at thirteen years
bad
graphics are forgivable
good
graphic depictions of having
souls are forgone
for petty twists and goads
and swords aren’t personality traits
any more
than slink animation walks
lead with shoulders
downed brow
troubled past
any less than slink animation walks
lead with her tits damnit how do women walk?
In husky alto,
I unleash a melody
so bittersweet, the crowd
doesn’t dare breathe
until the first line ends.
My longing hangs like smoke
above the tables,
the rhythm
sways, hypnotic,
silken. So too,
my hips,
charmed like
a snake into
motion.
I hold this song
like a lover, as if
to make it part of me.
I want to become
sound, color, texture.
Guitar notes run up
and down their spines
and mine. Fingers
drum the beat on knees,
their drinks clink
like empty glass hearts
that ache to be filled
once again.
Our lungs hold the air
the trumpeter needs
for his next phrase, my eyes
close as he begins to play….
i think about how much
i miss you
& how the more i love,
the more i hurt
because there’s no way
any of this can last
everything fades,
& fades, & fades
we talk about looking
up at the night sky
we’ll become constellations,
cursed lovers—-reaching out
never to touch
Here, at the park
where we have marked
time
and distance
in a loop
this lost year,
the late afternoon sun
behind me
merges my dogs’ shadows
into a 3-headed Cerberus.
(Superman flew in circles
so fast
he reversed the Earth’s spin,
so Lois Lane never died.)
Here at the park,
Cerberus strains
against my dark leash
and pulls my umbra
around the asphalt path
again.
This is a chore;
I’m not sure what joy there is in chores.
But–
I miss touching
Passing items from my hand to another’s
Sharing a moment with a stranger
Resting my hand on the shoulder of a child
The barista passes my coffee out in a too large mug
I long to brush her hand
Trace her fingers with a gentle caress
To remind us both that we are still human
And touching should be allowed.
my tv seems to glare at me
i stumble as i slur the words to whatever
taylor swift song is blaring
my neighbors fall deep into their dreams
as my night has only begun
crashing into my dirty clothes pile
i see stars instead of a ceiling
they all slowly come together as one
oh wow, i gasp
a face
it’s you
and it’s beautiful
my smile fades as drool spills
tequila, too
it’s you
in the only way i’ll see your face
ever again
but i’ll take what i can get
because if not in my dreams, nightmares, tear stained
paper and dried out pen
then when?
The night the stars
Glared down on me
Until they stained my skin
Was the night i realized
I am in fact alive
I see the same things
You do
And i feel the same things
You do
Yet i feel like a martian
Who was accidentally dropped
Into my home
I don’t think i belong here
With you
And i don’t think i belong there
With them
I believe in nothing
And everything
All at once
I’m monotone
I’m black, white
And gray
I’m not happy
I’m not sad
But i’m not happy
I’m the blank space
On the side of your canvas
And i’m the empty photo
Album you’ve yet to fill out
I know for a fact
That i am alive
But i sometimes wonder
If i do exist
She set the Barbies in a circle to have a voice.
A seance of little girls summoning ideas bigger than their bodies
that look to the plastic as a penny towards daily renaissance.
It’s self-care—an optimist’s droopy hammock—
a chrysalis for the time she isn’t her father’s keeper,
first defense to his chicanery and stabs at smoking a syringe.
june is kind. the way
it stores pockets of rain
to give us breaks to run
out and grab the laundry
before the next thunder
shakes us back into our
nest next to the window
as i fold warm rags with sun
burned hands. i sweat
getting ready for the next
load until the air turns
on, cooling my neck
like a kiss. i give my
happiness like a prayer
to the clouds and wish
i knew the names of things
june grows other than grass,
daylight, and love i have
for you. this month deserves
a plaque, or at least a poem
as it gives and takes and breathes
everything tall inbetween our feet
before the heat of july
before everything starts to sink.
