tell me who your father is, or
who he was, who you know him to be
I want to know even the ugliest parts
of you
the parts that screech in your ears
when you say them, and you can't
block it out with headphones
how when old ideas blasted, courseless

you asked to speak to the girl who
walked like she had elegies written
on her legs
tell me about your home, she demands
how the walls don't know you yet
and the roof is still a stranger to
your shouts

the painful truths that split ice in
your echoes, whose spirits you conjure
with a blacklight, or in other words,
hell

how when odd interpretations become
compatible to your angles
you ****** the same girl to tell her
she was right, she was right about it all

-c.j.