“Being born a woman is my awful tragedy. From the moment I was conceived I was doomed to sprout ******* and ovaries rather than ***** and *******;to have my whole circle of action, thought and feeling rigidly circumscribed by my inescapable feminity. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars - to be a part of a scene, anonomous, listening, recording - all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to ****** them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night...”*
-Sylvia Plath

all the streets i’ve walked become a neat little maze
under crete is a labyrinth
under los angeles is a cage
in my head forms a neat little map
cover your legs with your napkin
the monster in my head
says to cover my back

she’s looking for a sweet little life
she’s slumping over in her seat looking white
she may seem a little lifeless because she is
are you okay, are you okay?
are you?
no.

you put on a little periwinkle dress
you reign in your red hair with barrettes
now you shed the little periwinkle dress
in a gas station bathroom
to be less like a girl and more like
the smoke in your lungs
the pain in your heartstrings

you rip your red hair from the barrettes
it doesn’t feel good anymore
they don’t feel right
you go to goodwill and stare at the men’s button ups
in gaudy patterns and colors
shaken and sleight like your mind
some people’s eyes just chill your bones
you think it is safer to wear camouflage
in a city where pretty little girls
are devoured by minotaurs
when they wander out alone

don’t think about strange boys on the boardwalk
who are stuck in your sun glared eyes
the less you told
keep telling yourself it was wise
the lies you told
keep replaying through your mind
the wall rears it’s head
when he says the word *****
you ignore the warnings
you ignite the warnings
you forgot the warnings
hand him the lighter and watch them burn

they say they can feel your lightness
you tell them you are looking for a life full of light
and it lessens, as the sun drops
learn your lesson
they only want one thing
and you don’t want to think about it
but eventually they say what they really think
what they rashly think
what they readily think
the sniffing nose around the corner
you barely blink
the bull shows you the horns
you know you stink vulnerability

and you always get up to leave
just in time, the warnings
you disappear back into your well memorized labyrinth
your body and mind are warring
the minotaur is bearing down
the moments are fleeting but you carry the feeling
the moments are feeble but the fear keeps on teething

maybe tonight
you can do something different
try not to haunt
every place that you live in

there are invisible children hidden behind
miles of above ground swimming pools
and wooden swing sets. they've seen
life sized doll parts scattered across
their front lawns and were taught how to
take their first steps
as though they were being sent off to war;
knees straight. head tall.
don't flinch at the sight of blood.
a few weeks ago i turned on the local news,
the upcoming story took place in the west side of Detroit.
a photo of a young, colored girl wearing
butterfly shaped barrettes in her hair comes up,
the headline at the bottom of the screen reads,
3-YEAR OLD SHOT IN FRONT YARD
the news reporter talks about the situation
as though she's being forced to discuss
the weather in the middle of a heatwave;
it's the same. ****. thing. every. day.
i'll tell you what no one pictures
when they hear about another ******
in the same city that might as well
start building their front doors
like cemetery gates.
picture the mother
trying to sell a cradle so she has the money
to buy a 3-foot long casket. picture her
walking into her daughter's room
to tuck her into bed & remembering that she's
got nothing left but empty hands.
dear america,
tell me why some of us were born
with targets sewn into our backs, tell me if it
disturbs you at all that there are children
who want to chip off their skin, that want to be painted
a new color because they want to see if the light
will hit them in a different way,
& make them less invisible.

Oh, hope
make your mess again.

Hope
don't keep asking more of me
than I'm willing to give.

Forreal tho,
I was in trouble before the boat sunk
and the drowned
finally let loose their blood
in bouyant droplets.

Because I was a little boy,
on the ship,
and you came in to my room,
and laid beside me
with a watermelon smell in your barrettes,
and a "I'm forever"
in your  siuking voice,
as the ship tipped.

So much of me shrieks;
you make me.

He holds me near the keys
I sit on his knee
playing asian melodies
with the black keys on white
I fall asleep to his unique melodies of the night.

Easter time, I remember Louis
he came to our home on King Street
what wonderful feathers, and lovely tweet
Louis would fly free, the wood banister is his seat.

Large tomatoes grew outside,
She would go there to hide,
in the sun, crouched down, tending the flowers
looking after me almost every hour.

Polish pottery set on the table.
wooden spoons and soup ladel.
Her lovely flower crown, and white gown
the chapel bell’s sound
I hope my wedding can be
as beautiful as this one was across the sea.

She curled my hair often, barrettes, and bows
for first communion and theater shows
She wore long skirts, long hair
and an irish hat she would wear.
We thought she dressed funny,
But now I wear her greek cape

We shared a small room
I would hear him breathe softly
when morning would loom.
we danced wildly to NSYNC
and giggled and played
how sad I am--things have changed.

Four of us, together forever
nothing can tear us apart, never.
and now I wish I had kinder things to say
my family so beautiful
the memories, like the most lovely song
I always want to hear--
so I won’t be far, so our hearts can be near.

Bless brown girl hair
that needs so little
to be so much.

Bless its curls and waves,
and every non-straight permutation.

Bless the way it will not stand down,
will not be contained
by barrettes or headbands.

Bless brown girl hair.

Bless how it grows and grows and
if you take a blade to it,
it will only come back
faster,
fiercer.

Brown girl hair is the revolution,
made a statement
long before white feminists decided to stop shaving
or dye their pits and *****.

This hair is ours,
not available for white hands,
not up for debate.

Bless brown girl hair,
let me be like my brown girl hair.

By Arcassin Burnham

Lilac in the morning sun while the feelings were
Still there lingering questions through my
Cranium yet it fills a mental stadium full of
Bad brain cells of bad memories and bad
Frequencies,
That means that everything that I went through
Was all in my head,
The posture of a levelheaded troubled soul is often
Dead,
I don't negotiate with corrupted feds,
I'm just being honest,
There are quite a few regrets,
my feelings are like a bucket of glass barrettes that
Are being worn by the classiest females of our time
And our time is still hanging in the balance,

/

you better choose the right card,
but please don't put up your guard,
I'm the only one that knows who you are,
you've only gone so far,
You're so majestic in your ways of socializing
All of the beautiful attributes that come with
Bliss in your heart,
And if I'm hanging with the wrong crowd lately,
I'm so sorry, we could talk about our feelings
To start.

Whiskey , cigarettes
and skull designed  hair
barrettes. A rusty old car
and the sunset view with him
by my side and his hand on
my thigh. That's all that we
need to get high while we look
up to the blood red sky*~

i wasn't afraid the first time. i traded her kisses for hello kitty stickers and orange juice and
let her wipe my scrapes when i got hurt,

snot dribbling, innocent, when i was four my mother still
held the tissue to my nose while i blew,
i remember being impressed that she could put her own hair up.

i remember in the summer of '05 my grandma gushed about her on our birthday, she's gonna be five years old she said, she's gonna be a whole hand's worth of years she said, extending her

bruised fingers and shoving them in my face while i recoiled,
all five of them glimmering, waxy, iridescent like her
varicose veins in the june sunlight,

i wasn't afraid the last time either. i couldn't even feel it by then,
i folded back my eyelids to make her giggle and
let her put my hair up for me

(because my hands were only four years old and stubby,
i couldn't hold barrettes and big-girl cups
among other things)

is a weird thing.
I haven't realized that I've grown up.
Being a Summer baby I've always focused on the fact that everyone's getting older than me.
The only time I realize how much time has passed is when I look at the people around me.
Cousins who I saw the day they were born are now entering kindergarten.
Sisters go from being innocent little girls making words out of barrettes have suddenly picked up smoking, and a number of boys with bad reputations, and a hatred for me.
Friends are planning their futures, living in cities far from the ones that we had known.
And I didn't even realize what I've become.
I'm living the dream I've had since I was small, walking the streets I've thought about since I was a little girl, being responsible after realizing that 'out of control' was not a phase that suited me.
Time passes so quickly, and I didn't even realize it until I took a step back.

I told the boy with the light hair and the eyes of tears. I told him the consequences of loving me.
I told him that he'd never get enough, because I simply wouldn't give it.
I told him, right before I played with his soft plush lips. I told him that I didn't want anything to do with him. Just this one tango, the only dance I ever learned. When the big guy decided little girls with butterflies in their hair were fun to dance with.
I told him how he'd never forget me. How I'd rob his heart and hold it in a chest.
I told him that I was the girl his mother warned him about. The beautiful brunette with the wild eyes and burning skin. The one who'd steal his heart and never give it back.
And I lay here tonight at 4am and wonder why he never told me about him.
How he never told me I'd think, every waking moment and even some off-stretched dreams, about why he always came back. Or about why he stopped coming.
He never told me that he was the boy my mother warned me about. The blonde with the sad eyes and freezing skin. She warned me to stay away from the dead who were still living, because those boys were trouble.
But you see, my chest, the one that troubled boys heart is held not so carefully in, I loved to dance with the devil, ever since the devil danced with me and changed the butterfly barrettes to molten lipstick I use to steal quiet boys hearts. And wonder why they never return.
I lay here at 5am, next to the big guy with sad eyes and cold skin that likes to dance with daughters and not their mothers, and wonder why the boy never told me the consequences of loving him.

I'll love you in any form you take.

An anarchist with a molotov
A Jewish kid exclaiming mozel tov

A child with light up shoes
A teenage boy with anger issues

A girl with barrettes in her hair
A young man full of hot air

A beautiful boy trapped in his own mind

The most amazing man who's ever so kind

An awestruck angel full of surprises

And a puppy of all different sizes

you were my safety

your whirlpool eyes
forever pulling me
back in

your ******* always wet
with my tears

your hands always
in my hair
twirling braids and
pinning barrettes

you arms always
draped around my
shoulders,
absorbing all the hurt.
my only solace
in a lifetime of darkness,
the only one
i'd allow my heart to love
in all it's fragileness,
the body that birthed me

it is only fitting
that you would be
the final break before
the shatter

pink princess gowns
                                                           ­ mud                        lace barrettes
                           bird corpses
                                                         ­       cherry candy
                       dried blood
                                          tea parties                  fabric fairy wings
         the therapist's office
                  spoiled milk                                           secret bruises
                         church bells
wooden spoons                                            jump rope
                                       bathroom scales
                                                          ­    lily of the valley smell
                rough hands
                                             january
    fourteen                                             ­                metal belt buckles
       teddy bears                 closets
                                            glitter pens in a diary                
autumn leaves
                                  rage
                   ­                               sugared raspberries
          grandma's apron
                                                        pur­ple nail polish
                                                          ­                               report cards
                        old cassettes
                                                       ­        cedar trees
flip phones
                                         kitchen knives

Earlier today April 4th, 2022,
which supersedes bald faced headlines
pointing finger and
Putin blame for Bucha killings
squarely on head & shoulders
of Russian autocrat, née
yours truly lathered
his hirsute higglety-pigglety
thinning oily tresses.

Hark….the herald angels sing,
snapchat and twitter Uber view doo
for mass communication mediums
stop the well conditioned presses
when I, a regular schlemiel
took shampoo to mine matted mass mop
(lame and feeble dreadful locks)
of straggly follicles, and commenced
to dispense with the heady ecosystem

viz rare crop of flora and fauna
(some rank as endangered species)
rub and band together
to scratch envy of flaky key
neigh bring ponytails
and create quite an niche,
and where also can be found
lousy knit wit vendors ready to scalp
and give shaft to razor sharp purveyors,

who mane lee scout out
available head room to nap
without a stir, tub bed down
(praying  Holy Scott no wash out
nor Harris mint occurs),
or burrow vis a vis,
where subcutaneous porous droplet size
water ship down pieces of
prime residence found

counting one mister
comb lee bald faced realtor
amidst competing rival
bulb buss (h)Edward scissorhands
(with knot to heavy a price toupee)
affianced to rapunzel,
whom he sheared split ends
as her barber of civil,
one dapper dan duh ruff dude to offer

lice cent shuss insects a tonsured cut
above other stylish habitués
(preferring to fraternize,
glad-hand, and hobnob
amidst a cluster of big wigs
housed by yours truly - Samson
in gleaming puffy pompadour
pads tightly secured
with the best dreadlocks,

which harum-scarum
green barrettes serve
as first line of rinse able defense
IdentityGuard (with franchisee
Bob O Link averse
to split hairs, but fierce
as a Mohawk and ring leader
to protect any curl of mine)
waving away intruders,

who if insist tubby persistent
and tangle with fate
cannot expect camaraderie
from buzz cutting crew i.e. the fuzz
to give expletive filled lathering,
severe shame poo wing subjugation
plus an up braiding experience),
and teach stragglers
they will suffer a real perm

in hint bang up job
and experience embarrassing cut up
if they brazenly brush
against brylcreem of the crop
rooted as rightful heirs (hairs)
of tousled doo mane
and thus tail all told.

With a feminine ending dawn converts sullen path,

through up and over any rocks to defeat intoxication.  

      Hence heart never ages beyond repair.  

But his feet slip into girl’s shoes, in your hair barrettes.  

Lean, slender el payaso celebrate a thousand indifferences.  

              Retract into dominance, softly **** smoky lips,

shoulder into black stone lisping darkness honed.  

Into flat cold impressed, lip, lip, lip, lightly.

stage one: autolysis
all i know is that it is cold in your basement. i can't tell because i cant feel anything but the space where you used to be and the fingernails lodged in my spine.
soft electric whirring and rigor mortis.
there is nothing you can do about this, you will not forget this.
you will cower from it.

stage two: bloat
recovery has long passed by now. there is a garden of loathing inside of you and it has overgrown / there is a ocean of fever inside of you and it has overflowed.
the body can grow to twice its size in this stage.
this is its way of releasing the pent up anger/sadness/longing you felt as a child.
your organs whisper "lets stop" and "im tired now" and (?).
they sigh as they expand. they are at peace now.

stage three: active decay
85% of brain growth occurs between ages 1-3. this doesn't mean anything as the years pass because when you are 4 you will liquefy and when you rot you will liquefy again.
(child deaths are always the saddest.)
you will find someone who loves you and you will return the favor; you will give everything to them and save none for yourself.
this is the riskiest gamble you will take / this is the only gamble you are forced to make.
you will let this swallow you. proceed with reckless abandon because
being cautious will hurt more than fingers on bare skin and flowers tucked behind small ears.

stage four: skeletonization
why has someone who has been hurt so badly choose to live so softly, to remain vulnerable? weathering can destroy you,
even the smallest wave can destroy the largest rock with time.
maybe she wants to be hurt, maybe she likes the cold basement, maybe she lets other people hurt her because she's too afraid to do it herself.
she seeps into the earth / i seep into the earth.
this is not the place where we died, but this is the place we will be forgotten.

stage five: funeral
lawn chairs / popsicles / fireworks. she stopped aging when she was small, she still pins baby hairs back with barrettes and cries for her mother.
she stares straight into the sun / she is an optimist.
she is soft, but do not handle her with care.
dig your nails into her torso,
**** her and cut her up into pieces and shove her in plastic bags / the lake where she swam as a child will be her permanent home.
she will fall in love with you chained to the bed, she
will love you endlessly and with every part of her,
every piece of her you tucked in her mothers garden.
i think it's time to
sleep.

i love you, and i am learning to love myself. please be patient with me. i am trying. i am trying. i am

empty childhood bedroom
princess pink walls
cracked, sun bleached playhouse
bunny barrettes

hungering empty bedroom
abandoned virtual pets
corroded battery ports
a forum deleted forever
digital detritus

moldering empty bedroom
a melody half remembered
a box full of old art
a playground empty at sunrise
coyote howls

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last seen online 1 decade ago
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