The bristles wrestle away the morning plaque
settled on my teeth. The ones in the far back,
I take care of first. Brushing up and down,
then left and right, all the way around.

That evening spent sitting on the terrace, you gave me your flannel shirt.
It was cold out, so I took it. But the armpits were wet with your sweat.

I lean over the sink, capture a mouthful
of cold water. I wait before I let it roll
around my teeth. Reflected towards me
is me, with gigantic chipmunk cheeks.

That afternoon I woke up, you looked so cute, refusing to let go,
arms wound so tightly around me. But I really had to get up and ***.

The water warms up a little bit. I start
to swirl and swish it through before I part
my lips. I release the lukewarm mixture
of grime and paste. Finally--the inside’s pure.

This morning, I feel the new smoothness of my teeth with my tounge.
Yea, you might be gone. But I’m pretty sure you were not the one.

i need to start falling in love
less often.
stop idolizing every brave girl
who shows me the part of her skin
that rarely sees the sun &
waits patiently for my response………..
…..& i always inflate her ego
like a carnival balloon,
& in the coming weeks
i twist it into different animals.
a lion when i'm lonely,
a mouse to mimic misery,
but one day when i'm twisting up
the closed fists of some
metaphor of a memory
it pops & she's suddenly aware
of the clown.

but love is a dish best served
not at all.
skip the meal
& lose the weight of love
& the world seems so much bigger
& instantly you fit into places
you had never even tried before.
the feet that used to make those
distinct etchings in mud
like a tiny topographical map,
hauling that love around
like a bowling ball in a backpack,
those feet don't even touch the trees anymore
& the clouds envy your freedom
as they whisper pick up lines to the moon.

I watched my father from a distance
Being mauled by a bear
And even from this far away
In his eyes i could see fear
Pure ******* fear

I listened to lucy tell me
The worst thing Ive ever heard
About how 2 men grabbed and  ***** her
Is that worse than being mauled?

I do not know
But i guess they mustve screamed
So loudly into the distance
She was only thirteen

Only thirteen
And I was twelve at the time
I asked her if it hurt
I should’ve known better
Instead I made it worse

I met Daniel at a party
He showed me his scars
He said his father shot himself
So he decorates his arms

And monica paints pictures
Of skies so beautifully blue
Though she herself is dying
Just skin and bones and truth

I asked her if she found it
In all the painting’s she created
Did you find Daniels father?
Was he cremated?
Did you find Lucy’s innocence?
Unburdened her of her shame?
Can your paintbrush do that?
Can it make you sane?

What about my mother
Does she have a say
Can she ever get back
What was lost that day?

Can you paint my eyes
So they un-see what was seen
Can you paint the sounds
Of Lucy's silent screams
Can you paint Daniels arms
Make the scar's disappear?
Can a ******* painting
Ever make things all clear?

I know the way you held the tears in,
How they swam like an ocean in your eyes,
But still you would not let them fall,
Didn't want anyone to see you cry.

And I know now why you kept such a straight face,
You told me one night when we were drunk.
You said that people look ugly when they cry,
And that you didn't want to ruin your make-up.

But your face wasn't all that crumpled on that cold December night,
No, you went flying through the wind shield,
there was no beauty, no dignity in that lost fight,
On the night that you were killed.


And I wish I could say that they miss you now,
But truth is you're just another pretty face,
Forgotten almost as soon as you hit the ground,
Almost a week from that cold December day.

So I'll write another poem about your vanity,
The price you paid to keep your pain in,
But I cannot write about beauty you see,
Because the line between beauty and tragedy,
Is only paper thin...