

just to be clear
I don’t want to get out
without a broken heart .
I intend to leave this life
so shattered
there’s gonna have to be
a thousand separate heavens
for all of my separate parts
and none of those parts are going to be wearing the romance from the overpriced vintage rack
that is to say I am not going to get a single speed bike if I can’t make it up the hill
I know exactly how many gears I’m going to need to love you well
and none of them look hip at the hot coffee shop
they all have god saying

“good job . you’re finally not full of ******* .
you finally met someone who’s going to flatten your knee caps into skipping stones ."

throw me
throw me as far as I can go
I don’t want to leave this life without ever having come home
and I want to come home to you
I can figure out the rain .

I listen to comedians on pandora 
because it's the 
comic relief
in the midst of my tragedy 
and I always fall asleep
to the sound of laughter 
just to dream
of death 
and of worthlessness 
and I wonder if maybe
I fell asleep to the sound of
your breathing
that I would dream of better things
but for now
I will lay in the dark
in my black sheets
and stare at a ceiling that I can
barely differentiate 
from anything else in the room
in the world
and I don't know 
how I got here or how I get back 
but louie c.k. and lewis black
remind me that things are funny
that life itself
is one
big
joke
so I go back to sleep under my
black sheets
listening to hard laughter 
as the comedian says 
" if I can prevent my son from being gay , I will "
" I say hate in a harmless way "
" you hate child abuse , but you like strippers "
" taking your clothes off for money is the easiest job in the world "

and I wake up 
to death
and worthlessness

I wake up
to
the world

use your body ;
use it to put me to sleep .
the warmth of your breath on my skin ..
i have become a plant , taking in your carbon dioxide and making sugar that forms on my lips .


love is warm , but not as warm as you are ..
your hands are 200 Kelvin ,
and sometimes i have blisters in the morning when i wake up , if you have been there the night before .


love is cold , but not as cold as you are ..
your lips are far below freezing ,
and sometimes i become numb on my chest , and my mouth , and my neck .


love hurts me , but not as much as you do ..
but I have algolognia ,
and that pain transforms into instant pleasure as you bite , and pull , and pinch .

girls in high school wear infinity scarves
and expect their love to last as long.
their hearts are hidden under
mounds of dyed wool, and I'm sitting in
U.S. History learning about slavery.

this is what I know.

we are all slaves to our own hearts.
we pick fields of lust
and try to sew it into love.
we wear combat boots because we feel threatened
by our own bodies.
like we are at war in our flesh, and need the extra protection;
the leather safety net with laces.

we walk down those black, salt-licked stairs
with our heads down because we have trust issues,
but when we trip we never forgive our clumsiness.
we swallow bitter tears like sugar after medicine,
and we pump hate through our tumblr blogs like gasoline.

we pay for affection with skin.
we accept the words *****, ****, *****, ugly, MAN, as nicknames.
a wave to the opposite gender is now thirst.
we need to grow up; put down the sippy cup.

this is high school.
cut your hair. dye it purple, and then regret it automatically. dye it black,
and then spend five months and $597.00 getting it back to your natural color.
mismatch your socks. eat almonds when you feel like you should starve your insides.
paint your nails, mess them up, and paint them again;
paint your soul the same way.
we are moving at the speed of light.

slow down your mind.
you are in high school.

you are still growing love in fields, you just need to find the right soil.

my mother told me
that life
was worth living
and that dying
by my own hand
was selfish

my father said
that he would always be there
after leaving
five times

but I wonder if he knows
how many times
I died
by his foot steps
or by my mothers
second hand smoke

I would rather shoot myself
in the head
than have these demons
control me
and I would rather suffocate myself
than let your smoke choke me
I would rather choose my own fate
than have one chosen
for me
let me breathe oxygen for once
and not have my lungs crushed
by your gym shoes
let my heart not be smashed by
another slammed door
or have my mind poisoned
by your treatment and religion

god was manifested to manipulate
in whatever way
suits you best

let me not be tied down to a leash

let me not die by your hand

let me die
by my own

at the end of your ten day meditation retreat
you got in your car drove thirty peaceful feet and ran over a bird .
splayed its holy guts on the pavement like god
finger-painting
*******
across that deep breath
you were holding the way your mother held her first born .

you , thank goodness , were torn from the bible the day before they burned it for the verse about dancing to tambourines .
once you saw the blood of christ on a knife carving redwood trees into church pews .
now every sunday morning you hear glaciers melting and you cry easy
as a one night stand never ever is
when you see the feathers in your rear-view mirror scattering like prayers
searching for a safe place to land .

hold me to my word when i tell you i will leave today ,
catch a bus ticket west just to stand in the center of your highway
blocking traffic ‘til every feather’s answered .
i’ve see too many prayers caught in the grills of 18 wheelers and folks like us
have shoulder blades that rust in the rain ,
but they’re still g sharp whenever our spinal chords are tuned to the key of redemption .
so go ahead world pick us
to make things better .

we’ve been building a bridge through the center of this song since Mother Theresa replaced the walls of her church with the weeping cries of calcutta’s orphaned ghettos .
you wanna know what the right wing never got ?
we never questioned the existence of god .
what we questioned is his bulldozer turning palestine into a gas chamber .
what we questioned is the manger in macy’s
and the sweatshops our children call the north pole .
what we question are the sixty swollen lashes on the back of a girl found guilty
of the crime of allowing herself to be brutally ***** .
what we question is the idea of a heaven having gates .
silly .

have you never stood on the end of pier watching the moon live up to her name ?
have you never looked in the eyes of a thief and seen his children’s hungry bellies ?
some days my heart beats so fast
my ribcage sounds like a ******* railroad track
and my breath is a train i just can’t catch .

so when my friends go filling their lungs with yes .
when they’re peeling off their armor and falling like snowflakes on your holy tongue .
god collects the feathers .
we are thick skin covering nothing , but wish bones .
break in .
you’ll find notebooks full of jaw lines we wrote to religion’s clenched fist .
yeah , we bruise easy .
but the sound of our bouncing back is a grand canyon full of choir claps .
and our five pointed stars have always been open to the answer
whatever it is .

i know david argued with the chisle .
i know he said make me softer
when those tourists come looking for a hero
i want the rain to puddle in my pores .
build me holy like that .
build me a kite flown out a bedroom window at midnight
the day freedom set its curfew to 9:11 .

my heaven is a snow globe .
the blizzard will always be worth the touch of your hand ,
shaking me awake like a boy taking deep breaths
all the way down to the dents in his shins
like he’s building a telephone from a string and two tin cans .
he knows god’s number by heart .
he knows it isn’t listed in any book .
look me in the bull’s eye ,
in the laws I broke and the promises i didn’t
in the batteries I found when the lights went out
and the prayers i found when the brakes did too .
i got this moment and no idea when it will end .
but every second of this life is scripture
and to know that
trust me,  we don’t need to be born
again .

I dreampt of you again last night ---
so sweet , it was a nightmare .
an apparition of your hand embalmed in mine .
"poofing" in the smoke of my reality come back to life .

the way you looked at me so fond ; I can never forget .
it brings the tears like a monsoon .
the time going on and on ; post -traumatic .
I age ten years in the span of two months .
living ; learning .

and I still love you .
like pneumonia that never leaves ...
there is always a risk of the sickness again .
take caution .
do I want to fall ill again ?
the second time may come to pass ---
my death would then be on your hands (yours are so lovely) .

and I am so lonely ...

I was in the winter of my life ,
and the men I met along the road were my only summer .
at night I fell asleep
with visions of myself ,
dancing and laughing and crying with them .
three years down the line
of being on an endless tour ,
and my memories of them
were the only things that sustained me ;
my only real happy times .
I was a singer - not a very popular one ,
I once had dreams
of becoming a beautiful poet ,
but upon an unfortunate
series of events saw those dreams dashed and divided
like a million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again , sparkling and broken.
but I didn't really mind
because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted , and then losing it
to know what true freedom is .
when the people I used to know found out what I had been doing , how I'd been living ,
they asked me why - but there's no use
in talking to people who have a home .
they have no idea what it's like to seek safety
in other people - for home to be wherever you lay your head .
I was always an unusual girl .
my mother told me I had a chameleon soul , no moral compass pointing due north ,
no fixed personality ;
just an inner indecisiveness
that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean ..
and if I said I didn't plan
for it to turn out this way
I'd be lying .
because I was born to be the other woman .
who belonged to no one ,
who belonged to everyone.
who had nothing ,
who wanted everything ,
with a fire for every experience
and an obsession for freedom
that terrified me
to the point
that I couldn't even talk about it , and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me .

the year we dissected a squid and ate its tentacles piece
by piece down at the pier next to your house was the year
you expanded while I grew into myself .
we kissed one another
like good luck charms ,
like talismans , and used
our bodies in place of
fortune tellers .
I read your palm lines
and came to the conclusion that we would be together forever .
you hated the word forever and settled for a long time .
as we grew more familiar
with one another’s skin ,
I watched my intake .
I wanted nothing but you ,
would inhale nothing but you ,
counted my calories
like sheep before
drifting off to sleep .
the less I ate , the more
room I saved for you .
you wanted to swallow me whole
so I fed myself to you
piece by piece , the tender red flesh of my thumbs
and ******* until they grew bruised
by your mouth .
In those days I ate nothing
but a cup of cold cereal .
when we watched the whales dive in the surf ,
slapping the water like winners of an arm wrestling match ,
you were almost as giant as their cavernous ribs .
I was smaller than the smallest school of fish .
I wanted to fade into you, into the house of your lungs ,
so I spent hours ******* in my ribs in front of the mirror .
we became opposites of one another .
but in the end , my wish to become part of you failed ,
and I simply became the skeleton in your closet instead .

love is a flame
but mine doesn't warm you
I love you like an inferno
you would be ashes in the blink of an eye
maybe that's why you stand so far back

my brain isn't connected to anything else in my body , and i think that's why i lie ..
because i honestly have no idea what's going on up there sometimes .
every once in a while there is a sting pain , and i get migraines from time to time ,
but i drink some *** and they're gone , and i am pleasant as punch .


today i helped my grandfather take down christmas lights
and every time i unplugged a set
from the outlet i thought about killing myself ..


love is lonely for almost all of us .
no one asked their lover to get a job that only lets them work night shifts ,
but we all told them they should take it .
and now we take a shower twice a week with only three cups of water ,
and we only only watch the television two minutes a day
so that maybe the bills will get low enough to the point that they can quit ,
and come home to us in the darkness of night .


the memories of that morning slide against my mind
like rain on a windowpane and i think that maybe you honestly did love me ,
but i also think that maybe ...

Transcendentalist conceit. My choice of delivery. Arbitrary? Perhaps, but fun. And it gave me an excuse to stall for quality. But apparently it became a stream of consciousness somewhere along the line. It also seems to be coming along in a sort of  meta(physical) fashion. Metacognition. All (the) techniques I like.
I like you.
Parallel inspiration, a sublime way to, again, stall, also to make it interesting. But the comparison is difficult to find. Hidden in the æther, as it was.
What are you?
A tree?
Nature?
Air,
earth,
water,
fire,
or spirit?
Life?
Death?
All,
or even nothing?
No.
So far into this frozen in time facsimile of my mind, of me, yet still you know not what I think of you as, what I contrast you with. What I
Compare
you to. What I
Expect
you to
Live Up To.
Anxiety?
How many poems will I write before this ones done? ultimately one, yet many. Am I stalling even now? A tease of sorts. I am quite good at that. The conceit. What is it?
Do you want it?
A hundred thousand parallel rush through my mind only to be pushed off the line. A note written by my current and intended audience printed "I love you".
I underline you and return to sender.
Inspiration! flooding my mind!
Are you sharp enough to have discerned the parallel yet? hopefully. But if you think you are, you're wrong. There is no parallel. Moreover, a parallel poorly defines a line. what we really need is a co-linear expression. In truth, the conceit is pretty conceited.
I compare you to you.
My grand conceit.
When you I see,  see I you.
I see the candid truth that you duplicitous lie. I see your beauty alongside your failure to recognize and believe.
I see you.
And I love what I see.

as he tells his stories , I watch , curious .

does he ever feel the body walking next to him ,
the one whose life ended so quickly .
does he feel the ghost of his friend ?

does he hear the guns firing , the bombs booming ,
the cries of his fellow soldiers .
do the sounds play over , terrifying music
without melody ?

does he ever close his eyes and see the battlefield ?
the destruction wrought by only man .
did he ever take a step and feel as if he was on their soil ?

does he ever turn around when called by name ,
and expect to see his fellow fallen soldier ?
does he ever turn and expect to see
the war raging behind him ?

do the images haunt his nightmares ,
his dreams ?
or worse ,
do they haunt his waking moments ?
has he been able to find happiness,
after all he has saw ?
I only hope he has .

The pavement glistens with it’s new top coat of shiny rain and she is driving back to school; back to too much noise and too many faces. I don’t want to go. I would give anything not to go. It happens then. I hear the impact first: metal pushing and crunching upon and into itself. The windshield gets closer and closer and in this moment it reminds me of a first kiss, but glass is inexperienced and uses too much tongue. I think I hear her say something. I am praying that she says something. She asks me if I’m okay. I feel dead and cold, and underaged corpse in the passengers’ seat. I say nothing. I hear her get out of the car to check on the woman who is screaming in the driver’s seat of her smashed vehicle. I feel warmth down my face that I assume are unwelcome tears, and open my frightened eyes to red. Red. And all I can think is ‘why have I not cried blood before?’ I open my mouth to say something, but end up tasting death. I blink my eyes more times than I need to. The windshield is cracked. She comes back to the car and keeps saying my name; a question. “Miranda? Miranda? Miranda?” the words I’m sorry cannot escape my mouth fast enough. The panic in her voice is undeniable. “Miranda? I’m calling the police sweetie, okay?” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be sorry, it’s going to be okay.” “I’m so sorry Allison.” I can hear blood rushing from my head like Niagra Falls and I cup my hands to catch it. There is so much of it and it is burning my fingertips and all I can say is “I’m sorry.” I’m trying not to think of god right now, but I can’t help it. I will never capitalize that word again. I can hear her ask me questions that I forget as soon as they reach the beating drums of my ears, but I am guessing I answer them. She talked to 9-1-1 for days, months. I kept crying. I kept saying “I’m sorry.” When I closed my eyes everything happened backwards. Eve put the apple back on the branch. The tree shrank back into the ground. god said let there be light… and there was darkness. The pool of blood in my teacup hands grew more and more full when my door opened. I remember trying to get out on my own; I remember trying to run away. The officer told me to settle down and to not move and that everything would be just fine and that they were going to put me on a gurney and asked if my neck or back hurt or if I was seeing spots and what my address was and when my birthday was and other things and other things and other things. I dropped the blood and it flowed over my pants and my insides were on the outside and I couldn’t breathe. They placed my shaking skeleton into their ambulance. I had never felt so dead in my life. I went into shock. I only breathed when they reminded me to. I felt sick to my stomach; I felt drunk. The old man sitting in the back of the ambulance kept telling me to breathe. Kept telling me that everything would be fine. “I’m sorry.” “Sweetheart just try to steady your breathing. We’ll be at the hospital soon.” “I’m sorry.” “What’s your name sweetie?” “I’m sorry.” My head is feeling lighter and lighter and I can hear my heart slow in my ears. I see him writing on a clipboard and I hope he is writing Sorry, I’m. I want to be defined by my mistakes. Every speed bump we hit feels like Hurricane Katrina. He tells me to let him know if anything hurts. I want to tell him my heart hurts; that when we arrive at the hospital my mother will most likely be 10 minutes late, and my father will not be there at all. I want to tell him to not let them pray for me. I want to tell him that I’ve bled before, but not this much, and that the day before when I whispered to the heavens that I would give anything to take my last breath, that I didn’t mean it. That the intersection of Western Row and Kings Island Drive would become my gravestone.

The rest is blurred from 3 shots of morphine and the effects of shock. I still shake when my mom doesn’t stop far away enough from the cars in front of us. I still feel trapped when my car door won’t open. I am still sorry.

when death comes
I’ll need not love –
consumed ,
no wreath or dove
could offer me salvation ,
not when I’m no more .

a weathered stone will bear my name –
identity of once a being
living out existence in
a world of risk , and never seeing
sense of why we’re here .

my genes will die away through child –
hue of eyes and hair , the way of thought ,
will quickly dim with generation –
bow to future dominance –
memories of provenance
resigned to curious few .

when death comes
I’ll need not grace
below ; no grieving face
will call my resurrection,
not when I’m at ground –

peter pan said

to
die
would be an awfully big
adventure .

and I've had my bags packed
and my gym shoes on
for the longest time

I had put 
healing on the list .

the grocery list .

the to do list .

the night list .

the things to pack list .
because

I thought that it would help me
to remember
that people care
and that I am worth it ..
but they came to visit
my little apartment
in seattle
and asked what the lists were for
and I told them
and they laughed

those things are not true .
those things are no good .
silly girl , don't be so foolish .


that night
I cried and I ripped down
my lists
and laid face first on my bed ,
letting my makeup run away
from my skin .

but that same night ,
my windows flew open ,
and I saw a shadow take shelter
from the rain outside
and he flew in
with a roosters crow
and a smile
fit for a child .

come with me
to neverland .
you will be away from them .
you will never have to grow up ,
or be saddened by burdens .
you will be a  lost girl ,
not a  lost soul .

I grabbed my backpack
and wiped away clean cheeks
and tied my laces
and flew away .

she was 10 ,
and love was measured in bruises
in her house ,
and when father got home from
work
she and her brother would race to find
the best hiding place .
her tears picking up pace with each
foot step that she heard .
she wouldn't dare to utter a word as she saw
his shoes , too close to her face .
she hid under the bed ,
hoping that springs and sheets
were enough to keep her safe .

she caught a glimpse of her brothers toes ,
sticking out from the space under the closet door .
father moved toward him ..

she felt herself **** in a breath .

father would skin him
and wear him with pride
and fold him upon a wire hanger with the
rest of the
coats
in that closet .
........
that night , they counted up their cuts and scars and bruises and brokeness ,
and decided that they had collected just enough to move away .
and so ,
they packed blankets
and apples ,
and not oranges because they were both allergic ,
and 5 nickles and 7 pennies she had been saving up for a doll ..
and they snuck out the front door ,
but they both hardly thought of it as sneaking
because father was sleeping with a shine in his skin
and shine in a bottle that was at his fingertips .

they crossed the street
and a light , so bright smacked their vision ,
came at them before they knew it was a light .
but they awoke in clean jeans and white t-shirts
with their backpacks still on their backs -
feeling as light as air , and walking on clouds .
someone had spit-shined the roads --
they seemed to sparkle like gold .
and mother was at the end of the glittering path ,
smiling that angel smile she always had on in the mornings
before the morning when they dressed all in black .
they looked about to see gates made of mother's necklaces ,
and smelled the sea salt
and knew they were

**home .

marry someone who lets you have a bite of their brownie , 
even when you said you weren’t hungry . 
marry someone who laughs at the same things you do .
marry someone who kisses your nose on a cold day . 
marry someone who you can watch disney movies with . 
marry someone who is proud of you whether you earn $5 a week or $5,000 a week . 
marry someone who you can tell everything to . marry someone who isn’t afraid or embarrassed to hold your hand in
public .
marry someone who you can spend the day in Ikea with without feeling stressed . 
marry someone who wraps you up inside their coat in the winter . 
marry someone who accepts your fears and phobias . 
marry someone who gives you butterflies every time you hear their key in the door . 
marry someone who you don’t always have to shave your legs for . 
marry someone who accepts you all day every day , even when you don’t look or feel your best . 
marry someone who puts three sugars in your tea , despite telling them 
“ just the two ” . 
marry someone who doesn’t judge you when you eat your body weight in cookies . 
marry someone who doesn’t make you want to check your phone, because you know they will reply .
marry someone who waits with you to get on the train . 
marry someone who understands that you need to be alone sometimes .
marry someone who gets on well with your parents and isn’t uptight about family events . 
marry someone who calms you down when you get mad about stupid stuff , and never tells you it’s “ only stupid stuff ” . 
marry someone who makes you want to be a better person . 
marry someone who makes you laugh . 
marry someone who you love . 
marry your soulmate , your lover , 
your best friend .

i was raised up
to sing ,
and to praise god ,
and to say amen .

nothing else .

but as i live this life
with all of the forks
in my yellow brick road ,
that i was urged to travel on
by people in my life
who i realize now
were children
compared to people who cared ,

i see no god .
i see no praise ,
for him or anyone else
that is said to deserve it .

i hear no singing .
just see thousands of quarter notes
in a hymnal book that five people
pick up
and study , like it's their job .

i hear no independent amen .
it is only said after one person's prayer
is finished
and after they have used
pointless
s p a c e f i l l e r s .

" dear
lord , we just thank you father
for the day to day lord . and
god , we just love you lord . and heavenly father ,
we would like to pray, lord , for those who couldn't
make it to this service tonight , god .
remember , dear lord , our soliders , god .
remember those of your children , father ,
who have strayed from you path god , and
please help them dear jesus to
find their way way back to you , heavenly father .
in jesus' name . amen ."

THEY KNOW WHO THEY ARE PRAYING TOO .
THEY NEED NOT A REMINDER EVERY SECOND .

i bet god gets sick
of his own name .

i bet he changed it
like mom does when the kids say "MOM"
too much .

maybe that is why prayers
aren't getting answered anymore .


i bet he changed it to something awesome , too .

like Spacefiller Christ .



i think a chorus of silent , heartfelt prayers
and hushed amen's
would be more beautiful
than any robotic , unified repeat ;
more beautiful
than any hymn .






STOP .


you are not just
one of god's children ;
you are whatever you want to be .

god is not glenda
and the devil does not only reside
in the west .

life was made
for you to awaken
from this controlled dream
and hug your auntie em
and to work on the farm in kansas
until you get the money to go
where you want to go .

you don't need to click your heels .
not even once .




you just need to wake up .

sleeping feels better than being awake

but the more I sleep , the worse I feel when I am awake

which seems obvious , but nothing quite is

when I am not with you , 
which also now seems obvious .
I want to do my one good deed for the day

but as soon as those words enter my head in that order

I feel disgusting and it feels ruined .

my head prattles away
with some other part of my head

about this and that ,
I don’t know . 

I wasn’t invited .
I’d never say this is the worst day ever ,
or whatever .
not everything needs to be said .

there are days when there is no way
not even a chance
that i dare for even a second glance at the reflection of my body in the mirror and she knows why
like i know why she only cries when she feels she’s about to lose control
she knows how much control is worth
knows how much a woman can lose when her power to move
is taken away
by a grip so thick with hate it could clip the wings of god
send the next eight generations of your blood shaking
and tonight something inside me is breaking

my heart beating so deep beneath the sheets of pain
i could give every tear she’s crying a name
a year
and a face i’d forever erase if i could just like she would
for you
or me
but how free would any of us be if even a few forgot what too many women in this world cannot
and what the hell would you tell your daughter ?

your someday-daughter when you have to hold her beautiful face to the beat-up face of this place that hasn’t learned the meaning of
STOP
what would you tell you daughter
of the womb ***** empty ?
the eyes swollen shut , the gut too frightened to hold food
it was seven minutes of the worst kind of hell
seven

and she stopped believing in heaven
mistrust became her law , fear her bible , the only chance of survival
don’t trust any of them
bolt the doors to your home , iron-gate the windows , walking to the car alone , get the key in the lock .
please
please , please , please open
like already she can feel the five-fingered noose around her neck , two-hundred pounds of hate digging graves into the sacred soil of her flesh
please
please , please , please , please open
already she can hear the broken-record of the defense :
“ answer the question , answer the question , answer the question miss ”
why am i on trial for this ?
would you talk to your mother , your daughter , your sister like this ?
i am generations of mothers , daughters , sisters
our bodies battlefields , war zones beneath the weapons of your brothers’ hands
do you know they've found land mines in broken women’s souls ?
black holes in the parts of their hearts that once sang symphonies of creation as bright as the light on infinity’s halo ?

she said , i remember how love used to glow like glitter on my skin before he made his way in ,
now every touch feels like a sin that could crucify medusa .
bury me in a blue blanket so god doesn't know i’m a girl ,
cut off my curls ,
I want peace when i’m dead

her friend knocks at the door , it’s been three weeks , don’t you think it’s time you got out of bed ?
no.
the ceiling fan still feeling like his breath , i think i need just a few more days of rest
bruises on her knees from begging to forget
she’s heard stories of vietnam vets who can still feel the tingling of their amputated limbs
she’s wondering how many women are walking around this world still feeling the tingling of their amputated wings ,
remembering what it was to fly ,
to sing

tonight
she’s not wondering what she would tell her daughter
she knows what she would tell her daughter ,
she’d ask her what gods do you believe in?
i’ll build you temple of mirrors so you can see them
pick the brightest star you ever wished on and i’ll show the light in you that made that wish come true

tonight
she’s not asking what you would tell your daughter , she’s life deep in the hell , the slaughter
has already died a thousand deaths with every unsteady breath
a thousand graves in every pore of her flesh
and she knows the war’s not over ,
she knows there’s bleeding to come
knows she’s far from the only woman or girl trusting this world no more than the hands trust rusted barbed wire

she was whole before that night ,
believed in heaven before that night
and she knows she’s not only one , knows she won’t be the only one

tonight
she’s not asking
what you’re gonna tell your daughter ,
she’s asking what
you’re going to teach
your **son

i

I can’t tell you

how much I miss you

without tearing 
a few pages from your rib

ii
setting your eyes on fire 
begging you not to beg me 
kissing me whilst I try 
not to plant these memory seeds on your lips

iii
they grow into thorns 
piercing my life 
into a sore pink 
like watermelon flesh

iv**
you were born to be remembered , not missed

being missed means you eat up people’s memory space 
leaving them full of you 

but empty of now
and lost searching for a shadow of your smile