Walter chased me into my house. I owed him five dollars I did not have and I thought I would trick him by getting out of his car quickly and into my house. I was fifteen years old.

Walter was quick too and when I turned to close the door and lock it, he was there to force the door open. I ran up the stairs and down the hall and into my room and Walter was just behind me, stride for stride.

I turned around and he slapped me.

I was small then, for fifteen. He was big for seventeen. I thought about what happened all night. What I should have done and why I did nothing. Mostly, I was ashamed.

I decided from that day forward, if I had an ***-kicking coming, I’d take it nose-to-nose. Better that than be chased into a corner like a dog that just ****** the carpet.

I learned from the Smiley brothers too. They would call my mother fat, and she was, but so was their mother and I’d let them know it right back. This always resulted in some fake pride and threats by the Brothers.

I came to understand that the weak take it, they don’t give it, and that I was The Weak. The Smiley Brothers knew it, Walter knew it, I knew it.

Time passed and I kept growing, bigger than the Smiley’s. Bigger than Walter.

I ran into Walter years later, as adults. He had the kind of defeated look that I assume a plantation owner would have after having done business as equals with a former slave.

But, I harbor no ill-will. I thank Walter and I carry our past with me today.
When I’m going to confront another man, Walter walks in the room, not me. When I make love, my amorous and mischievous sister is the lover.

Yes, she’s there, pushing my lovers, the way she pushed me, curious to find out what she can get them to do next. Oh, how good it is to be in control, to be the one with the whip, to be deliberate.

Like hyenas roaming the African plains, I too have come to understand leverage. But, I’d rather be the elephant than the lion. I consider myself fortunate.

After all, I’m a big guy that knows what it’s like to be small. I’ve been the tether ball and the pole. I’m gentle with my bigness and I’m good at feigning hurt for those that need to believe they have that power.

And as my path narrows, I find myself thanking Walter for the slap, thanking the Smiley Brothers for teaching me what’s worthy of a fight, and loving my sister. Above all.

i.
how old were you when you first discovered your heartbeat? when you opened your rib cage to reveal the carnage? how old were you when the vultures circled the roadkill of your wrists? when the sun kissed fire into your eyes? when you shriveled up and died?

ii.
the epidemic got to me before you did. i peeled every layer of skin back for the mirror. there are rubies under my skin. sealed into the flesh of who i am. did you notice this when you took the meat cleaver to my skull?

iii.
when you said ‘never’ i assumed you meant in a week. instead it happened in a day. a flash of lightning. a carton of blueberries. eating dark chocolate on your back porch. you never told me you liked them bitter. you spat out the sweetness of my skin and your saliva burned a whole in the pavement. summer was always my least favorite time of year. now i can’t even stomach winter.

iv.
i forgot how to weave metaphors into tapestries to hang in museums. you have that power over me. the only beautiful thing about you is your frame. i carved it into the statue of David before you could say no. you hate the vain. thats why you hate me. i never tire of looking at what you made of me. i never tire of painting myself into depictions of the Birth of Venus. you only ever called me Venus between the sheets.

v.
if you saw me on the street, would you remember me? would you remember the fly trap curls luring you in? a weak man and a pink skinned temptress playing doctor on the bedroom floor. would you remember the gray cotton ******* you ignored? the blue bra you threw out the window? would you remember the thicket of hair? the violins singing harmonies in the background? would you? would you? would you?

We only fear monsters in the dark;
it’s the surprise that really gets us.
When it’s light out,
it’s easier to accept them.
After all, they’re just reflection
of the wild hunters we once knew
who we’ve tamed into regression,
who now just feel neglected.

I Hate you so.
Passion I feel.
I'll unwind you like bent steal.
I'll complain the whole time...

I'M no superwoman but I will be fine.

Unless you morph.  
Comorbidity would make you worse.
So, I'll focus on a hearse...
Anxiety, you could take me there if I let you.  
Your no depression- I'd never let you...
Many roots tangled so-
Still a solid foundation...(...)
Vacation?

Everyday we're tested.
It seems the world just
has a vested interest in
what we know and
what we don't.

In what we can handle,
and what we can't
or maybe won't.

It's hard, this testing.
To take everything
we've had a thought
to think, and cut it out,
spread them onto paper,
our worth bled out in ink.

It’s just made to look like one,
to follow your preconceived notions
of what a poem should be and do

This isn’t a poem and I’m not a poet,
I wish I could **** with a stanza
flashes of lexicon that burn right through

If this were truly a poem, and not pretend,
not even your marrow would survive
but these are just a few words I spewed

Waiting for the Mexican lady to finish
folding my shirts and boxers into neat piles
while I scroll past titles in my Netflix queue

The CD in the tray
and the sun on my skin
hot vinyl beneath me
and an unstoppable wind.

This is one of the few days
I try to remember.

I cling to it like the Newports
between your fingers,
ashes settling on the dashboard.

But after all that happened
with the roof off
the memory is hard to hold.
Yet, I wrap myself up in it.

Tie myself inside
the days when I felt your
hair hit me in the face and
I’d see the ocean stretch
on one side,
past the endless median
on the other

When I knew
that love rolled on wheels.

For my brother, it meant everything
to stretch out and press
his face against the pane
of candy stretched crystalline.

To take the path away from father
for me one step away from
step-mother,
baking our dreams into
crumbs we left on the floor.

We’ll trace them back
to the place between
lost and found,
once we’ve fulfilled
our parts,
he’d always tell me.

But he doesn’t understand,
and honestly when does he,
that we’ve been doomed
from the start.

There is no Gretel,
to stoke the logs,
close the grate and latch
no heroine to fit the story’s need
there's only me

So when the witch comes back
she’ll ask
has Hansel truly grown fat?
a little pinch of the skin
an inadvertent test to see
which one of us should win?

It’s always an offering
always a suffering
always a surrender
of what makes me, she
and Hansel truly him

But I don’t mind
filling this role
I know it’s what I was made for
half baked like the crumbs
in a crummy oven
the real Gretel’s long gone
so her understudy will do.
If Mother could bake one daughter
why not try to bake two?

The witch will say it’s time
and ask me to reach back far
to find a warmth she can't see
it’s really not that odd
to hear the words escape me:
"why don't you try,
it's utterly exhausting
always having to hide"
and besides
I always desperately wanted
someone to show me

And I’ll even smile
as the crackle burns for just awhile
Hansel holding my hand
my pigtails askew.

The crumbs, our true
parents,
eaten in the leaves.