every part of her
is in
          flames
even the tiny beads of sweat
glistening on her forehead
          emanate pure
                    pulsating
                    passion
it­ is an entity
          tightens around the muscles
in her wrist
her delicately fierce fingers
          weave scarlet stories
                    in the stuffy air that
          SNAP shut
stiffer than the wood of her stage
          sharper than blades

the fire escapes
          in sparks
          through the bottoms of her shoes
tapping
          clicking
          pounding
             ­       madly
the frills on her vibrant red dress
          trembling
          with every step
the colors fly
          golden scarves
          red and black lace
          dim green lights

the guitar throws his crimson and amber chords
                    into the air
they sparkle in flight
and land softly in her
          thick hair
like jet black
smoke

do you think im pretty?

i know i
            have candle stubs
                        for irises
            and wrought iron door hinges
                        for a jaw
where other girls have
            mirrored ponds and
            flower stems

but i scrape the hardened wax off of my stony cheeks
            every morning
and sand down the splinters
                        on my wooden fingertips

it's all i can do because
            the moonlight i carry
                        turns to steam
            and the knots i tied in these flower stems
                        dont withstand the weight

do you think im pretty?
i promise my
            rigid joints can still bend to hold your waist and
            caress your midnight waves
            we can
                        stay here
                                    close
                  ­                              together
                          ­          and
                        breathe the same air
            dont worry about the

scorch marks on my neck or
splinters in my chest
darling they come from inside-
            right
                        here ...
            if you stay close
            i'll keep you
                        so
            warm–

and theres no need to worry
(because
            im
the only
one
close
            enough

to burn)

my Poems are not about me
if I were sunshine
            my poetry shines brighter
if I were thunder
            my poetry rumbles louder
if I were rain
            my poetry weaves into thin films of gossamer
                        and glistens around my edges

my Poems are not about me
when I write
            I separate a sparkly heartstring
                        from the rest
            thread it carefully into my needle
and hurry to weave a story embroidered with colored confetti
            and shimmering sequins

before the glitter
            like snow
            drifts
and sticks
            to the remainder
of my dull
honest
heart.

her deep breath flutters
            each quiver
                        a frantic
            flicker
            and            snap
     ­                   of a shivering sail
in the relentless
wind

her hands tremble
            pulse desperately
            echo the panicked heartbeat
                        of the splintering hull

I reach to hold her hands
            to settle the raging storm
and as my fingers close around them
            I feel the bloodcurdling shrieks
                        of the crew and passengers
            the wood creaking
            the swaying with each massive wave
            the heavy rain pummeling the deck
I look up
            to see storm clouds
                        in her irises
            casting shadows
over her eyes

there is nothing I can do
I cannot see where the skies
            brighten
I'm not sure if they do
but I will hold your hands
            grip the mast
and stay on board
until the pulse

stops

cold

all this time it never mattered how sensitive the ridges
in my fingertips are to metallic surface finish,
inspecting the cold aluminum like braille for defects,
how fluent I am in composite porosity repairs, how many
material allowable properties I can rattle off the top
of my head, because I

used to sing the Oh Hellos with you in the basement,
thinking that the air in my lungs would fill the space with much less exertion once I
could watch a rocket engine hot fire with boots on the ground in the
slimy large intestine of july in some remote part of texas,
and at 17 I never imagined that rumble to be like a cataclysm, it is
glorious but somehow at 17 I

pictured 23 to be happier than sitting on a dorm bed next to you illuminated by star-shaped string lights on the walls,
or maybe just less painful than watching your face
change shape from halfway across the country, wondering how different
your voice would sound singing the bridge, and
afraid that my voice will never sound any different than it used to

smiling you keep me in soundproofed closets and you
know that where you left me is exactly where
you'll find me again tomorrow night because I'm
still on my knees with my face in your ***** laundry inhaling you like a drug,
feral and half-dressed, having
draped every bedsheet I could
tear down from your shelves over the mirror, and
when you

come back I'll have scratched out every divine marking on my
body so you can grip my legs in the crooks of your elbows without guilt-- (you wouldn't even
need that, would you, but I'll have
done it anyway) and I'll
close my eyes and ***** your words into my
eardrums diluting my cranial fluid with animal pleasure blackening
the whites of my eyes and turning my extremities gangrene until
all I feel is your tongue, and

early Sunday morning you'll leave me crumpled, not
breathing, in puddles
on the hardwood, close the
door and
slip quietly into
bed with your wife, and, yes, it's wrong but you're
depraved, spoken like an exoneration because you’re already
******* the judge, and she’ll be
on her knees on Monday like an addict,
tying your underwear into a noose

hearing the soft nasal tin of my own voice in the midst of my
brake-light red-glowing drive home, my manic
late-night spiritual rebellion fueled by
electro-pop synth beats driving blood and youth into the flesh I
can't escape I can't
find "eternal" written on this body if I
close my eyes tightly enough-- singing along she still sounds

innocent

I don't recognize the thing up to its neck in
rocket fuel walking through the same three
doors every day on legs slowly burning up into exhaust, dredging itself through routine collecting time like a commodity, like a felon doing penance nor do I

recognize the beautiful thing feigning blissful ignorance, abusing itself, beating on drums with the heads of her violins,
wooden scrolls splintering over snares, she is
the brightest thing I've ever seen mutilate her stradivarius,
terrified by the gift she never asked for, preferring
to pump fists and sing in the dark but I
can't escape I can't
break myself into pieces small enough to become oblivious-- my

voice while singing with the devil still sounds like a gift from God

and I am a little girl at the dining room table again, with warm light
listening to locusts through the window, sitting
wide-eyed, swallowed up in a chair for hours while my father told
stories that would make his work friends erupt in their
bellowing alto-toned laughter and rattle the china in our tiny cabinets,
piecing together jargon and proud that my mother would let me
sit in the conference room instead of
bussing the table and washing dishes with the women so I

grew up sharpening my jawline with metal files and
tucking clay into the concavities above my hips, willing
it to harden into a squared angular body like a brick wall, like
a body for a suit and a stainless steel-linked watch for the left wrist who sat at the heads of dining room tables,

and with lungs full of spite and longing I cut my hair and
learned to explain actuator mechanisms and chemical rocket propulsion and sit in conference rooms in my scuffed-up steel-toed boots with
folded arms and witty curses about process control that make everyone laugh and I
can't help but notice how much more delicate my fingers are than everyone in the room and wonder whether my bone structure might have
negative safety margins for the functions I am
attempting by being there, but I find that it's

too late to cry for someone to touch your waist and kiss
your cheekbones whispering that you look like Aphrodite with your flowing hair and fill you with what you need because

what "woman" is left of one who casted her womb full of
cement to prove that she is man enough to sit at the table?

I have neither raincoats nor kneepads,
no snowboots or hands for fighting--
they have torn and twisted my limbs, Lord,
the body you crafted from the glittering fabrics of light and time is
guilty and violated and battleworn, rightfully convicted of her own destruction--

I come to you sickly and pale and polluted, having
pumped my own bloodstream full of acid and toxins, I have even been fighting poison with poison thinking I’d found the antidote thousands of times--

I come to you with nothing in my pockets and
nothing in my heart but shapeless ashen remnants of things I set aflame in worship, now spent and burnt up in the fireplace leaving it
cold--

I come to you like a torrent,
whirling like mad having ripped through acres and acres
of manmade pleasures, through distractions and aspartame and
sleep aids, through souls-- those that are yours, God-- I have torn recklessly into other bodies and souls of your making, leaving everything decimated--

I come to you like a wild animal,
injured, weak, and frightened, with no recourse,
there is nothing that will save me
there is no one that will even see me in the dark
I have never been loved the way you love
I have never been pursued the way you chase after me
I have never conceived of any breed of comfort--

I come to you, God,
a puddle of mud at your feet, God,
afraid to speak your name because
it is the only thing I have left,
unable to even utter the word daughter,
and undeserving I will let you feed me and clothe me,
clean and bandage up my skinned knees,
carry me, God,
walk with me, Father

how will I ever forget now that there are 7 glasses in the cabinet
there are 7 glasses in the cabinet
there used to be 8 and now there are
7 glasses in the
cabinet
    I turned off the light in the bathroom and my
elbow hit the doorframe and I can
   see it in the air
my
elbow hit the doorframe and the muscles in my fingers released like an arcade claw machine I can
   see it in the air
7 glasses in the cabinet
I thought about the hardwood and pictured
in the air I pictured that it might bounce off the hardwood I can
   see it in the air on the
hardwood bouncing off the hardwood in
thousands of pieces like a messy kind of crash

so
fast I could almost just
   see it in the air again just
pick it up from bouncing off the hardwood almost
like it didn't happen like there are still 8
glasses in the cabinet and maybe if I
blink again instead of thousands of shards on the kitchen floor
there will be
8 glasses in the cabinet