i wish my brain was made of only one type of cotton
then i could move to the center of space and become

dominant

there would be no need for water
or
conversations about how things should be going
we could effect normalcy in dance clubs by wearing big hair and lots of makeup.

i have to be incredibly reasonable. it's the only way really. i have no magic. my hands are just made of hand materials. not even high-quality hand materials. they had a sale, i took what i could. i had no hands at the time so it made things slow.

it turns out, i am not a cat person. it's okay, the shelter has a return policy. in the meantime, we've constructed nets of wire and hung pictures of chicken intestines. i think we can safely assume things are going to shape up round here.

another joke is gonna die in this world. it's okay, i was having difficulty laughing with you anymore anyway.

There's dirt in his veins, and i know this. that's why i'm here.
to be caressed and loved by muck.
he promised that when it got too violent behind our eyes we'd stop sleeping and we would walk through gas stations and truck stops instead, picking up more muck for our love.

and when he cuts his wrists on the bone of my hip, i'll let him cry and bleed for all of those promises he made but will never keep.
i'll take the crushed lightening bug off of my finger and press it to his lips, whispering for him to keep quiet.
it doesn't matter any longer.

he'll want to scream, of course. he always does.
but i'll slip on my suicide blue dress--the one as soft as cancer
and tenderly dry his tears with my kneecap
and leave it on the bathroom floor where it ever belonged.

Scissors, no threads.

I know how to cut people out of my life
You simply guide the scissors about the outline of their memory
careful to cut as closely as possible,
the fewer the scraps you'll deal with later
clean-up can be a bitch.

It's difficult cutting people from your fabric
as certain threads are sure to have become knotted--
entwined with the fabric of other people
people you wish to keep in your cloth.
It's never as clean as you would wish for
But this is an art, not a craft.

You must dispose of the unwanted sections as quickly as possible
lest they fray and leave threads hanging about your daily life
cast over the chair in your living room,
clinging to the rug on your floor
waiting to pop up on your new sweater the next time you step out

that first cut was so terrifying
i was afraid of the scissors, so sharp and pointy, you see
i did not want to damage the person being excised
But then my cloth looked so much better after she had gone
and pruning season had begun.

I know how to cut people out of my life.

The Hits Just Keep on Comin'!

I read today that he would pull the metal from my wrists and crumple my loneliness in a paper cup forever.

God if that were true, i’d birth him that 50 pound baby he wants, or maybe help him adopt the fat kid in the yellow t-shirt he saw standing on the corner.

But you know it’s a long way down

So on your trip to the bottom, you marked the descent just to see some fucking progress

Thinking how nice it would be the next time

But it’s all relative.

And the rotting wooden crosses in the back yard smell just like a pile of sugar-sweet shit

You’d burn them but you don’t want to associate with the KKK.

So you try to burn your memories instead,

The hotel room where he left you like a stain on the bedsheets

Setting fire to the white hair domes of the church ladies with clucking tongues and prickly mustaches and used Kleenex wadded and stuffed into their over-perfumed bosoms, funny you'll never forget the feel of someone else's snot wiped across your face

The jars and tubes of makeup scattered all over her bathroom, the ones that made her bright red lips seem so pointy and unfriendly her eyes golden and purple and more frightening than any bogey man especially when she began to spit from that pointy red mouth and you knew what was coming next

Singing on the porch swing

Go tell it on the mountain

And over the hills and right there in the grass on a bed of crushed leaves that crackled and scratched with every thrust

But there are no saviors anymore

No one has a paper cup

And my wrists are still full of metal.

As You Lay Frying*

All of my heroes are dying
cracked like eggs in the frying pan
soft yellow bellies exposed

All of my thoughts are mashed
hashed and such
did you know my shell is not so hard in fact

as you all lay frying
in my thoughts
oh why didn't you stay whole
for just a bit longer

*Thank you to ttractor for the most excellent Faulknerian title.

Our Ritual

We lie in bed together, and slowly and innocently begin to trace out one another's bodies with our fingers. Arms and hands and earlobes and eyebrows, as though we were blind, we seek to recreate the image of one another through touch. In a soft but persistent wave, every particle and nerve ending awakens and we are in love.

We walk down the street together, and slowly and innocently begin to offend one another with our words. Hurts and feelings and histories and old wounds, as though we are oblivious, we blindly recreate the past through careless assumptions. In a painful but familiar wave, every past emotion and transgression flows over me and we are hurting.

We think of each other distantly from remote locations, and slowly and innocently begin to paint over the wounds with the pigment of wonderful memories. Beauty and laughter and lightness and warmth, as though we were simply old friends, we seek to recapture our past glory through tactile communication. In an urgent but joyous wave, every fiber and quark of my being wants to see you so that we may trace the other's body in our innocent way...

To My Friend

Just like Jesus Christ
She walked out of her sunlit room and into the shadow of the hallway
Wearing only overwashed, overworn underwear
her limbs and torso a delicate image of carved ivory
ribbons of scarlet flowing from her wrists
a name dropped on the floor, a promise broken, drowned in that flowing scarlet
a fragile question mark sliding down her fingertips and into the puddle of blood gathering at her feet
She looked just like Jesus Christ
and I knew I should be bandaging her slender arms
whispering new promises, new lies
but I am transfixed as she stands without her crucifix
beautiful and repulsive at the same time

Oh that Smell.

His scent on my pillow has now faded into that vague male odor
musky, husky, full of testosterone and brimming with promises, lies and quickened heart beats
the face next to mine blurs and melts into the Next
and I laugh
I laugh because it's getting better
I'm getting better
He's getting better
That scent lingers and reminds me of tender caresses and harsh words and tear-stained pillowcases, crumpled sheets and the hope that spilt every time
but I come back for more
can't wait to breathe it in again, fully, deeply

I still believe.

Existence

I know you saw a part of me, but you didn't see the Self I carry around every day.
You robbed me of a piece of my existence, stealing off with it, locking me away in your mind
a half-formed truth, at best
but now that half-formed truth lingers Out There
where I can't touch or affect it.
No longer dynamic, it remains deformed, trapped, static and unwhole.
Tiny deformed fragments of myself, relegated to neurons firing, neurons dying
I wonder if that fragment is part of me now, if it counts toward my Existence
I release it to you, it's yours
I've no use for it anymore.

An Account

she's begging for forgiveness and my supplies are so low i need to ration them

would you like to open a credit card account?

the letters are pleading and dripping with compliments which for some reason make me roll my eyes with disgust

this is just a courtesy call

she clutches her illness in her fist, swinging it proudly above her head for all to see, her battle cry "i can't help it"

is there a better time when we may reach you?

an apology more precious to me than her, and i'm unwilling to give it; it just doesn't seem appropriate, not what she should be asking for, i don't know exactly why or what i'd prefer

we have a great offer for you

she just doesn't deserve it...not now, probably never again i've called her bluff and she is left standing ugly on that hill alone living out her own private fantasy and it just seems right that i should try to give her this since i can't give what she's asking for

thank you for your time.

Seriously, how much whiskey you got?

We were driving to another doctor's appointment. My head throbbed and

1 2 3

more vicodins down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.

My fingers went to my head, tracing out the last of the tumor. 7 days of creation, 7 surgeries, 4 wigs, 9 i.v.'s, 17 banana-shaped receptacles, 31 dressings,

1 2 3

bottles of vicodin down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.

My father tells me to be glad this is over before I go to college: "Boys don't like damaged goods."
Head is spinning, did he really say that he did but I'm damaged in so many more ways and I'll always have these oddly shaped scars, a swasitka the doctor laughs, we carved a swastika into your head

4 5 6

vicodin down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.

I leave the office, a fistful of tootsie pops, how many licks to the center, the pills aren't working, i grind my teeth into the tootsie pops, i'll never know how many licks to the center, but the bottles are at home and the drive is half an hour and my skull is going to rip open I know it will it did the last time in chemistry class

7 8 9 steps to the bathroom with blood on my hands, a dizzy lizzy.

The walls are white, the sheets are white, the bandages on my head--the new chic turban the doctors laugh--all white. My fingers are bloated, I can not bend them and the i.v. is in a new and exciting place--where my wrist is supposed to bend I'm tucked snug as a bug in the bleached bleached bleached blankets and here's where you push when you want more demoral

1 2 3 pumps of demoral into the veins, a dizzy lizzy.

But this is the last surgery they promised this time and promises are worth so much when uttered from those laughing doctors remember the fun when they ripped those tubes out of the back of your neck--you'll just feel a pinch--but there's another to go and now I know this is no ordinary pinch but don't worry

5 6 7 percocet down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.

Now it's over, and the doctor surveys his fine work--a swastika, we carved a swastika into your skull the doctors laugh. we can probably close those up a bit, you know, we just want you to feel comfortable with the results here's a mirror please tell us how pleased you are with the

0 0 0 no more pills for my throat.

You Are Every Day People.

He shuffled toward me, his whole person uncommonly common--no mean feat. I'm sure every feature on his face was the genetic average of the entire human population.I was wearing my generic, all-purpose smile. it's about 1/4 of a full smile, but still tips the scales in the friendly direction--i don't want any fistfights, you see. I cast my eyes onto his face, and was struck by his complete and utter normalcy...I moved my smile up to a 1/3--more as an excuse to let my eyes linger on his face than to suggest--. He looked startled. As though his clothes were made of magic threads--a cotton/poly blend--which had rendered him invisible--but my fractioned smile and observant eyes had stripped him. Exposed him for the first time in possibly four years. I'd describe his actual face to you now, but five minutes fresh, it has already faded into a blur with those startled brown eyes... or perhaps a blur is all he really is

Another Saturday Evening.

You could build cities on her collarbones. they stood out like elegant reminders that there was strength under her delicate skin. You offered to crush your own hands if you could bathe yourself in the pools of sweat which sometimes gathered there.
Rhythm was born in her hips. What her lips refused to say her hips screamed out into the stale night, reviving the dead and killing grandmothers with the aftershocks of a million swaying particles of muscle and bone.
She whispered lies that fell like truths upon the ground at her feet. You stumbled over yourself to gather them up, but then you saw her ankles. they were perfect and you thought ankles should become the new currency--more valuable than gold, but she would be the only one with any real wealth. and you offered to burn down her house and change the meaning of time if she would let you possess just one of her tears. if she would tell you just one agonizing truth about herself if she would only reveal some weakness upon which you could sieze if you could only own some bit of her...but she laughs and with her eyes that stab your heart eighteen times between every perfect blink she tells you she doesn't exist in the present and never has. she'll always be a memory or a prophecy but she can't offer you any reality because you've already dismissed such a posssibility with your worship of her . As she hands you your cigarettes and change, her green and yellow uniform hanging off her slender frame like a conspicuous profanity, you realize you fall in love too easily.

But It Never Came To This

New favorite Nina Simone Song: "Save Me".

Onto my 'writing assignment'...I'll claim it as mine even though I don't have the official nerd girl club t-shirt.

Why You Should Love Me:

You shouldn't. I'll break your heart and steal your carkeys and laugh all the way home.
No, I won't. I'll say things like that, wishing I could be *that* girl. and you'll never know when I'm speaking the truth or when I'm wishing it. And that will be beautiful.

You shouldn't. I'll squeeze a million truths out of every lie we'll tell each other and i'll believe every single one with all of my heart. I'll deconstruct your reality and build you back up as my own private fantasy and you'll never know whether you're a man or a dream. And that will be beautiful.

You shouldn't. I'm strong when I desperately want to be weak, but you'll see my clenched jaw and know that in an infinity of a moment it longs to quiver and you're the only one who ever sees because you're the only one who ever really looked and when I finger my scars you'll know that I wish the wind never blew and when I hold my head up you'll know that I'm fragile and you could break me with a harsh whisper and when I walk through the world you'll know that the only grace I ever had I spat into the alley that night and replaced with wild laughter. And we will be beautiful.

I'm running out of whiskey

my brother and i are fighting over who gets to sit in the front seat--we're on our way to visit our mother who is staying at the institution again. that word sounds so ugly later but i am 5 years old and that word is synonymous with vacation and flowers and crafts and the funny smell that lingers in those halls. our father will be more quiet and will hug us frequently and we'll probably stop somewhere for McDonald's on the way home and right now my brother and i are secretly thrilled that she's in That Place because now the front seat in the car is open and we get to pretend to be grownups.

my brother and i are fighting over who has to take care of things--we're grown up and busy and our mother is staying at the institution again. that word used to mean leather belts with printed seashells and strange fragile smiles from our mother who was trying very hard, our father told us. but now it means screaming strangers and vacant eyes and the torrent of words which will fall from my mother's mouth like a tsunami of hate--and that funny smell that lingers in those halls. she'll be bloated and hoarse--her stomach was pumped--and right now my brother and i are secretly crushed that she's in That Place because that means she failed and we have to be grownups.

A Gulp of Air and a Shot of Whiskey...

I frequently think about the way objects soak up meaning--sometimes i want to lock away all of my possessions so nothing can ever destroy my encrypted memory books; sometimes i want to hold a bonfire so I'll never have to remember again.

My clothes.
that outfit I wore when I was 6 years old; it was lavender with pinstripes, matching top and pants and his hands were all over me mostly where they shouldn't have been and i just wanted a hug. that outfit was hanging there in my closet, threatening to tell my secret and my mom wanted me to wear it to church, but i never wanted to wear that outfit again.

My table.
my kitchen table is small and intimate and dark and intricate. it captured our conversations in its woodgrains and remembers the times we drank red wine and spoke about time and meaning and laughter spilled down our shirtfronts--the stain is in the corner--and we both leaned our elbows in on that strong table so that we could better see one another's eyes and i sit at that table now and finger its grains, remembering you.

My bed.
i've had my bed since i was three years old. it has four posters and is only a full-sized bed but looked so enormous when i was small--i had to have stairs to climb up into it. and it reminds me that i was important and that things are important and your house should look nice so that when old people come to visit they understand that you are doing better than them. it reminds me that i never jumped on it but got away with so much underneath it our breath quick and nervous, discovering. i hid crayons in its secret cavities, the yellow wax is still there but no one knows where to look unless i tell them.