why are the walls always blue...
in the places where it hurts to be?
in the places where i watch
a little girl you grow up through pictures of
a little happy family in
a house that’s big and round...

who am i in this story?
.
trailer park trash assuming the role of
dignified enough to be
in that house...
with a kitchen island,
and a garden, and a beautiful, bright blue
fish tank...?

*******.

******* for having what i wish i had
when i was small,
when my parents first cracked my head open,
and accidentally filled it with illness and
bugs
from our gross, apartment floors...

for i did not grow up with a happy garden
or through pictures that mommy
keeps on her wall...

if you are unhappy, i must live in ******* hell.

creation builds houses...
brick after brick,
and
she works hard in the face of adversity.

creation builds a house,
and i build a home,
for tiny children... but i cannot keep them
warm.

you don’t believe me, when
i say that
things are not well... but when
have you ever had an answer,
anyway?

all blank-faced, and
angry...

i guess...
i was meant to be alone,
because
creation means building a house.
and
being someone means keeping it
warm.

i can’t laugh the way i used to laugh.

not for you ...
and not here...

and i can’t create circles just to
run around in
squares, as if i didn’t give you
a piece of me and then
more than all that...

do you remember how we would
watch movies together,
about girls with white hair who would
go swimming
in oceans made of trees?

and do you remember how you
never used to tell me i was wrong,
back when you still understood that it
wasn’t your
place
to fight me...

because...
i remember that.

prosperity comes in…
prosperity comes…

she comes in...

shades of black and blue,

like bruises
when you hit me and tug on my hair,
and like
apples that ripen and then soften...

i am four
and i learn how to cower:
to put away
my disobedience,
my words,
my innocence,
and look at you like an animal.

i am ten and i know how to cower...
and how to go to school,
and how to live alone,
but by now, i’ve learned to wish
for things greater than mom just
coming home and for you to simply
stop
screaming.

so i turn fourteen, but still you are
evil, and i,
broken…
a doll, that grows but does not extend its
limbs
past the deep end
or grows any new sets of teeth.

i age into fifteen and get broken by someone else...

and then i turn sixteen, as time goes on,
i guess,
and still feel broken, but this time its
different than from when you first
broke me,
and i become harder but happier…
sadder, but sharper when in a
stasis, and
try to heal through watching people have a love
for others...

but i fail, and still become happy,
anyway
and

finally, it is now, and i can say i grow up,
as i will always
continue to grow, and when you come back,
i extend my hand in thinking
it’s finally safe when
you grasp it again...

and break all of my fingers.

it is now,
and i learn how to cower.

you could be such a handsome, loving boy,
and live in a
big,
nice house
if you didn’t insist on treating me like this...

you know?

we could be neighbors, the
two of us, the
kind who smile and wave at each other at eight in
the morning before we drive to work.
.
.

you at the office, and me...
also
at the office.

can you even imagine:
laughing at whatever winter wonderland party
they hold
with no worries,
no secrets,
no walls...

but i have given up,
as you have grown cruel,  
still thinking of me in that mean, wretched way,
despite the fact that you probably say you don't really care...

but you're just that animal,
the one
you turned into for him-- what
do they call them again?

pigs?

you stand among us,
as though we were not shattered when
you took apart all that we made
to give you...

and i become that seething
sniveling,
mess on the floor...
when you tell me that you are leaving again,
as if i didnt just
create love to place in
your hands,

a kiss and a blooming rose, you
are all that i am,
and yet
still i feel lonely,

empty,
as you stand before me,
naked and in pieces,

but singing on a stage that i made just
for you.

i pull down my pants,
underpants,
and then i pull down my skin,

and it seems as though there has been blood stains
there
since forever,

so when i look down and greet each thigh,
i have begun to greet the floor
as well...

in thinking that they would laugh, when
i trim myself in the mirror,
i
make cutting motions and
pretend
to slice open my skin and everyone else
who says i am
not worth it
..

but my curves are warm when they hug me,
and i think
i see a girl hiding
between their folds, in the dark...
lost,
but in her own body.

so when people look at me, i've learned now
to cower,
to put away my teeth, my hair,
my words of indignation,
and
turn into that tiny girl, where
i'm always safe, always small...
always alone.

where i am crucified, but loved,
hungry, but not wanting,  
satiated...

but only for now.

so you say that we are from the people
who buried their dead
with flowers.

and you say that when
the world ends, we will simply learn to fall
apart.

i wonder,
if there will still be love when we convince
ourselves
that everything is still alright.

but how can we love the children that
we lie to…
and how can we trust those who
we forsake…

when you look me in the eyes next time,
or when you look at that spot, right beside
me,

i will remember our dead,
and i will remember
how you never truly meant to leave flowers.

learn to cradle yourself
in your own arms,

be strong, because
your mother loves you, and your
sisters love you,
                             more than i
can ever say.

and…
your body is not temple, because
you exist to survive.
so cherish yourself, and one day,
someone else will…

and it won’t be painful, the
way that things are painful
now.

so bear your teeth,
                                 but wear a crown,
you shouldn’t
bite yourself just to cry...

i beg for other people’s *** stories,
because i am broken and unloved...

and when boys snarl,
                             i feel alone, although
i know that they are just laughing...

and
i’ve found that womanhood is
half shame before everything else,

so i can only notice how
other girls wave their successes above my head,
as though being ****** is a prize and being loved is an end game,

that screams GAME OVER in bright red.

i will take my silence over your lifestyle any day,
despite the fact that i still cry when you leave.

i.

i told my mother the other day that i
have decided to be kind,
to love those
who love me (for no good reason)....

and because of, i want to take you in my arms
and hold you so tight
that the world cannot get in.
.

ii.

you are dressed in white, like
an angel, and
when you sleep, you murmur and
when
i watch, you smile
instead of howling, and i wish

that you were that peaceful when
awake.

iii.

you are growing up, and i
watch the way you forsake your mother
and i watch the way
you puff up your chest with lies and then
cower when you see me ....

you are not innocent anymore, and i cannot
hold you to as such when
you hide behind a hood of your parents
protection.

iv.

your brother does not love me anymore,
and frankly, i do not care.

but you cannot see the stab wound, so
still, i am angry.

v.

i don’t think she loves her best friend anymore,
i don’t think she even loves me.

but how can you tell someone to cut a
piece of themselves off when
you won’t do it for them?

when you don’t even have the right.

vi.

i read a poem today, it was about war
and it was about foxes,
and
i thought of you again...
my fox,

you are a violence...
and a lover.

and when i remember how you cut me,
i remember why i have to cherish what i have.

i didnt fall in love with this boy,
not this one
                     who tore me to pieces,

and i feel like an angel ,
suffocated in white, my wings were clipped
on the first day you
                                  wanted to kiss me,

and it feels violent,
disgusting,
my halo wasn’t built just to break —

and i did not forgive you,
i never will .

because you were never meant to go to heaven.

i cannot seem to find any air
when i am with you .
                                    .
                         ­             .

so
i try to make myself anew,
and then
push myself out into a world where i find that
then
i cannot breathe,

and so when you hit me,
instead of laughing,
i just choke ,

and instead, when i feel water
in my lungs,
i heave
instead of hiccuping,
and finally understand why
i am not the favorite child.
.

the devil’s eyes are blue ,
from when they made him up in heaven ,

but he keeps his girls like toys,
strewn,
             broken
and like dolls, they lay in piles.

you know,
ive always kept my mouth closed ,
and my sharp teeth dulled,
for i have been forced to wear a smile
to cover up each bruise .

so how come,
when
he looks at her like a dog ,
you all just let him bite?

do you think he ever kissed his wife’s wounds?

because
you know, we know that you men all kiss his,
right?

disconnected ,
my torso has been torn from my legs
and i lay in pieces, separated
miles apart ,,

wires, like silver veins,
stem from plants
and flowers,
like
little golden ropes .
a noose around a garden *** ,
and
a robot without its head
.

they always say that love is blind ,
but i think love
must be cruel —
for she dressed me in red and then
left me to die,

and you know..
a tea kettle who boils
also screams ...

i don’t trust you with myself ..
anymore ,

unfurled -
the ocean laps at my feet
as you wish to
gaze upon girls ...
—
all
perfect flowers .
                            .

you say that you understand , and
that you hate it when i do that.
.
but i think you’re drowning ,
and i guess ,
this means you don’t want saving ...

do you think —
you’ll still love me ,
even if i make
your face bleed all blue?

you tell me that i’m wrong,
in a way that should make me feel
stupid.

i feel angry instead.

you’re a sick, sick person
my little,
                old
love.

with eyes like ferocious , angry
beetles, you
chew into me and cut out
tiny,
        stinging
                       holes.

if only you knew i wasn’t invincible,
if only you knew
                              you were toxic.

the cement is wet when you bash my head
open,
and
the cement is still wet when it
rains.

i wanted to give you everything ,
and ended up giving you myself
instead —

and i
called it giving myself up the only way i knew how ..

with
little wounds you can’t even sew shut,
but
id say you didn’t even try.
.

words can mean so much,
and still you zipped your lips tight —
and decided ,,

that love is simply ***.

you forget me, equating me to some image of
me,
a dead body —

and
leave me to burn , like when i cried all
those
little rivers
that you did not even see ...

guess you’ll just have to be locked up,
with the rest of them

wondering why —
like most people do,
why is she so angry?

still,
your punishment
will be torture,

and finally you’ll know —
just what i went through ,
for you
.

imagine —
you are the last of your species,

an angel, who dances on
ice.

like
a
film that protects
this earth ,
your wings are broken ,
and these are the pieces of you that cannot go
home .
.

so on
tiptoes, this cracked marble
does not shatter,
and
everyone gets to watch you perform ,
unknowing of the cold truth that you are shackled
to ,

like
a ballerina in a box
that hums a sweet tune —

you still dance ,
even as the last of your species,
even though
you are all that you have left.

and
even though
you have decided that love is a form of
betrayal.
.

six feet deep
you have buried me ,
and i bang on the coffin door—

the
little bees outside make honey
while i just try to breathe .
.
.

one day, this grass will grow quite tall,
and i will soak my
aching feet ,

who was it,
                    who told you to hurt me?

who is it, that wants me to
die?

these roses are so beautiful, yet
all of them have
thorns.

you have so much love inside yourself
one day ,
you will only ache

you turn
your brown glass eyeballs in fountain blue,
as you have no more tears
left
to cry.
.

i think, one day,
a hole will open up inside you
but physically —
you will bleed .

who tore you open?
i want to ask—
and who will sew you closed?

you pour all of your blood into someone else,
.
and i touch each wound.

you have cheated me—
and now i am going to skin you alive .
.

forgotten ,
i am desperate to be swallowed whole
as you look right through me
like a window,

in greens and grays...
i could be rotting,
d y i n g .
.

and i know you would still not see
me whole .
.
.

so ,
am i just a walking corpse
to you ?

my face
merely
unrecognizable flesh?

eyes like little pearls ,
the sky is pink and i can’t even cry ...
and still you are standing
t a l l .
            .
              .

but even invisible,
i know i can still hold a knife and
i can still know
rage.

and you can still pretend that i don’t exist ,
praying
that i never try to **** you.
.

god must’ve made me , strictly
to be broken open —

and
you look at me with such innocent eyes ,
but
i know you see
right through
me ,,

so
tell me , do you want me to
strip ?

please you?

there’s a hunger in your voice
and i know i’ve heard it
before —

you
are like everyone and
everyone likes
me

but i do not falter ,
and i will never, ever break,

because
every time i touch myself,
god gets on his
knees .
.

love has buried me ,
and i am like an
                           ache.

but
you were fire
and
i was ice —

and there were mountains
in between us,
                         gods
.

so when you buried me ,
i
let myself die ,

and you did not ache.
did not
             even
                      cry.
.

i hate you,
i think, as you try to shoot me to death.

standing above me with a gun in my face

you feel
rage like undissolved sugar in
warm milk -
and
there’s blood on the floor and
then there’s me
,
                          
                          dying and almost dead,
but
you left my eyes open ,
and i know
you forgot the ****** weapon:

so i’m going to take it with me.

one day ,

i’m going to heal ,
and i’m going to remember —

you took my gun ,
took all my bullets
                                too .

and i still won’t ever shoot back.

death is a tiny girl in pink —
with yellow hair
                          and stick legs -

coming out at twilight , she
knocks
on your door with her claws in a fist
                                and
smiles wide at you
from the
dark.
          .
            .

a wolf in sheeps hide ,
but
she is only
a
sheep
          (not even)

and
she wants to hold your hand .
.

i might as well just devour you ,
now that you’ve
                           shredded my stomach
and laughed .
                        .

i never would’ve guessed
that
you
would take
a knife to my heart ,
and then rev up an engine —

a chain.

but
im sick of looking at your face ,
sick of
thinking of you ,

                           and
                                  sick of smiling
from my grave.
.

i guess we can say
you stole that from me too .

but
you are proof ,
that
even demons need to eat —

and this one
is very ,
             very
hungry.

i.

ill snap the necks of everyone
you love
like little birds
outside a
nest

ii.

god held my hands as he plucked me
from the sky ,
and told me i was no longer
an angel .
.

iii.

i pop pink pills from pink
bottles , and
set things on fire.

you dont look me in the eyes
anymore ,
even though i smile.

i tried to die for you —
give my little body up for you :
and for
those
          that i
                   loved

but maybe i didnt love anybody ,
and maybe
                    that’s why i stayed.

they say that pain is always temporary
but i don’t feel
temporary —

and
they say
that you can always
                           heal,

but instead, i guess

i
hurt the ones i loved the most
and then
realized there were people
watching .
.

i would’ve died for you ,
                                         you know ?
hung my body up like a curtain -
a poison crown of thorns .
.

but
maybe god wanted you  
                                         instead.

ive worn a brand my entire life
that’s been
stamped across my forehead.

i believe that
everyone can see it,
painted red with little girl blood.

all my life people have taken chunks
from me, and all my life,
i’ve given people chunks.

i believe that maybe if i were different
i would be perfect.
im cruel, and im sorry.

when i was little ,
dad handed me a shovel and
he handed me
a dress.

he taught me how to dress myself
and then how to garden ,

to dig each hole
in soft
           flesh and soil.  

ive grown up since,
gotten taller,
and can hold
the shovel by myself ,

so
i dig graves now instead .

ive saved one for dad ,
                               and ive saved one for me.

six feet deep ,
                        it’s a bed with no blankets
and it’s
perfect ,
and
it’s mine —

and
i want to be buried in a dress
i can button
                     all
                         by myself ,

because
dad also handed me a shotgun.

im there when you want to
rip out your
hair and scream ,

knees on the floor, your face is
in my hands  .
                          .

there seems to be glass everywhere
you look
and
you're crying ,

you can see it.

i dont know who told you i was dangerous --
but

i can only be so kind .

i was holding the rifle
the way i was holding your hands ,

and they were still hot —  

so hot that
now
we are calloused ,
-
love beat me
and then i beat you —

our
hands were burned together .
.
but you smiled ,
                           and
i was the one who cried
                                         instead.

one day, someone will kiss
my scars .

someone should kiss yours, too.

the recoil will always sting ,
and i will always
bruise.
.

i want to be loved so bad--

but when does the
future become the present,

and
when will the
crying stop becoming
choking —

how will i forgive you
for wounds
you
did
not
open?

forgive me,
i cannot love you
the way you love
me.

i long to be whole again
.

you want to stick it in me ,,

break me
                open
                         so that i leak .

it's boiling hot,
and
you wield a blade
that does not
cut skin .  

but still i bleed ,
and pick each scab .

i will **** you before you ever see me
open ,
          spread,

beg for me.

i put the baby in it’s cradle ,
and watch it as
it sleeps ,

you sit and watch tv in the room
two over
and think i love you back .

outside, the
sky fogs blue and the streetlights
shine bright orange —

you never went without a home.

it shows.
.
.

exposed and vulnerable
i
don’t have healing hands ,

i force delicacy
from fingertips meant to break ,
and
have tried to heal things
i should’ve shot .
                              .
you always felt a bit cold to me
                                     scarred ,

so
i pray to god
that
you never try to tell him
what i’ve tried to
do //

you trail blood with you ..
wherever you
go —

leaking from holes i made
inside your
                   chest ,,

so tell me //

why
am i the one crying ,
when i know
i’ll break your heart ?

i pray that you will end me ,
with a knife plunged in my gut —

for
death is better than
any pain
that
i will ever cause
                           you .
                                    .

anger burns so deep within me ,
i dont know where
it stops .
               .
                .

god told me there was a mistake
when creating
you

(and he whispers when he lies)

so
look me in the eyes next time --

tell me it's not painful .
.

i.

eyes on fire ,
i lit a match and
watched you burn

i don’t know how long i stayed
sitting down
.

ii.

when angels were still alive ,
did they look at
the clouds ,?

do they remember how they
died
?

iii.

my skin peels in the green grass —
composted , the
fence rots and the sun
shines gold ,

this is what they call
"giving back."

iv.

blue tears leak
like petals down your cheeks .
.

everyone cries with you.
//

i would **** for you —
you know ,, ?

stain my white dress in red :
for
you .
                     .

blood dripping down a
knife
i would swear i never
held
.

but
they would end up catching me
of course ,

they always do —

and
the devil would sneer
,
disappointed ,

lace dress tight —
her lips curled in painted pink ,
when everything seems
so
h o t .
           .

because
               she knows
that
while
i would **** for you,
i
would never,
                       ever
die.

i am holding an axe...

empty towers stand tall in snow
-
yet
still i climb ,
(each step) —

like
a toy upon a shelf
(i am freezing)/

when
you rip the stuffing out of
me
and try to sew me
shut ,

but the
wound is not healing
(it never will)

and
the walls get stained with nicotine::
(i miss when they were white)

when i come back to, i am lost -
scared
(because it is dark)
.

i
try to howl ,
gurgle instead:
and then
i start to weep-
(and my tears all freeze like little pearls) .
.

when i look for them again,
(those girls)

they have turned into
wolves
(i remember my axe)

and they look me in my eyes —
glimmering//

so
spit on me, again,
i say

i
dare you —
this time,
i am not afraid to bite.

(they do not come back for me)
.

i know that i was lied to
from your place among each star ,

glorified, i
let you lie—

as you looked right down
your nose -

it is sad,
as
you bit me for a kiss
then grew a
house
inside my heart

how could i ever have let myself
love you
?

i put my hands on your throat ;

veins pumping red
like little boats
inside the storm ,

your hands tangle around me ,
they grasp, tug, hit:
and this is a fight that
i am losing.

outside, it snows ,
and my pink skins flushes red
as you have burned me
from the inside out .

everything becomes white , when
you touch me
for the first time ,

and then i cry when you hit me .
.

we kiss.

she smears her lips
with mama's red crayons.

(then
she swallows them whole)

lips like sour cherries,
puckered ,
                  swollen .

wiping her eyes on soft
tissue,
blood stains instead.

i
dreamt of love
my whole life.

boys, barbies, and all of me :
.
tiny cuts in the system,
tiny wishes
and
perfection

where
i thought love was
creation;

pink cutout cardboard and
subtraction of all
flaws .

but love is just kinetics ,
warmth and
confusion .

love is when it’s
cold
and your cheeks sting and
you look up at the sky
and
you smile ,

knowing
you can dream of love
and still
live.

i want to touch
your body
like a man in heat —

rub fingers up your legs .
kiss peach butter lips,
and make you
sing,

i wasn’t made to be in love ,
i think .
.
i was made to be
loved :

like a feather, or
a death.

i will run
my entire life.

we bloom in summer.

sadness has been eating me alive
since before i can
remember —

i was bathed in a blue tub
on a yellow table .
as mom smiled and i laughed ,

and  
i remember
nights  
i was loved ,

but
sunlight still seemed to stream on
brown carpet
or on black and white tiled floor,
as
i grew up , or
it rained ///

and
i remember
each
and every
girl ive been,
crying red
and blue .

always ;
i looked at all our toys ,
high up on our mantel

in yellows, blacks,
and
pinks:

i have grown

and yet ;
i remember
there was
me
.

i dream we live in a different life ;;

you are pretty
and i am
young

and i stare into your
eyes and you
look me all over

almost . .
like i am food .

but you do not eat
me

frankly :
you never could
.

i wish i was who i wanted to be,
. . .
technical problems .