The Witch Fires
Burn me like a witch.
Melt my skin.
Engulf me in flames of certainty.
I’d far prefer that to the bleak reality
that I have been imprisoned
in a perpetual house fire that will forever blaze around me,
but refuse to steal the breath from my lungs
and drown me in a cloud of smoke.
I see your smoldering hands begging to
wrap my throat and finish me off
but you are only a coward
who derives his power from harsh words.
Must I tie myself to the stake?
It is Not a Circle
new life form swelling,
an abdomen filling with
something near poison.
light is violent to
such sheltered eyes and pale skin
wishing for blindness.
this is why we cry,
at first breath of air, callous
thickens in our throat.
it covers every
tender inch of us until
there is nothing felt.
mercy may take the
shape of a death before life's
allowed to begin.
I am Not a Lesbian because I Hate my Father
It's cold outside.
I'm turning nine and
the air is too still for even dull breath, but
I manage to slice my throat on ice shards as I scream.
We have no time here,
not for winter,
There is no ice,
(every year it's warmer.)
White dust is falling,
settling upon my scalp.
The ceiling plaster crumbles beneath violent feet and
I'm about 11 and by now I know:
the snow never makes it
to the ground.
only I do.
I've learned to walk on my hands.
My blistering feet stain the hardwood.
and I have grown tired of
charring my shoes on the floor.
At recess the air's a bit cooler,
farther away from the iron hearth.
Not everyone's world is on fire but the flames never seem
to leave me for long.
All the wood chips are damp with melted snow
and I want someone to chase me.
I terrorize boys;
take their sneakers from their feet.
They don't care about me, but I
am smart enough to know by now:
leverage is required to get what you need.
There is a gaping hole in my gut,
my father left it there,
it's on the brink of caving in and I
do not have enough flesh to fill it.
Please, lend me yours.
I need them to know
am something to be desired.
I need them to want
to pour themselves into me to
save my collapsing self.
God knows I alone,
am not enough.
Ice melts to glass now
distilling in my throat
and its sharp edges
(as opposed to another's flesh)
have filled the aching void
behind my ribs.
It all comes crawling
back up my esophagus as I force
the weight to peel off my skin.
Can I make them want me if I shrink
small enough to be a child?
I sink my body in the muddy ground and pray it freezes over
but the angels went extinct with the snow and
I continue to grow older.
The only regret I have at this point is that I am alive,
how could I feel any disdain for the ambrosia that
made me my own god.
I said being drunk was as close to being dead as I could get
and I meant it
and it was glorious.
There is bile crusting my carpet
I could never be bothered to clean and it has
eaten through my floor like
the booze through my liver.
I wish my liver had failed faster than the floorboards,
I wish I kept my acid in my gut
but I burned a hole through my facade.
You sent me away
and locked the liquor up.
The sober set into my veins like lead,
the poison didn't leave my blood for months.
Vision finally clear
the regret hits like shards of amber glass.
“Take Them All”
At this point in my life I have come to believe that
hands are evil.
Fingers have forced themselves around my throat and
It has been 7 years --
but I still feel as if I'm choking.
When you cannot breathe, the air is a prison.
I cut gills into my flesh but all they did was bleed and
liquor felt like oxygen but really
It was drowning me.
My hands are no exception,
you can see it all over my skin.
His hands pushed me to the streets but
my hands took the world into themselves
and brought me down.
Talking to Myself
I had a world inside my head,
and I remember,
as a child, I sought vengeance for the fire.
Of course one man did not light this fire,
one soul was not at fault and
my small hands wanted blood.
The world is burning
and in my young mind,
she alone set it ablaze.
I made her mirage bleed flame colored.
I will not lie,
I have seen every film written and produced by Quentin Tarantino,
and still I have trouble emulating others' art.
I had to ask my father.
He said "violence and humor, centered in dialog."
I think this memory all of these things.
I was three, or five, i'm not quite sure,
time has always been a jumble.
And I had conversations with myself,
I was two people,
and one embodied everything my young mind deemed evil.
or perhaps lost.
It was all in my head after all.
Everything. All at Once.
When you get sick your world gets small
like lungs coated in tar.
I was sick long enough for my whole universe to fit in my palm.
Then it became the size of a person
and soon enough I could fit inside it with him,
Together we became the world.
filling our flesh out
like balloons just large enough not to
And soon we realized that air could exist around us as well,
that we did not have to be black holes,
we did not have to live in a vacuum.
Now the air touches the dirt
the trees, the grass, the sky, the sun
and all the color in the world.
I breathe it all in and I have begun to find
so much joy, in all the little things.
Quite simply, my everything is
was moments from being
as limbs flailed and
ants fought with my skin like each other.
Dying to be less than they were,
starving for the moisture pooling in my pores.
I pray I will never be enough to satiate them all.
They haven't left me,
the ants, they still swarm.
I see black liquid drip down the needle to
my shriveled hand,
veins have all run dry and little legs
crawl like pins where the blood should have been.
but finally the dark void parts for the plaster,
a white almost bright enough to blind
I narrowly escaped a nothingness that I still long to find.
In Glass Bottles Dwell Galaxies
that blast the brain out of my head like a rocket
from the launchpad sitting in my skull,
to a time warp far from the confines of this house
where I can blissfully float between stars,
to create a mind as empty as its surroundings:
this vacuum that reeks of moonshine,
full of silence that bends sound like water.
What happens to a human body in the emptiness of space?
Frost coats my eyes,
this cosmic poison seeps into my liver.
My body implodes.
As my heart contracts, it caves inwards,
sucks plasma from my veins,
bursts blood cells,
Collapsing lungs force a sharp exhale from my icy blue lips,
and the remnants of my body,
not built to float in the contents of those glass bottles in which
my bedroom floor.