White LInes
In nothing real, but when I was thirteen,
Going on fourteen, like a hidden Facebook user,
I see myself in a blur, then and painfully now--
Wrists scarred under long, black sleeves
Turning the locker combination in the middle school
After a night of not crying; apathetically living
Shoving against those who mocked my existence.
The numbness from the pain pills that I no longer needed
Kept me from the lash of the words; my jaw tight and eyes down.
The thorn in my side that I try to ignore.
I write about what I know and I still see my scars
In the brightest of lights of busy public restrooms.
And they are mine; the faded white lines that only
Opened after the emotions were too much four years later.
The darkness never went away and I live in it.
It lurks; a predator in Central Park or a rabid raccoon in a woodshed.
Too poor for a prescription and too scared to say so.
What if something else is wrong with me?
With depression, the sentence is for life, but doesn’t have to be terminal.
The scars lie on the mind like shadows along a badly lit country road.
It took years to remember the blackouts; the blood, the razor, the suicide note;
Then the back of my mind pushed it front and center in its nakedness.
NOT AN AESTHETIC ANYMORE
I.
Wrinkled hoodies swish against the shoulders that are not covered by sleeves, but the darkness in the wardrobe that goes into Narnia. It’s cold and the dirty laundry that needs to be aired out, on the line to dry and soak in the sun. It’s trapped between unfolded socks and wrinkled shirts, tripping on the legs of earth soaked jeans and the human tongue. Be brave, they say, as the cross burns a hole in my scalp and the words of my parents’ scorn fill my head. I collapse.
II.
The stars form constellations that spell out my love and my affections, yet I am stuck on the ground. I yearn for the comfort of Saturn and Her rings, reflecting the tan line that will never touch my knuckle and the kiss that will never happen in a church, under the crucifix that hides in the shadows of my mind. It’s a black hole that spit me out, and I am not booking a round trip.
III.
She’s beautiful but not aesthetically; in every way, she calls to me. eyes, face, soul. A siren in the ocean, drawing me closer and closer. But like the Declaration of Independence or the Liberty Bell, I can only look and not touch.
IV.
Not half anything. The whole human soul full of love, but one that turns its back on itself. I look in the mirror and hate what it’s doing to me. The secret that will lead me to openness at the foot of my parents’ graves.
V.
Expected, anticipated, discouraged. asked subtlety and blankly, as their questioning gaze waves over the t-shirts and haircut. Excuse after excuse, lashing out in anger against the truth. How did they know of my most secret desire, other than stereotypes and gender roles that I only meant to break?
VI.
How to feel, how to act. Just a phase, they say, it will pass. Study the Scripture and its teachings, or embrace all the colors of the rainbow. Confusion takes over, and shame creeps over the closet.
CREASED AND UNEVEN EDGES
Stitch by stitch, the mess was completed
The Almighty tailor looks at His creation and smiled
as He trimmed the edges so then they wouldn't drag in the dirt
The symmetry was a bit off. A mistake? Impossible, He thought
The chemistry of the brain was darker than most,
edges creased and little leftover strings dangling
Good enough, He thought as he folded the skin and packed into the box
for safe keeping. The wrinkles appeared a couple days later.
A baby born in the arms of a single mother with wet green eyes and
a worn, tired smile. The baby cried, the edges tugging at the brain, the
little strings dangling in the light breeze.
The tailor turned His head as He began another project, taking
the spool and easily threading the needle.
The baby kept crying and soon was hospitalized.
No thyroid gland and poor eyesight. But the praises
were sung, the prayers stored in the tailor’s drawer.
The baby grew to a quiet child and then to a rebellious teenager.
The creased and uneven edges appeared in the empty church
Seat and pill bottles. The teenager cried for the hemming of
the tailor, and receive a refund and a whole new skin.
The brain was a bondage and the wrists were ripped
Silence on the other end of the phone and then the dial tone
Beep, beep, beep.IN THE WOODS
In the woods of the adventurers and campers, the moon shone and dripped along red and orange leaves, clawing their way toward the dirt paths that twisted into talons.
In the woods of the lost and forgotten, the howls of wolves echo through the dead trees.
In the woods of those seeking refuge, a concubine is set by the river, letting the soothing, moving water drift over their ears, calming their souls.
In the woods of the peaceful and free, we found our purpose as we watch the constellations dance on the Broadway stage of the sky, dirt gathering under our fingernails and on the soles of our feet and the souls of our body.
Even though they urged for us to leave, the woods of the wandering, they want us to stay here and out of sight.
WORDS I CAN'T SAY OUT LOUD, SO HERE'S A POEM
I.
You left in a fleet of ships, sailing in the blue seas. The waves rock and roll in a beat of my heart. The sun sets and memories collect in the sky. Constellations reflect on the water, and the dance begins.
II.
Captain Ahab dedicated his life hunting for a whale, I once read. Until you, I didn’t understand the point of chasing something that you can never reach. You’re right there, swimming alongside the fishes and the sharks, but my harpoon won’t budge, and neither will I.
III.
I miss the way words slipped through your lips like water through open fingers. The words of wonder; of Eliot, of Woolf, Bible verses that you struggled to remember in Sunday School trivia. The only word I never wanted to know was in your vocabulary, was the one you left me with: “Goodbye”.
IV.
My prayers fell apart and the cursing began, like a recreation of the galaxy in a Big Bang that’s more than a theory. I pound at my aching chest and crouch on shaking knees as the salt in the air and the salt on my cheeks are replaced with red hot rage. Why did you leave me buoying in the stars all alone?
V.
Months later, the fleet returns. You say that you need more time. One more tour and it’ll be mine. The insistence falls to my ears and your claws sink in. The gaping wounds you left / Had just been stitched / Are ripped open again. The blood runs free as you put me back in chains.
VI.
You stand in front of me. I collapse to my knees in a different flavor of agony. The kind that should be recalled and taken off the shelves. The air catches in my chest. I’m shaking, drowning, wishing you had never come back.
VII.
Your words that once floated in my mind like mist in a field on a spring day, now plummet to the fate of gravity. I will no longer hold them up for you.
VIII.
Tell me why you’re here and what you want from me; a friend at 3 AM? A stranger in the grocery store at 3 PM?
VX.
I am no longer your seasonal expedition to the northern woods to see the leaves change color. I am either the year round Christmas store, cocoa and “Jingle Bells,” or I am the abandoned mini mart with a parking lot full of potholes?
X.
Space was yours for so long, and now I need it for me. The constellations hold my dreams and you are now a nightmare.
X B X
I. Blue
At a young age I was taught to swim.
To jump into the pool, eyes closed and body open.
To accept the gaze of men as the rain soaks my t-shirt.
The swift tide of the water, the pull into the depths.
I was drowning, struggling against the current,
and seeking a life beyond what I was given.
Put on a show. I can swim, I can swim.
Just keep swimming.
II. PInk
Second grade classroom.
A stomach turning every day; there she was.
A dark skirt flowed down her legs in a silky waterfall,
and her blouse button dotted the bottom of gentle waters.
The sight of her cut the ripcord from the ground and I was floating.
The cross against my neck burned and my eyes fell.
Tight fists, scarred wrists, she was forbidden.
The apple that had committed me to sin and to the burning flames of hell.
Lashing out in a plaid shirt and ripped jeans.
She held my desires, as hidden as they were, yet not all of them.
How could this be? Sinking in water and floating in space all at once?
III. VIolet
I swim in the stars, dancing along Saturn’s rings, breathing easily.
He was taught from birth - a second nature to my very being
and the only degree I could ever frame on my wall for my parents would be proud to see.
She was a subject I yearned to learn, an elective in my course catalog, adopting her as my minor.
I will not apologize for collecting pebbles and swimming against the current,
stuffing them in my pocket and coming up for air.
I am no longer drowning or floating without a cause.
Identity is found in the stars and they hold me between them:
a band in the middle and hope in the division.
Worn Pink Bowl
On the back porch, the chicken grills and flames,
seasoned with speckles of red pepper
and a teaspoon of garlic powder.
Mother calls for Father and Sister.
She has slaved over the meal for hours,
amidst the work of motherhood.
The table is set, with a mix of veggies
in a worn pink bowl, that matches Mother’s skin.
Sister pushes away and marches to her bedroom,
slamming the door behind her, claiming she's not hungry.
Father marches to the couch and uses his belly as a stand.
Mother sighs, poking around her plate.
She will be up in the early morning
to clean the mess and begin the process again
on her old bones and the painful varicose veins.
Then she will sip on her coffee
and pet the old dog, who will wag a curled tail,
his eyes wide and watching for a dropped Mini Wheat.
Hades' Fingers
My breath froze mid-air,
caught in the gaze of a
buzzing streetlight that threatened to die
as it crystallized in the chilled breeze.
The shadow of the crescent moon
dripped along the icy sidewalk,
Hades’ fingers curling at my ankles.
I shoved my hands in my ripped pockets.
The hibernating trees whispered their secrets
as I made my way through the frigid night.
“Bring the rope, bring the rope, bring the rope.”
I shook my head at them and kept walking.
A lone wolf in survival mode,
little hairs straight on my neck and arms.
Warmth did not come and death was closer,
twigs snapping under the sole of my worn boots.
The winter wind of the north ripped through
the black CAT coat; the only protection I had.
It threw me into the dug grave,
the crescent moon swallowing me whole.
Flint Pipes
Depression. Apathy. The wish for
relief and a purpose to keep going.
The fear of oblivion and the inevitable end of
a meaningless existence. A punishment from
one’s own mind, like the lead from Flint pipes
that corrodes and eats away, poisoning the mind.
Why has He forsaken me, giving me something that
only makes me miserable and turn against myself?
If only for the sweet pills and release of the
sharp whiskey to eat at the liver and slowly fall away
like the dead leaves from shedding trees.
Heaven fades and the Bible falls from the pulpit.
The candle flickers out and He turns away.
CAROUSEL
The coffee shop brews to the beat of the souls
Of hurried baristas and impatient customers.
The writers, loners, friends, honest hustlers,
Sipping on the labors of minimum payrolls,
The floors scuffed with powder of donut holes.
Oh, mochas, teas, and muffins in midday,
The worn baristas hope for no forced overtime
They ask to finish the week and leave the store,
the deep need to breeze through their Netflix queues.
The boss man sits, a smile on his cheeks,
Not moving even in the evening peaks.
The baristas wish for death to quickly come,
Or that every patron be stuck plumb deaf and dumb.
They bristle at the door opening and its bell
And the staring at the menus, “ums,””ahs,””yeahs;”
The days pass like frozen figures on a carousel.
Constellations
The galaxy opens and begins to sing,
little stars dancing on the black canvas.
They twirl around and along Saturn’s rings.
There are an infinite amount of chances.
Stuck on the ground in nothing but depravity,
a longing for more than what this world has to offer.
I kick the soiled dirt and curse the fate of gravity
and beg for the company of a flying saucer.
Like Mulder and Scully, I chase the truth,
hunting for the unknown and the hidden.
I want to believe there is more in my youth.
The constellations convince me to keep digging.
The galaxy is too large for us to be alone
as I search for my constant and touchstone.
COTTON CANDY
January air numbs the skin,
turning it a bright pink
as the sun sets in the distance
Beyond the frozen waved ice rink.
Burning tobacco slips through
the trembling lips of two men
they laugh and slip with arms full of beer,
moments filled with life again.
A sky full of cotton candy,
yellows, blues, and reds
spreading to the ends of the earth
from the lighthouse to the birds overhead.
Misfit Toys
Fast paced
warm dancing bodies
pop music echoing
off the gym walls.
Fun, joy.
The feeling of love
and brotherhood.
Or of simply being.
Yet here I am.
Sitting in a creaky
old folding chair,
drinking sugary punch.
Eyes diverted to
the surface of the floor,
making friends with the shadows
of the disco ball.
Oppression by intimidation.
By choice, by fear.
Do I dare hum a lyric?
Or tap my foot?
Now they’re looking at me.
Shall I join?
No, I cannot.
I am a foreigner
from the island
of misfit toys.
Broken, mangled.
Not wanted
in their group of perfection.
I do not belong.
They are them.
I am me.
They have their posse.
I have my chair
and fruit punch.
They do not desire me.
They have made that clear.
“Go to another lunch table,”
followed by muffled chuckling.
I am not welcome
in their world.
Should I?
I wish for friendship.
Maybe for theirs.
Acceptance is
not a friend of mine.
Sworn enemies
face each other
in the dim lights.
It glares at me from
the dance floor,
hissing words of hatred.
Chained to expiration
while dried glue holds me
to my chair.
The punch is losing
its sweetness
and turns sour on my tongue.
This is me.
Always watching,
never joining.
If I slightly move
the chase begins.
The lions and the zebra,
prey and predator.
The empty hallway
exposes my striped skin
as I race for my life.
They’re right on my heels.
I pant for air.
I can escape!
Run faster!
Alas, I go down
and they tear me apart,
the same way that
a wild cat chews
a play thing
at a zoo.
I lose myself
and who I am.
Defeated, beaten.
A box of abandoned toys
on a vacant street corner.
Was it worth it?
So I simply watch.
I sigh and sit still.
The chair creaks
and the punch
becomes watery
as the ice melts.
I do not belong.
and never will.
I am a wallflower.
