I Don't Know
he said.

where we've been
where we are
where we are going

what we've done
what we are doing
what we will do

who we've been
who we are
who we will be

why


What Are You Thinking?
he said

sad

Why?
he said

tired

of us?

no

of this?

no

just

tired.



suns go down and we
sleep

the sun that rises in the morning is a different shade
and we stare,
steps away from each other,
miles
mountains
oceans

I used to eat ice cream on a pretty strict and regular schedule.
The anticipation for those designated nights consumed my naive mind.

Now,
on the nights that used to mean sweet, supple mounds of delicious bliss,
however brief,
I drink Missouri water from a thick, old, dusty glass.
As I tip the last drops into my mouth,
I see a mysterious stain (or is it a clump?) on the bottom.

Fortunately, I think to myself,
whatever that was didn't get into me.

Water runs through.
It cleans out.
It leaves nothing behind but undesireable water spots
in sinks and on windshields
mascara lines tracking down cheeks to squeeze between pushed up *****
and dead worms on the sidewalk,
evicted by the flood of this

life-giving,
breath-taking
rain,
waves,
that drink when your lips are cracking and you feel as if your mouth is filled with cotton,
when you look at a ***** puddle and think,
my GOD am I thirsty.

Ice cream melts in the mouth.
It refreshes in the heat of summer,
it teases the tongue with sugar and milk and so many seductive flavors.
It's best on special occasions,
even though it's desired all the time.
Sometimes it can be bought with the change found on a scavenger hunt in a car,
and other times,

it can't.
But even as the frozen delight slides off your tongue and into your stomach,
your tastebuds tremble at the lack of sweet.
They spite you with a bitterness and a dry, sticky feeling,
and your teeth feel coated with a grime you can't seem to lick off.
You keep wiping at your lips,
for you can't shake off the notion that you got some of the experience on your face.
I'm not even going to mention the calorie content of what you just downed.

And sometimes,
if you're like me,
too much can make you choke.
Your throat and lungs seem to be tucked within a terrifyingly tight Chinese finger,
and each spoonful is a desperate attempt to escape
only to fall farther into a trap I like to call

love.

I.
My parents don't drink.
They have their masters.
They both have jobs so that I don't have to.
They raised me the Christian way.
We eat as a family every night.
We live in a neighborhood where violence is ostracized.
To my friends, my house is the place for comfort.
They tell me not to take it for granted
just because I'm used to it.

So I took a walk through my house,
making sure not to take my life for granted.

Through the kitchen,
I remember the unrelenting fist curled around my wrist,
the ice blue eyes that I used to see as gray,
the tight lips and the seething words.
I shake my hand as I remember the bloodlessness,
the purple swelling as eyes welled with tears,
the way I raced out only to find that I could not open the door to escape,
with one hand broken and the other unable to curl around the ****.

Down the hallway,
I reach up to massage my neck,
for the memory of choked tears
never leaves;
the sudden unforgiving fist
the strength with which a five-year-old could not compete.
My body swings from the neck down,
and the fist released as the arm powered me onto the floor of my room.

II.
I catch my foot on the dining room chair I used to hold in front of myself,
growing up a fighter.
When I learned to defend myself with the strength of age and experience,
the strangling fist became biting words.
When I gave up the religion under which I was raised,
I was told that I must not love that fist or those words,
that I took my life for granted.
I was told that I was the key to our family's unity.
I was told to grow up.

I don't drink.
I get good grades.
I find money for college so they don't have to.
I believe in loving everyone like Jesus did.
I make dinner when they don't have time.
I never bring home fighting friends.
To my friends, I make my parents proud.
They ask me how we have such a good relationship,
they ooh and aah at our affection.

But you don't love me.
I am your failure.
I am your tax break.
I grew up a fighter,
and you gave up.

III.
I used to fight for you,
but they say indifference is worse than anger for a reason.

My mother used to wonder,
where did these bruises come from?
I always shrugged,
telling myself,
I'll deal with this alone.

I'll get a reaction somewhere else.
And that fist, those words,
became teenage promiscuity.
The sweet, unmerciful clutch,
the never ending cycle of discontent,
miscommunication and misunderstanding
and the familiar feeling of not being able to escape.

And every time,
as feelings of decreased personal value were overwhelmed by temporary pleasure,
I sunk deeper into that comfort.

You don't love me.
And I don't want you to.

The shock and pop of thunder,
rain drops,
rolling down smooth skin like
peals of thunder,
broken lightning streaking through the sunshine.
Polarity bringing a smile to my face,
even while acidity burned and scrunched my face to conceal my eyes,
the swirl of twigs in puddling holes in the driveway making me
ponder,
soaked,
getting up to hear the sploosh and feel the wave of a full gutter.
To look at the leaves stuck between my toes.
Breezes raising goosebumps and giggles.
hair dripping and clinging,
eyelashes catching drops upon drops.
Light reflected off car windows and tree leaves,
gusts of wind causing intermittent rain
fall,
crack,
shudder,
I whip my hair
back and forth,
and wipe the water from my face.
I am the sky's lover, and it is mine.

Shhhh

don't tell.


You never know who might ruin it,

what might strip it of significance.


I slip my arms into your jacket and around your body,

sending whispers into your mouth

as we swing,

sway.



We meander back and forth,

fingers lacing back and forth,

release me,

No, come back!


Secrecy satisfies.

With you I gain
close to
no sympathy
ever.
But I like it too much,
the strength of shoulder,
despite the shallow water,
your touch is deep.
Just like his voice
the chain on his neck
the fitted sweater.
                                                                                                                 I like you
                                                                                                                 too much
                                                                                                                 and you

You're too much, this story,
this you.
Oh, I just love
when you say
small things
to me, to her
you're different.
But I want

                                                                                  He speaks
and I can't give it up.
His voice skips over
my letters and thoughts
and
wait, what's the teacher saying?
A desperate attempt to get back
                                                                                      I give up.
                                                                                     He's too much.

                                                                                                                                       Silly,
                                                                                                                                       silly wonderful
                                                                                                                                       Don't let me go.
You have other girls
I care not for other men.
I sing out my problems,
in a colder car
alone,
I cannot sing my problems away.
But you can.
                                                                                                             Life is too good for poetry.
                                                                                                             We are a couple.
                                                                                                              I can't hold you together,
                                                                                                              but me?
                                                                                                              Life doesn't end with love.
                                                                                                              There is a loveless,
                                                                    a lonely
                                           Responsibility changes one and not the other.
                                                            It's not about you.
                                                       You are the adult and the child.
                                                                Let me be.
Stop talking
We are superficial.
Us both.
I can't find the happiness you are looking for.
You are not to be liked here.