Elevator Knife Fights
The time I lost myself soul-searching in bathroom mirrors,
I discovered what it means to be alive.
You wrote me the Bible when you said,
”Baby, we’re all sorts of fucked-up.”
Your words hit me the way the cigarette bite
burned my lungs.
The ghost-like smoke, lazily spilled
from my mouth
as the coffee house foreplay led to
dark alley salvation.
My words are Power Ranger Band-Aids.
No matter what Dad said,
I’m positive they heal you faster,
and they look way more badass.
So blanket your wounds in my words,
and peel them off quick if
you think you’re ready.
Because it’s a shotgun double suicide
written on the backs of church pamphlets
while sitting in pews that felt like
elevator knife fights.
But you have got to believe there’s a way
Out of this place.
Like the other guy’s blade
is a butter knife
and I’m made of margarine.
But really,
I’m the only one in here.
Waging a predictable war with myself.
Floor after floor,
I aim to cut some sense
into my hands
So I can feel what its like to
shake hands with the devil.
The cameras catch me
in an epileptic two-step,
stabbing with the business ends
of safety scissors, just to
get my point across.
I didn’t want to be a Gentile.
I fought it because
my parents said so.
18 yrs.
I am but a whisper,
the way my body floats through life.
My soul is stuck in Ohio, Indiana, and Ireland.
Forgiveness is there.
I didn’t hope to be a Gentile.
I tried to be a follower,
but the hurt in my eyes burned
the bibles I grew up with.
And the hated in my blood
runs out in steel strings and ink pens.
Now, the night skyline traces the trees with a
soft gray blanket of atmosphere.
What’s left of visible clouds
sporadically indent the dark air.
Reminding me that
this may one day pass.
The moon hides behind houses lit by neighbors
living separate lives.
Looking up for fleeting glimpses of falling stars or bombs
I’m stuck convincing myself that I’m invincible
I still drive with my low beams on
as if I’m afraid of what lies ahead of me.
Clutching whatever humanity lies dormant inside.
Eyes wide open.
Not to give them the satisfaction of
hydrating themselves in the event that
people will see me for who I really am.
That was the day my father had better things to do,
and the day I realized
I have his eyes.
And on the 54th floor
those eyes looked back at me
and smiled as they pushed the blade
deeper into the empty spot where his place was.
I didn’t ask to be a Gentile.
But I am.