and my hips have bruises from the last man to call me beautiful
but maybe this story isnt mine
i always end up with the wrong words in my mouth
words that hail from bodies full of scars and cuts and long lonely nights and a bottle of pills that almost got swallowed and a phone call that saved a life
words that pour out of bodies hanging in poplar trees with their necks bent to the side like their raising their ears to heaven hoping to hear one last call from that angel's horn
words that taste too much like hell to fit with what little bit of heaven i get to live in
but my hips have bruises from the last man to call me beautiful
the bruises come from my own hands
my own hands turned claws
metal, grasping, crushing
digging into my hips like leaving bruises will make the words go away
it's not that i can't take a compliment
i mean
i can't take a compliment
but
i don't want this
i don't want this gift that won't fit into the puzzle of me
this piece with too many out-connectors and not enough in-connectors
this piece whose image is too bright
too colorful
too flavorful
too dreamy
too beautiful to match the devestation that i've built up
i'm too broken to be called beautiful
and not broken enough to complain
you see
i was raise the way you raise a good strong oak
take an acorn and dig a hole
drive that nut so far into the dark soil that you can't see it's top anymore
stomp the world flat again
and forget
but i was also raised the way a gallows is raised
with the reminder of all those that were hanged before
and the names of all those who will be hanged
my mother taught me how to mourn things that weren't my own
she gave me the gift of tears for others and took the tears i had for myself
she took so much
she was like Big Business or The Government
always asking for handouts and then getting mad when people don't want to pay up
my father just left
he didn't bother with goodbyes or sorrow or regret or fear or hesitation
he opened the door to a room just far enough away that i couldn't reach him
and plugged himself into a virtual world
one where his broken mirror reflection of his american dream would never catch up with him
and it worked
so now here i am
taking these words from a man's lips
wrapping both hands around them tightly
refusing to let go until the are crushed to dust
this is not a compliment it is a curse
a brand
hot metal pressing into skin and lifting smoke and screams to an eagerly awaiting sky
so i grab my own hips
leave hand prints there as often as possible
hoping to distract enough that i don't have to do this again
but then
maybe this isn't my story