Look
It’s  not that
I don’t appreciate
The words “are you ok?”
Because I know you are concerned
But first
Take a look at me
And ask yourself
“Do they look ok?”

the knives that slit the dandelions from your fingers
cut into my sleep and burn the insides of my eyelids black
i know it isn't the same hurt, but that hurts more
all i wanted was to paint your fingertips gold
but they bleed red rose petals in my nightmares and
wake me too late

the memories draping over your face like a bridal veil
don't hide your tears from me
please let me take them from your head
your past has an ugly face
full of broken promises that made a little girl grow old too fast
don't keep your pain in your pockets in place of your dandelions

i know this is why i learned how to sew
at the time i thought it was so i could quilt my thoughts together
in a way that made sense
but seeing your bleeding fingers in my dreams made me realize
that my needle wasn't for the fabric i bought
it was for skin and bone and bleeding hearts that mean more to me than gold

I spent Easter at Denny's.
It was 11 at night.
It was crowded and noisy, a baby was screaming.
There was a fly in my water, it tasted metallic.
I drank half of it.
Across from me was a table filled with adolescent boys and girls,
they were laughing at their own faces.
Next to me was a pair of kids, one of whom was freaking out.
"I can't sit here! I need to move! I don't feel safe here!"
They moved.
A pair of rugged, poorly dressed Mexicans took their place.
One sipped ten single serving creamer cups before his decaf
coffee arrived, where he added three more.
The other kept looking at me, and shaking his head.
I got the jalapeno Grand Slam.
There was nothing Grand about it.
The eggs were cold and the taste of jalapeno gave me a headache.
The whole place smelled like loneliness.
The whole place felt smelly.
I haven't been back since.

I love the control
of painting my forearm
with swollen ribbons
imprinted on skin.
        They tingle when hidden
       begging to be exposed to sparkles
of a sun.
    Like the little creature living inside
  my heart.
       A nightingale
with daggers for wings
   slicing into my liver
     singing her song
which goes “the end –
    the end is coming,
          – the end –
     the end is near.”
And I’ll hold her close at dawn
singing our song;
just two kindred spirits
waiting to die alone.