Hello, all!! My post this month is a little weird. Since the month’s theme is “Good Times,” I thought, like always, I would attempt to use some sort of introspection to examine my feelings of disassociation after good things happen to me. Without all the fancy wording, this just means I’m a person that can not be too happy for too long. Maybe it’s a poet thing; maybe it’s a me thing. I promise I’ll ask Cummings in hell.
Okay, ahhhh. So. Where I’ve been since my last post… I have no idea; it’s been a fever dream. (HEY THAT’S THE NAME OF THE POST!) This year kind of gutted me like some sort of car wreck, and these past few weeks, I finally figured out what to stitch myself up with. Hopefully by September, the sutures will be ready to come out and I’ll have a really cool scar to show people. Right now though, if I make a reference to the bleeding, people just look really uncomfortable or cry. Yes, I am out of my comfort zone which is scary and sweet all at once. I’m still sick, but it’s getting enjoyable.
“Things I Wish Were Written on the Inside of my Mother’s Womb”
You will always be in love and
It will always be painful and lost through
No fault of your own and your cupid’s bow
Is so sharp that you will chip your first tooth
By smiling too wide and you will slam your
Face in cement for the first time and realize
It feels like your father’s palms and your hands
Will be small and soft forever but not too fragile
To make a fist and countries will wash away
Into the sea during your life and men will wage wars
In your body and leave you bleeding and full
Of blame and self reliance and not every part of
You will be strong enough to fight back but your
Feet will always be ready to run and your heart
Will almost always be able to keep up.
“A Lesson in Escapism from a Houdini Documentary on a School Night”
I don’t like the way my cuticles
look or how they scab over at
the sides and I don’t like being
alone at night but I don’t like being
with you even more and I don’t like
anything and my own skin is now peeling
to get away from me and sometimes
I think I’m doing better than everyone
else but then I wake up under your bed
because at 4 am this morning I decided
that I wanted to be someone else’s
nightmare for a change and maybe
everything that is in all of us is just hot
air trying to escape into other people’s
“Written in Really Cheap Lipstick in Your Best Friend’s Bathroom”
i will never love you
all the time i will never
love you all the time i
will never love you all
the time it doesn’t matter
what color lipstick you’re
wearing or how much tequila
i drink i will never love you all
the time because all the time
you’re not worth loving.
“Real People Don’t have Scabs Like That”
i rot your teeth,
i pull blisters from fair skin,
bile burns in your stomach, and
you’re the happiest you’ve ever been with
glazed eyes and an oversized clogged heart.
then you realize that this is no way to live and
are no more than cowardice and poison things
boiled together in a broken home.
am no more than cowardice and poison
things boiled together in a broken home.
and one day
you will find your rehab, or your
bible hidden in the bottom drawer, or whatever
the fuck else saves you from the angels
like me who make great loves out of tin foil and
are raided nightly for the stashes we hide in our chests.
the ones who will never find something we can not
swallow or smoke when times are tough.
the ones that are royalty in our own right because
the moon whispered to us one night in a lullaby
when we were too fucking drunk to stop screaming
and the moon-
is one man that does not lie.
“I’m Only a Half Liar”
loneliness is something i have mastered (almost).
i can speak with a perfect spanish accent (while reading
from a book of translation).
i haven’t been sober in 2 weeks (except long enough to
read the labels on the prescriptions).
i keep having dreams about piano keys
and your fingers on them (and me).
I don’t think about killing myself very much
anymore (unless i am awake).
i do not love anyone without a reason (like breathing).
i can keep secrets like the kill floor of a cattle farm
(and tell them like the guts coating the concrete).
yes, i think i’ve made a home out of this (but i do not
think it is a life).
“Not a Family Tree, but a Burning Bush”
i come from a line of women that was conceived
from heaven and hell’s drunken one night stand.
women who turn from flame to brimstone to salt
to flame once again. women who did not give birth
but pulled the others’ tiny hearts out of their
own throats. women that learned the word
“no” too soon and grew bored then
replaced it with the ever pleasing
women with small hands for holding
cigarettes and syringes and children and
their mothers’ own hands as they lay dying
in hospice or a homeless shelter. women
who have been raped in broom closets yet
still sweep the floor daily and women who keep
their nails short just like their stories in case
they feel the need to scratch out their own
eyes or anyone else’s for that matter. women
who leave too soon and love too hard and try
not to turn to ash in the process but if they do
that’s just another reason to make the burn last longer.
we are not saints and no one here has ever seen real gold-
gate or not but we have seen god. every time we turn out
the lights or recite our own prayers into mirrors.
“I Said I Wasn’t a Love Poet”
i want to trace the calligraphy of your palm with
my fingernails and i want to jump into the fountains
of your head before i go anywhere else and i want
to kneel in your direction as many times a day as
you would like and i want to spend my life looking
for that one imperfection in your architecture and
love it even more than the rest because this is divine
and i’m not sure which god did this to us, but whoever
they are; please tell them thank you for me.