she was all lips and hips and
empty words spilled onto the table like a jar full of house keys that didn't open any one single door.
she used to throw the keys off the table and tell me;
you aren't going anywhere because there's nothing out there for you. this is as good as it gets, this unconditional life that requires nothing from you but to exist for nonexistent purposes.
I used to stand behind slammed doors, and hear her demons growling in her ears
I remember, at first, she'd try to get them to quiet down because I was in the other room and she didn't want them to frighten me
but after a while, she got comfortable
and so did they
they'd walk into the bathroom and leave the shower curtain open
they'd puke in the sinks and leave the oven as high as it could get
they'd roll themselves up in my sheets and cackle in my closet
they'd punch holes in the wall and shatter lightbulbs
there was always evidence of them there, but I never quite saw them
for who they were.
I guess that I could say the same for her

i want to be your woman.
not your girl, your sister, or your friend
a woman.
who can breathe words that burn like placing your hand on a hot stove
yet can also bring the utmost relief with just a press of the lips.

i want to be your woman, baby
in blue jeans and a white tee
(the uniform of my femininity, with a coffee stain on the sleeve)

most of all, i want to take the worlds that bite down on your shoulders
look into them, understand them, and therefore, understand you.
then i'll toss them into the dishwasher.
i'll take them out when the cycle ends and place the polished worlds upon our dresser
so we can see just how nice it is that we have each other in this one.

so whenever you get loud and stomp around or i start swearing and crying, all we have to do is look and see.

i'm lucky to be your woman, and you're lucky to have me.

have you ever seen a ghost?
i think that one time, i actually did.
i had just swallowed a few pills
and there she was.
sitting on my dresser, quite curiously.
she told me that i shouldn't be doing that, i'm just a sweet kid. too young.
she told me that the mother we shared was not a mother at all and she didn't want me to be end up like herself,
cold and on the floor after an overdose.
i said, "i was supposed to look up to you."
and you know what she told me?
she said "sis, the pain doesn't stop, and no amount of pills can fix the glass in your ears. you must learn to cover them instead. you can't be so sensitive when it comes to her."
i kicked my dresser and told her to get the **** out.

often times i have wondered,
where is my passion?
perhaps, i misplaced it all in my stomach.
surely that's it.
so in the morning i'll do a steady crawl to the toilet
and after a few deep, earthy groans,
i'll throw up rose petals the color of your tongue
the color will cause the thorns to come as well
and finally i'll know what it's like to suffer for my art.
and because it comes up,
it must come down
so i'll stand outside in a cigarette ash stained storm and let it come down
my passion
all over me
i'll write about the journey each drop took
the way it worked through the cacophony of wind and blaring white electricity
just to land upon my freckled cheek.
maybe when i'm done i'll crumple up the paper real good and give it to a puddle.
because in this life, one must learn to never hold on to things.
but one will. one always does.

one, two, three shots
a cold basement, a cold count
the sound of laughter and half-hearted attempts at conversation
i feel myself loosen up and even get a bit
friendly
confident
i have my lover at my side and it feels like everything makes sense like
everything is supposed to be this way
this is how people like me have fun
i love how the alcohol warms and coats my throat
until
i feel my mother

(can I call her that?)

her hair, a flame of tangled curls and the smell of
men
drunk off of her and her magic
radiating inside of me
my colloquial tone begins to fall away as she
climbs
up
up
up
and i try and try
but i can’t hold her down
she is suffocating me with her illness and she whispers to me in a drunken tone
she tells me that this is the way to live

see all the people laughing, my dear?
they aren’t sad
hearing their cries boom off of their bedroom walls
trying to pretend the beating of their heart is a death drum
shuddering and shaking violently to the beat of the song at their early funeral
no,
they are loving each other and talking
in their own tongue

this is the way to find me, your mother.
to feel my liquid embrace.
warm and
sharp

so drink, my dear.
drink until you pour your insides into some stranger's toilet in the early hours of the morning.
you won’t worry about the fact that you just got sick,
and your mind has the possibility to get sick like mine did,
that every step of life could easily take a violent turn that you won't be able to stop
you will be happy that your stomach is empty and you are finally
finally
hollowed out

the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, my dear, and the past repeats itself and
i have handed you mine

so drink up.

i used to pass my fingers through the flame of my lighter when I was 10
in order to see how slow I would have to go for it to start hurting
now,
can’t you see
why I was afraid when you asked that we take it slow