i wrote a poem
on the walls of the school house
cursing the subjects with math
that I didn’t do good at.
i lit it on fire
watched it
and I can’t remember what holiday it is
but these fireworks look perfect
i guess this
is the metaphorical
symbolic
*******
teenage rebellion
of an arts student.

I’ve painted on three coats so far
and I still can see where I was last touched.
you stained your morning breath
onto the inside of my sheets
so I’ve washed my linens 3 times
but I can’t escape you.

I’ll shower for the second time today
until under my nails are clean
and the pores of my skin are bare
until the brush I hold no longer resembles you,
forgive me.

I’ve spent too long getting splinters
for anything other than a masterpiece.

last time I saw you,
I sunk into film
until my eyes were deep enough
to see that off-white show flickering
in the distance.
over and over again,
the leading male’s heroine
with red lips and sharp shoulders
stuck the needle in the bend of her arm
until her windows were worth a quarter each
and her bubble gum
was infected.
yes,
your cinematography is gripping:
I can almost see what she doesn’t want you to know
I can almost see her mother’s first chance
to become her father’s last chance
at owning a pick-up truck
with blankets in the back
and two dimes and a nickel
worth of whatever you are now.
lady,
this placebo effect
has gone too far.
you are not the main attraction
to this drive-in,
your name should only be in lights
when you want it to be.

love is the ups and downs
of natural geography,
the only two feelings
when standing in the shadow of a mountain:  

1. your iris is the northern lights to me;
​
2. my freckles are grains of sand to you.

let's be realistic,
dear.

I guess we were never
in the same place
after all.

until the artist
has created evolution
from solid marble
please,
do not disagree
that you are the prized exhibit
of your own museum.

the butterflies in my stomach
still haven’t died as the seasons changed
from the first time I realized
we were home
until now.
I can still feel
the fluttering below my ribcage;
I can see the frost on
my tongue.
I never meant to ****
the nature in you by
filling your veins with
what I breathe out,
I never meant to personify
the coldness of winter
like this

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

The trees will eventually
turn into cracking spines;
let me show you
power
and the strength
of his backbone.

dad,
build a chapel
with her bedroom’s burnt floor
and mourn every February
for her.

I can see the shadow
from her window
reflecting in your eyes and
the matches she lit
in your therapy.

has the ash on her body
from that night
come off your fingers yet?

I will continue to shed skin
until I remind you
nothing of her.

you told me to be levelheaded
because symmetry is what makes a beautiful face.

instead,
I will touch my stomach
to the bottom of the pool
so you can’t examine me
without being as low as I am.

if you still want to see,
meet me in the deep end—
we can have a toxic tea party
just you and I.

maybe,
when I finally float to the top
you’ll say
my sense of foolishness
is what you’ve always
loved.

I saw a man
walking up to a cart
full of empties
and wondered:

will he walk
along side it
like it’s his first love
or push it
like it’s a new born
and I wondered
which is really
sadder

if you need to talk,
call the scrap yard.
ask for the girl
who sifts through debris
and finds spare parts
that can try to replace
your failing ones.

I will answer
to whistling teapots
and accumulated newspapers
if you don’t have time to call;
drinking gasoline so I don’t fall asleep,
and oil for stability.

if the things I find
cannot help,
I will relinquish my function
so I don’t fail you too—
the sum of my parts
could never make a whole
as lovely as yours, anyway.