It’s the way they say my name
Like I have the black plague
And suddenly I am alone
In a room full of empty
And once and for all
Nobody knows my name

It’s the way they scream my name
As if I were the best
And I give it my all
Only to be torn down
And once and for all
Nobody knows my name

It’s the way they say my name
They act like I’m normal
But I’ve seen more than them
And with the grin of an elitist
Once and for all I say
“Do I know your name?”

When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.
I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I'm gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.

You're making a great circle around my Earth,
my green-blue sphere,
baby, you trickle sweet Carolina gold satelite-honey, daffodil swans snaking
through your orbit
while snatches of caramel pool between my lips.
such a tease
spinning those slender hips a sliver above my atmosphere
so that my fingers just brush the frills
of your skirt.
You push up between Orion and the hilt of his sword
tossing taunt eyes toward my galaxy.
I'm wide, I'm intergalactic,
I've got stars in the back of my throat,
electric and running hot for you.

Any place where you are King
I cannot be queen
Any place where I am torn
Is where you reign supreme
Any place where you may sit
Surrounded by your girls
Is the very place
That my heart must twist
And turn
And hurl

I am not afraid to be alone
I am not afraid to die
I am not afraid to yell at them
Or for them to see me cry
I'm not afraid of heartache
I'm unafraid of many things
But you
I am afraid of you
My make believe
My king

[voicemail]

hello, father
It's your daughter.

This is the last voicemail
I've decided to ever leave.
I'm been having some difficulty
in thinking that I'll succeed.

It's been a while but I'm not
here to catch up and reminisce.
I simply have a story to tell and basically it's this.

I started when I was fifteen.
Single edge blades for shaving.
I had found its other use
and the feeling was amazing.

Father where've you been?
The answer doesn't matter to me.
I've grown up and all the cuts have
lead me to bleed out my empathy
and letting scars heal with a special
layer of apathy.

You want to know what it feels like?
I stay up way past my bed time.
One mark before I start the climb.
Dark thick liquid that feels like slime.
Slow. Steady. Make the
motion last a lifetime.

I wonder what life
would be like without me
and honestly my disappearance
is what really makes me happy.

I've always really want to tell you
that even though you haven't been
here I think it's still okay to say
I love-

[beep]

In the summer
I stretch out on the shore
And think of you
Had I told the sea
What I felt for you,
It would have left its shores,
Its shells,
Its fish,
And followed me

No one knows your touch or how you’ve created me
Among cracked skin and bruised shins
With broken heart’s company
And blissful moment’s misery

You tied my wrists against your ribs
Pushing me to massage life
Into that hole you once called a heart
I noticed your flaws and know you’re flawless
Yet my hands kept searching inside your cavity

We’d pant and sweat and stare
At the glistening salty beads on the other’s body.
Eyes darting to find something, anything to hold
But you’ve slipped again unbeknownst to me
Leaving my hands inside your translucent skin

My fingers outspread to keep you near
I’m here
I’m here
I’ve always been here
Yearning for some sort of real

But all I remember is a glimpse of you
And your words, scribbled against rough pages
Against my own beating heart
The nights when we’d smile secretly
And the days that would pass us by

And all I remember is inspiring
To feel that one lovely feeling
To fill your hole.
To release my hold.
To love me, baby, sweetly love me

There there my dear, it's only a scratch, another one for the collection.
Antiseptic wipe; Dettol 99.9% by the way.

Indignancy felt but ushered into a comfortable seat with nice back support and leather upholstery.
Tomato Ketchup.

"This is just wrong, this will not stand!!"  A deafening barely audible roar.
Look there is a fly banging its head against a glass window.  He repeats the action over and over.

A spark flies and it blinds.  Sweet immersion.  Embrace. Warmth. Comfort.
A bubble. Suspension.  The gaze into a lover's eyes....post ****** of course!

Cinema ticket stubs, bloated belly, extra butter.  The cold walk home.
Sorry, I have none on me or I left mine inside or look away.

Discrepency and some     thing dis    jointed.  Lack of understanding.  Inward spirals.
HellNoweWontgO, away they went in disgruntled silence.  Not a stain nor a mark on the beautiful tree lined streets.

No men.
But when the
conversation starts, they dominate.
Worm their way into every sentence, every silence.
Every caught breath, exhaled pause.
Names, nice-to-meet-yous, passed round with sandwiches and tea.
Hole-riddled autobiographies, wadded out with circumstance and need.
Explaining themselves, defending their actions. In turn. And I?
Have never felt so young.
To my left, and working clockwise: Affair-with-the-boss, Heart-condition, High-risk-of-genetic-defects,
In-the-middle-of-a-divorce-not-sure-why-she-slept-with-him, Grown-up-children-can’t-bear-to-go-through-that-again,
and back to me. (Boyfriend-has-two-kids-wants-no-more)
He noticed that I’m pregnant.
Was pregnant.
Was.
We chew our way through sandwiches. Different coloured fillings, no flavour- choked down with lukewarm tea.
We know it’s a test.
We have to talk, smile, eat, drink, laugh (not manically)
if we're to go home.
I can’t do it.
I want to cry. But I’ve been told off for that already (curled up on a trolley, examining bloodied fingers)
I drift, I think.
Jump out of my skin when she speaks to me.
You must eat she says.
You must eat.
I search for myself in their eyes,
re-make myself from fragments and reflections I find there (Four parts child, one part *****)
It’s OK, I tell her. It’s OK.
On my way home I’ll get a Happy Meal.
I’m collecting the toys.