With our heads over the starboard of the boat trip we took taunting tropical storm Fay on the port and our dresses in the wind.
He watched from the captain's chair, pistol in his hand. Salty seas hinder our vision of the man in the watchtower turning him into a blur on the vast expanse of grey skies and rotting wet wood.  

Angry crew-children with their bodies touched, banging on the stained glass door to his room where the little girl looks through the marbled blue with tears on her cheeks. Laughing at the confrontation, sent back to work.

Gathering lobster and lost time, both of them scream in the boiling ***. Escaped breath from incestuious embraces return to lungs and we find out that we can scream too, the boiling *** is overturned dripping off the starboard where we stand.

Lightning bolt touches the flag above his head causing chemical reactions to develop into a spark. Flames at the back engulf the wheel the children blister their hands grasping onto the lines as Fay rolls through, lightning after thunder rain never ending. Chaos perspiring on the ship he calls the battalion to secuestrar the children.

The battalion is overturned at the punch, bruise left on grey skin. Captain blubbering with lies the fire heat on his back. Rotting wood is burning, we cover our noses with bandanas and letters marked for Groton. The tide rises waves overtake the port, splashing onto the starboard where the victims jump into the black water uncertainty chilling them.

Swimming to Key West with the dolphins on our back the fiery ship burns in the distance the captain tied to a chair of ******* and lines untouched, denying allegations until his heart is charcoal and all that's left is a charred body smelling of ****** and aftershave. The starboard side is empty causing imbalance to the ship.

Dripping tears and sea water, walking through the streets, we lower our bandanas and hold the letters close to our hearts. Searching for the sun that will lead us home.

The silence in this world is ringing
ringing like the unanswered phones left on the line
because no one is home to hear
the shrill call of an unanswered voice just begging,
begging for one more shot at whatever sordid mess they’ve left behind
because the future is ahead and it’s scaring them.

Please, just let me come home.
Home was never safe, it was never warm,
it was just a place for childhood embers burnt fast by the age of 12, no, 11, no, 10,
but then I still beg to go back because life’s ahead, mom,
And they’re calling my name but I cover my eyes
because all I hear is the shrill call of an unanswered voice
begging me to amount to all that I’m worth,
to take strides on horizons I can hardly fathom,
because out there, they’re looking for a shadow to their sunset.
A step away, a reach, a grasp,
but I let it fall from my hands and crash -
graceless, inelegant, twisted, metamorphosed into a nightmare I’ll never catch.
Because these walls are a sanctuary
where the hands that cover my eyes and
the hands that cover my ears protect me
from the world’s volatility,
and the one thing I grasp:
invincibility
in the highest degree.

So fire your bullets, because they’ll only ricochet,
keep away
no way
no wait,
this isn’t invincibility,
just conciliatory me
bending, twisting, metamorphosed into
        a grotesque shape
        a nightmare I’ll become
When someday there’s a ringing in my head
of an unanswered phone left on the line.
I don’t want to hear it;
the shrill call of an unanswered voice just begging,
begging for one more shot at the broken pieces,
this puzzle strewn across the floor
like it’s always been there
just never seen before,
Because you only see the flash after you hear the bang
and it’s all over.
It’s too late.
The phone keeps ringing.

I want to lay bare the fire in me
before the spectators
I want to be the wisps of smoke
flying through their faces
unfettered
unfazed
liberating what lies entrapped
forever.

I'm the prettiest girl in the room
I have the longest hair
I don't have much problems
Only my father makes me feel unsafe
My mother left when I was seven
My sister died of suicide,
I was ten
I'm the prettiest girl in the room
I have the best skin
It's unblemished, without pores
It's available for you to touch, sure
I have the biggest smile for anyone who looks
No, I don't seem problematic
The distress is on my jeans
Tell me I'm the prettiest girl you have ever seen
So pretty, having problems is obscene
I can't feel emotion
I can't feel pain
All I feel is pleasure from making you look plain

i’ve tried, alright?
you can’t imagine how long i’ve paced
there is a rut a mile deep in my carpet
where i dragged myself to and fro
trying to make sense of where i went wrong
i snapped my bones into building it
cracked elbows and knuckles trying to tear it deeper
with my questions and pleas to its depth as if
it could forgive me of my sins

i promise i didn’t want it
i tried my best to cleanse myself of it
prayed to god above on the sundays
that He could take bleach and wash me out
from tippy toe to the tip of my top

every piece of evidence was denied
for as long as i could hold it under the water
i held it down and tried to drown it

and some days i still think
that i should’ve gone back and tried again
one more minute would’ve killed it
if only i’d stayed
anyone else would have done it i’m sure
i caused this problem
the midwife at its birth was i
death i mislead when he came to the doorstep
and now the monstrosity lies on my hands

i am guilty as charged
but i am teaching myself to love
all the parts you hate

Fragile are the pages we turn, not truly knowing the severity of tight pressed pages