Two smoking towers behind me

I see them in my rear view.
Driving forward down the major highway of my hometown and it’s the Fourth of July and I’m trying to figure out why fireworks make me sad.
July 4th-the shortest season’s intermission. Nights get longer and days get colder.
But driving home with sparkles and flames and too soon gone artwork surrounding me.  I’m not sure if there has ever been a better half time show.


I am a story told with drama and pause by my mother’s mother.

I am a cloth sewn into a fragmented human with frays and rips, by my father’s mother.
I am a congealed mass of person created by the women related to me and by those with whom I share no blood.
Their ghost lips tell stories that I become.
And while they scream a story that would be different then that of so many women around me, they don’t get to decide.
And while my destiny is so grand, my reality is forced by those who do not have my best interest at heart.

Hurt me

Smoke cigarettes with me when we’re drunk.

Grab my hand and pull me through a crowd don’t make me lead the way.
Show me the stars in the sky and explain constellations to me even though you’re lying and I can tell.
Buy me flowers.
Hurt me softly because I’m fucked up and associate hurt with love.
Drive fast on back roads so I laugh-
Let me handle the music.


We’re conditioned to think love is hard. Strenuous.

But my dear, love is the easiest thing there is. Wait until it is easy, and then you will know.


When you ripped my blooms off my stems and then kept pulling until my roots were torn from the dirt, only then did you let go.

And then you sprinkled my destroyed limbs on the ground, bleeding in the soil.
But you keep my petals in a container next to your bed and use my dead body as potpourri.
Your lovers say I smell beautiful.

Birthday Party

I’ll pour your bourbon down the drain while you kiss my friend in the alley.

I’ll deadbolt the door while your hands work her buttons.
I’ll scream inside our home while you grab her hair and pull.
I’ll leave and she’ll stay.
And I’ll come home the next day and she’ll be gone.
And I’ll sleep for hours hoping to dream it away
How could you do this to me again?

Second Year

I wonder what it’s like to be the second born.

To enter and grow in the cavern of your mother’s belly where someone else’s bed still sits unmade, as they were torn from sleep and birthed into the world, screaming and clawing to get back inside their safe, calm, chamber.
Does her gut still shake from the echoes of your siblings screams?
Does the impression your older sister left in your mother’s womb feel welcoming or abandoned?
When it’s time to leave, you see from the struggle- the ripped and ruined cords and vessels that hang from the ceiling- that it won’t be peaceful.
“I hope she’s okay out there” you muse to yourself.
She is. But she misses her home.


Lay me down on in the grass and touch my neck with the back of your hand.

Let me wrap my legs around you.
Use your fingers to trace your name on my thighs, autographing the skin that’s only ever truly belonged to you.
Let me twirl your hair in my fingers.
Swallow my laughter in your mouth and I’ll breathe in yours, each of us keeping the other alive.
Lay with me here until sunset.
Lay with me.


After tragedy our bodies still require us to eat and sleep and yawn and do the mundane nonsense that makes us human.

So you sit with the realization that you will have to sleep but what’s worse, you’ll have to wake up.

You’ll have to eat, but what’s worse is you’ll feel sated for a moment and your body will betray you reminding you of what comfortable feels like.