strong winds bring brash waters
from the depths of the sea
kissing passionately the
feather-tips of the sand

holding in its hand
a galaxy amid the dirt. begging
to the sky for rain
yet feeling only the salty sting of
evening's tongue
by next sunrise the galaxy

has numbed into a grainy dust
to be beaten mercilessly by the lips
of morning tide.

The last time I saw God, I was face-first in a pillow
rough like sand grating against cheeks swollen
from trying to swallow back down a handful of pills
hands that were too small to hold,
too large to be wrapped in my jaw
it was November.

The first time this winter I saw snow,
I was passing by a window that couldn’t open
in a hospital, surrounded by spirits I didn’t know
skeletons breathing, sharing air with locked medicine cabinets
it was the brightest thing that touched my vision
for three days
and the metal mirror that night
my face distorted
I saw flakes of
ice, scrubbed them off
raw, they fell to the floor.

The last time I went to church,
it was my birthday
freshly December
cheeks stained rosy red
from frost,
face turning purple
suffocating under heavy glances and
empty sympathetic gestures;
like a leaf off a tree
in a room full of bushes,
unsure of where to fall
I left before the closing prayer.

I don’t remember the coming of spring,
but the waking up from a deep slumber,
a plagued slumber was sudden,
a jolt of lightning from the sky I have
always loved storms.
Blossoms on trees reminding me
that my mind was rooted in new soil
warmed under the sun,
drooping petals reminding me
that too much rain can drown
the strongest flowers
there were many rains this year.

The last time I drank poison,
I smashed the vial against the wall
and spit it out through my teeth
my doctor, she warned me that
some substances would stunt my mental growth
they were toxins,
handed to me by familiar palms
they were toxins,
to be flushed down the drain
and I was given water to calm
the acid still scorching my throat
strong,
learning that it’s hard to get rid of
skeletons in your closet
when they have voices to scream back at you
(it took me five months to bury the bones.)

Six months ago,
I saw myself at the bottom of a pill bottle
I tried to swallow
and although I’ve learned to lock up my medications
sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night,
throat tingling, stomach throbbing,
fighting off ghosts in the mirror
who have since had funerals
and been born again
fighting off frost collecting in my gut,
icicles melting to ash
inside cheeks still swollen
from when I tried to swallow snow.

-I've learned to take the sheets off of the bed and wash them and if my hands were big enough I would curl them into fists and call you to tell you that your ghost no longer resides in here but I don't have your phone number anymore and I don't miss you quite as often.

-You're white flag, your war-rage reverb inside a rib-cage and there's no microphone to mutter into. Slam poetry isn't your thing but ******* sometimes there's an itch, a scream half-muffled that wants to talk about your hair raining down on their cold pillows just before the lights go out.

-I've never owned an ashtray despite the chimney that mimics my mouth sometimes. It's telling your mama you made it for her birthday because you don't want to see her face every-time you check in once again for the last time into a hospital. Even if making it is keeping a plant alive.

-The scattered light rays that travel into your room in the afternoon when you're getting drunk alone again and don't you dare call me bad because baby, I was raised that way. You can't put a band-aid over a broken bone. There's a fire in my palms no psalm can actually pronounce.

-your writing career has plummeted so now you sit in a bus stop as people tell you their life story and you feel like a priest but there's never any relief and the confessions get more heavy so you write about it but there's never anyone to hear, and even if there was would it heal the bruises?

Today I thought about burning bibles and how my house is surrounded by cobwebs and how do I explain that to people.
It burns my veins when I think of the god that lets children die and creates maelstroms inside people so they’re left begging for change in the streets and all those prayers are like pinpricks on my forefinger because if I was created in his image, then why do I curl my fists when I look in the mirror
It’s not easy being cut-cloth and vacancy motels in foreign cities I will never return to because I know their owner
I know the freckles in your back like constellations in my head
I've heard your voice when I was on the bathroom floor sinking, sinking
There’s no anchor in this ship and the tossed waves are like your tousled hair
and maybe the sternum in your chest is the Bermuda triangle
but I could have sworn I held your hand, I know this for a fact
because my pulse danced with yours those days
but now it’s these days and I can’t get a grip
and I bend my knees but the bruises are stubborn
I keep opening doors but I don’t know what I’m looking for
I want to call, for help, to my mother, to my father whose clothes cling to him like death and I want you to know that this isn't about you
When I was a little girl, I would go to church and hope that someday my knuckles would get kissed and not murdered
I wanted everything my parents didn't get
I used to think it was because god was too busy with other people's families and that's why their lawns were always greener than ours  
I wanted for you to exist so badly, I forgot that I did too.

we are the insects trapped inside homemade fly traps
glued on at the roof of the mouth
underbelly, I run around looking for trouble
trailer park princess, bar-fights in every space between my teeth
I'm a child of a child

I beat my paper wings against the shamelessness
Dance like the cigarette breaks are forever
Swisher blunts for the forget-me-not flowers inside backseats of cars, cabs, stolen automobiles
Revenge, locked jaw police officers like the fathers that never let you hold a gun so you become one

Taste blood, tongues, beauty in chaos
loose lips, stolen drugstore mascara and no more bruised knees
Boys like soft but you're the ******* Armageddon, knuckle-ring gods and all
so the men want to be kings and you grow up a feral cat sleeping in twin sized beds with a mouthful of curse words

Lord of the flies, lot lizards and truck-stop races
gritty bathroom graffiti is the cathedral but prayers never stop
Taverns with your name and the angels that spit
The television static never ends here, cicadas  
Doors with mosquitoes held hostage, home for supper
wasted by dessert

Down in the dirt, grimy bathtub I unearth all the things I couldn't drink away; all the motel fantasies, ***-stained skirts and the neon lights waiting for the swarm

Lately, all the darlings have started tasting the same and all the books keep preaching about the catharsis of going forward and I'll not be condemned to be Lot's wife's' tragedy but ******* this is growing up and everything is shrinking like the bible my mother threw in the washing machine by accident. All the wild has gone to my fingertips and there is no longer an energy to board trains to god-knows where because I know better now.
I don't longer miss you and I call my father daily now and I have a fond appreciation for dead things. Sometimes I think of all the times I prayed and all the times I sinned with you in mind and I know this is the guilt of poets. We are the victim and the instigator, we play our cards right and you resent us for it. And I write to you because it's easy to say things to people you hate. Like kissing someone and not tasting their blood but someone else's and enjoying it. Revenge in, not one, but all the ways you know how.
I often dance naked to Claire de Lune, do you know why? There's an elegance to being primordial and vulnerable. There's grace in things we find obscene. I cannot dance, mind you but I dance thinking you're watching. Much like shaking the hand of  a married man and lingering with his wife within earshot, there's a thrill knowing you'll be caught.
Thus, I write my inhibitions and fears in poetry hoping you'll someday read them with absolute stoicism. I dare you to show a little emotion. I dare you.