I left my mom at the gate. her brace under her red coat.
my sister handed me a few necklaces she wore when she was 18.
those can make me feel better. it can make me feel better.
he smoked those cigarettes with careless consideration
as I read him my most recent mistake.
I know where you got those matches from.
Amazingly, my hair is getting longer.
I didn’t call or see you,
but I spent about an hour with you.
I am looking for a needle in your haystack.
But Caitlin said; when you, if you find it there will still be all that hay.
So scratchy and itchy. I told her you can burn hay but not metal.
She said that was pushing it and he told you to put down the lighter.
I found some temporary salvation in an engineering major.
He wouldn’t let me turn, you let go and spun me around with a push.
The layers of cement on my skin aren’t cracking. And I can’t get the truth through them.
That dangerous beauty, or how painfully aware of it you are. I can’t handle that confidence. When did you find it?
As I sit at the airport and channel the pain my mother supplies, attempting to make sense of cancer and you. Don’t question my validity or honesty. It was you, not an image I painted over.
Enough? After all, I Don’t Have Anything To Do With It.
Cave into her fiery strands and gracious beauty. She has become power.
I’m not asking or speaking; I am begging myself to get up off the floor. Put down the dirty rag and walk away from the stain you left on my skin.
As I move my body and lift my feet to escape the mess
I feel your brilliance and wonder and why I stay.
A construct? Only you can tell me that,
and you can only tell me that with forfeit.
I would say it was a rough something, wasn’t it? I trust myself more and more and give this perception the medal it deserves. But now.
Of course, now it’s cold and it’s in some coma. And it may rest in a hospital bed for the rest of our lives.
If you can press charges, I want to hear them.
If you can accuse me, I want a trial.
I miss so much my heart aches, my skin gets hot when I think of who I have lost. Why you so clearly didn’t desire my hands in your hair or even my smile in your morning.
You told me you needed me and I tried to ask as a necessity should. Showing up every time and leaving notes of friendship and explanation.
I have tickets to get on that ride and you buckle me into the car still. I speed up and down the dangerous tracks we built. I don’t put my stock in your actions or words, they still make me burn, but I know they are not always part of you. It’s so hard to connect your thought and your action. For me too.
The way I think: I just want to ring your doorbell and wake you up. Hand you coffee and a cigarette, spend the day with someone we both miss.
His tongue removed all the dust you let settle. So breathe easy, I’m sure I have this infatuation buried deep enough. The ground is dry and hard. My shovel couldn’t dig it up and your words, shockingly, can’t lift the land. I could do this until my hands got arthritis and my eyes got narrow with drooping age. But I end with plenty left to say, because there is nothing left. My god, I miss you.