phillips avenue

my street has milk cartons for houses,
paper-thin walls decomposing with every spoonful of sugar.

i sit outside on my front porch sometimes. there's no swing, but there's a plastic bench painted green. and when i lower myself onto the bench, i see that my roommate has littered the concrete with cigarette butts and hidden the half-empty bottles behind the fold-up chairs. i smile thinking of the shawl that's been left in the backyard ever since she's moved in. it's been drained of all its color, but it still reassures me of its presence every day i walk by and do nothing. cindy teaches me about pisces' strengths and weaknesses and i do nothing. she tells me the six of us are compatible living together.

last night i heard her bed frame beat against the wall like fists
or drumbeats.
i notice all of my metaphors have violent undertones and i don't know what that says about me or the influence of the media.

i sit on the porch and i listen through our neighbor's paper-thin walls. i'm diagnosing his bricks with osteoporosis. there's pockets in the bone. they look dependable, but they'll break their hip with a spill down the stairs.

let me defend myself. there's no impression of the shape of my ear on his door. no stain of my pupils on the glass. don't report me. i'm just tuning in to 56 phillips avenue as my radio station. i listen to his single-minded hands as they saunter up and down the piano. he's played piano his whole life. he knows the hymns from his lessons, but he likes classical better.

i've never seen him. i don't know if it's a him. i don't know if he's one of the renters in the basement or the stereotypical grandparents living on the mainfloor.

but i think about him sometimes.

he does the grocery shopping after teaching philosophy at the university. the kids just want an a. his boyfriend is in grad school. he just wants an a. he understands. in his left hand is the grocery bag and in the other hand is a bottle of wine. he grills salmon and he buys his boyfriend's favorite brand on exam days.

and sometimes, i want someone to love me that much.

and i do.

my best friend is so resilient, so stubborn. she's broken bridges and climbed mountains. she found herself after bleeding out and she drained the bitterness from her heart with a kitchen strainer. her heart is more pink than anyone, ask him. her love reaches further than your cell service, ask him.

but i was jealous tonight when she slept over at her girlfriend's
and her girlfriend tucked her into bed
and walked me to the door

because i want someone to love me that way.

i was a convicted criminal driving home,
guilty until proven innocent.
i was a merciless god who punished my servants for not counting their blessings.

YOU ARE HAPPY
AND YOU ARE SO FUCKING NEEDY FOR WANTING A DIFFERENT KIND OF LOVE
WHEN THERE ARE CHILDREN WHO HAVEN'T KNOWN ANY

but i still want it.

the last resemblance to a boyfriend was my weekday lover
he'd call once a week and invite me over
and we'd small talk until we fucked each other

i taught him how best to hurt me
the student burned his teacher with his cigarettes

i only know how to sleep with alcoholics and liars
so please find me someone who attends aa meetings regularly
i've tried so hard to choke out my monsters
my hands are too tired to knock yours as well

i just want to find someone to tell
i've fucked up and you've fucked up
let me buy you a coffee

i've fucked up
please don't fuck me up
let me buy you a coffee

the hillside

the river colored inside the lines,
tracing the bend of her knee,
whispering sweet nothings to the arch of her foot
on the way to work.

but she walked on by when the hill caught fire,
her head ducked
and a pebble for a tongue.

and her love's hair went up in smoke,
burned by the careless boy with his careless matches.

and every morning she wakes up with the same image of herself.
lighting another match.

happy (not the song)

there's a picture of a teenage boy in my dining room
and even though i'm not very interested in teenage boys
i'm happy

i check out both genders on the daily
and i don't feel as guilty for my (often misinterpreted) bisexuality

i created an okcupid account several days ago
and i'm afraid for the potential ted bundy's just a click away
but mostly i can't tell the difference between resumes, dating profiles, and sexting

there's dents in the walls of my room
and they remind me of the dents in my rib cage
because my heart used to beat against the bars that held it prisoner

but my rib cage grew two inches this spring
and my heart has room to breathe out now

she's accepted her place in the 21st century body project
and now my rib cage is a delicate window pane
but sometimes, like alice, my heart knocks against the glass

there's a b&d burgers in my backyard
and there's a picture of a model with the gyros
and it's not as risque as carl's jr
but it still reminds me that food advertisements are catered to men

i'm a typical freshman with hopes of making a difference
and that's why i'm chasing majors like political science and gender studies
but i'm scared of losing my optimism by senior year
just like high school

i finally threw away the post-it that stated, "evaporation = resurrection"
because my draft about the bible explaining the water cycle
through the creation of a man named jesus is
blasphemous not likely to be understood by the general public

i'm afraid i'm not likely to be understood by the general public

i ordered eleven books from amazon last night
and i'm afraid that i will never be fiscally responsible
because of books, groceries, and urban outfitters

i'm afraid i will never find my mind
because i have a talent for getting lost
even within a five mile radius of my house
and i'm currently on probation due to excessive speeding

i'm trying to tell you that i am happy

and i laugh about the possibility of heaven and hell
and i listen to crystal chvrches' single with robert smith
and i fall asleep every night watching criminal minds
and i have friends who reassure me that the world stretches outside of utah
and i go to school
and i go to school

and i am happy

we're all tired.

I'm tired of writing about blood as a metaphor for unseen pain
and I'm tired of fighting about whether Ed's voice is in my head or my legs
and yes, I'm wired to think of suicide, black or white, wrong or right every time the fit's too tight.

Seeing options when my nose is in the corner- it's a new therapy goal. I'm getting better, I swear.

Send me a muse.

I have a draft full of political post ideas, but change isn't as adept at handpicking his words. The devil was born with a pen in his hand.

I'm sick of typing about my failed religion
and this blog no longer epitomizes what happened when our lips locked.

The scars on my heart have faded and I promise you'll remember less and less of what happened after dark. I thought that seventeen year old boys held my heart in the crook of their elbow but they fumbled before they made the touchdown. I trudged back to the practice field last fall and poked among the nostalgia, skinned knees, uprooted grass, and other lonely hearts. Then I broke open my rib cage and shoved it back inside because I forgot what it felt like to feel whole.

I'm tired of half-attempts at sad-happy posts.

The pen's tried
and the ink's dried
and the world is spinning
but the hopefuls aren't winning.

Just carve one more initial into my bone, dear.
I won't remember.

self portraits and religious politics

i painted my toenails red because i don't know the color of my insides anymore.

i've been thinking and i'm sure my heart's copper because rust gets caught in the corners. the last man to fill the pump didn't screw the cap on tight enough. he didn't rinse the hoses after the flood, didn't bring the pink buds anything to drink.

my head's a blur of flesh tones and confessionals. let me tell you a secret, mr milkman. i resent that i let go and let god, i let god and i let go. i confessed and conceded, father. you are my clock-maker and time-taker. your honorary doctorate makes you my pacemaker. you turn the hearts of the children to the fathers and the hearts of the fathers to the children, but you're driving with a hell of a lot of influence over my internal organs. i forgot my gag reflex at home and i let 'im reach far enough down my throat to stop my heart from spilling over.

they chant "jesus for president" but a carpenter doesn't have many credentials in washington. he'll decrease the military budget and increase welfare spending. what's debt on earth is credit in heaven.

my hands are purple, artist's purple. knobby knuckles and blue river veins mapping my pulse and my deficiencies. the folds in my skin read "life-line: break, fate-line: death, head-line: oblivion, heart-line: fading." my hands are critical. they used to clench-punch-pound as if they could cross out lines written by somebody else. i told them that they can't erase my thighs, and they lose some of their red every day. i told them they don't look like "man's hands" like i thought, and i pour them love and coffee every day. my heart now listens to what they have to say.

i've got green feet. eco-friendly, recycle-me green. take-your-heels-off-and-walk-across-the-grass-barefoot green. my feet are quiet, my feet are thoughtful. they took thich nhat hanh's words and practiced them, believed Buddha and Christ were brothers and prayed in blasphemy. i've got green feet.

i don't want to write about my legs. this was supposed to be a forgiveness poem.

my legs are full speed ahead, ask questions later. they tell me to listen to my grandfather when he says i need to get my cardio up, when he asks for a copy of my exercise schedule in exchange for college tuition. they tell me, see? you are worthless without us. you are nothing if you have cellulite, if you have stretch marks. they push my hands onto my purple scars and drag my fingertips across the ridges, they tell me to exercise. they tell me i can eat fruit and vegetables, but they cringe at the word "carbohydrate." fruit is a carbohydrate, i say. then you can drink some water, they tell me. they call me names, i say. who? she asks. my legs, i say. you are stupid, she says. you are crazy, she says. they call me names, i say. you are a fat ugly pig. unless they want to sleep with you, you are nothing, they say. if you give them what they want, you are a slut, they say. kill yourself. no one wants you, you bitch, they say. you are stupid. you are a good-for-nothing whore. you think you will graduate college? without your body, you are NOTHING. you depressing cun-

my lips are red. red lipstick stains my teeth. sometimes i wish it was blood.

titled untitled

My lungs are on empty,
my heart beats alone.
Head beneath the black water,
sinking like a stone.

I pull out pink hair and false teeth.
A couple drinks accept me:
I lose the rings around your eyes,
God's the playlist of my cries.

My ankles kiss and I'm poetic again,
my head bangs the wall and I'm depressed again.
Not breaking stereotypes,
black and blue taught me how to write.

Black and blue hold me down while I fight,
the shades shut my eyes from the light.
Lips pressed against mine, nice and tight,
Hands pull me open without discussion.

I never asked you to teach me how.
My name is not a broken vow,
not a mouthful of mumbled vowels.
My name is not I'm better now.

Fuck those who stand and take a bow.
Fuck those who sing white, holier than thou.

The darkness only let me down
The doors, they only let me pound.
The cold, she never left the ground.
The devil never wore a crown.

Neverland wouldn't let herself be found,
Peter Pan didn't let me hang around.
I talked too grown up for a kid,
and fairy dust never gave me reasons to live.

God please a few reasons give,
I'm depressed as hell and I'm only a kid.
Tylenol whispers I shouldn't have lived.
The light hurts my eyes and I wish I had hid.

God please a few reasons give,
I'm selling my soul and I'm only a kid.

the trouble with weekday lovers

is that their reasons fade as the week does.

so please, turn out the light behind you, turn the key mind you, i will be waiting for the start of your car to take my breath away. to make my beliefs sway.

i'm lying naked in your sheets listening to you grind your teeth, and we all have nightmares until the grief subsides.

promise me coffee and five minutes. promise me bruises and ten minutes. don't pay me in compliments, pay me in time.

because we all have nightmares until our grief subsides.

white.

i painted my face white as god
and my privilege and cynicism couldn't be blacked out.
my skin will never be political
and they will never read understanding from my hands.

"skin color" band aids have always matched my skin color. my baby dolls were made in the image of a god who taught "white is right." everywhere i look, bleach rubs out all the culture. assembly lines pale anything that will stand still long enough, but dr. seuss' star on machine didn't save the sneetches.

uncle sam breathes out white lies, white knuckles turning down his white collar. didn't anybody ever tell him snow doesn't have any flavor? cold numbs your tongue and dulls your senses.

it's the human race, but your god said their skin is cursed. your god said they couldn't hold the priesthood. your god said black is wack and white is tight. it's the human race and we're all sore losers.

i will never have to reassure my children that they are more than their skin. i have never been called a nigger and had to swallow it in. i will never be asked to voice the eyes of my race, i will never be insulted because of stereotypical white ways. media supplies strawberry fields of fame to my sisters and brothers, who claim colorblindness, standing on the others. and congress presents a pretty picture, liberty's a ghost but there's no one to miss her.

i'm exhaling silver smoke in your face because my veins have always been laced with asterisks and immunity. i've sucked birthright from my mother's tits and drank privilege from my father's word choice. there are mirrors i can't face and steps i can't retrace. i tell myself, "at least you peeled open your eyelids, pressed the blue to the dirt." but there are mirrors i can't face and steps i can't retrace.

• i wrote a poem sophomore year about the irrelevance of racism and i quoted seventeen credible sources on the internet.
• i argued against affirmative action in several of my classes junior year, claiming "reverse racism."
• when we were watching a football game together, my grandfather slammed his fist into the desk and shouted, "i cannot take another commercial with a black man!"
• my parents told me i could not date any blacks because our features would not mix well if we chose to have children.
• i have told racist jokes in order to get cheap laughs.  

and sometimes, four espresso shots can't wake them up and four poems can't shake them up and four advil can't make them turn around.

my skin may not be political
my eyes do not shine with experience
but my hands are shaking
and my teeth are showing

white may not be a color
but i am marrying the revolution
i will fall with ferguson's finest
i will paint my chest with uncle sam's blood
i will not be content until the human race is not won by any race

my footprints may be faint,
but my god will find them

sticky sweet

we are all waiting to get our feet wet
and we are all cutting the hate out of our heels
and we are are all walking around dead parking lots
holding pepper spray more tightly than we ever did our lover
as if he can save us from our friends' brothers.

we are all drinking our coffee too sweet
because we take our truths without sugar
and we are all trying to scare ourselves in the movie theater
because we don't want to be scared
when we walk back through the dead parking lots to reality.

Who's scared of obscurity? Who's scared of lifelines and deadlines? Who reads obituaries? Did you kiss your grandma's morgue red lips? We're all just holding our breath. We're all just counting down the days until we fall between the cracks.

we are all smiling until our cheeks hurt,
sickly sweet syrup dripping down our chins,
sticky melting due to heat,
exaggerated clown smile on repeat.

Help me pull the bullets out of my fingertips because every time they press against my thighs, hate is heard louder than any gunshot. I thought the big bang was just an expression, but there's a universe expanding under my skin and all this pressure is pushing the blood to the surface.

I'm still wearing my rich-girl body, white-girl body, privileged-girl body. Can't forget to put on my pretty-girl body. I've still got my strawberry shortcake smile with extra sugar, still got my universe building deep in my bones. One day it will break me into arms and legs, and the blood will pool at my feet. The lip gloss will sit with the gore and I will stitch my teeth in to my gums and ears back to my head, but the dust will settle.

My nightly prayer's an incantation: God, please let me hate myself a little bit less. Please let me hate myself a little bit less.

Not a Love Poem.

This is not a love poem. This is about open legs and dead eyes, closed fingers and drunk lies. This is about what the moon does during the day.

This is about coffee gone cold and a voice mail box full of unheard messages and the dial tone. This is about forgetting. This is about artificial lighting and the sun going to sleep early in December. This is about threadbare sweaters. This is not a love poem.

Do not let the world suck you dry and spit out your bones like used toothpicks. But if she does, do not lie on the concrete for too long. Soon your shadow will be traced into the gray, but no one wants to be remembered as the street beggar on the freeway off ramp. His cardboard will not tell his story. This is not a love poem, this is not a love poem.

We both grew up with a mother who wore fake breasts and liposuction. Do not skip meals as a means of weight reduction. I learned too late that size six is not a malfunction and according to math, zero is not natural. We were taught love by the mother of media, we were taught acceptance by "do or die." Measuring cups her practice, scales her god, and magazines her bible. Broken nails on the dashboard read sin and white bread crumbs on her lap were for the birds and coffee was her weekday lover, but the religious require human sacrifice and you. are. it.

Every morning Death's grip proves tighter and your skin. swings. looser, so stop reaching for that bottle to nurse you like your mother's tits did. The bottle is cold and wanting, you are cold and wanting. Your heart is a raw steak on the grill, and you pay for love with bitten fingernails and inadequate sleep. But love is not out for blood, love does not empty your pockets.

Your cheeks are looking hollow ever since you let doubt in and she scooped you out. Ageism is just another way of saying the young deserve to have it all, and you deserve it all, honey, but I don't want "beautiful" to forget you because of a number. I don't want the mirror to pick as your fingers pull. She never learned how to love. Her role in fairy tales was sole beauty pageant judge and she is constantly looking for the fairest one of them all.

I resent that tired old sign on your leg. "No smoking area. Please extinguish cigarettes here." They never learned how to love. They were kissed too briefly and too carelessly, dropped too briefly and too carelessly. They cannot whisper anything but cheap love to your lungs. Do you hear me? Inhale, exhale. I am here. Inhale, exhale. They never read the dictionary and their vocabulary is limited, but they know hate is heard too often and love forgets her own name sometimes.

This is not a love poem. I can't teach you how to kiss the bite, how to atone to the legs that swallowed all your punches. I can't teach you to breathe "I am" into the soles of your feet and walk on water with Peter's faith. I am not a prophet, not a Savior. I won't quote the Bible or the Book of Mormon, but I won't lick the dust off your feet.

This is not a love poem. Inhale, exhale. This is not a love poem.

Intro #3

I'm not here to listen to my blood fall. I'm not here to watch my footsteps falter, to see the spread of hesitating bones and goosebumps. I'm not here to cry out, "God, god, why have you forsaken me?" but I'm not here to thank him either.

The wind will not bend me over to fuck me. My roots may not be visible, but they are pulling into the earth and she's a generous lover. I'm digging up home, I'm digging up community, I'm digging up callouses on my palm and dirt under my fingernails. Love and iron stain my hands and the water doesn't rinse off my idealism. They told us, "sink or swim." They told us "white or black." And I'm walking the fence, gray painted on my chest, nipples out, screaming, "love AND war! Him AND her!" They may call me radical, but I'm eating it up. Words feed the revolution and they're not empty calories.

I stand tall. You're carving your name into my skin with a pocketknife because you want to be remembered as alive and the lightning will not crack me down the middle. My bones are not hollow because I was not made to fly. I was made to last. My arms are rough. And raw. My voice is rough. And raw. There's no flowers budding on my fingertips. My spine is crooked and the vertebra collectively spell out love in Morse code because that's what god was thinking when he peeled death off my back.

But I'm eighteen and I've burnt my taste buds too many times. I'm eighteen and I've slammed on the gas too many times. Quality and quantity both start Q, U, A and we're mass producing babies without feeling because that adds to the cost. Give me something I can die for. Give me something I can live for. Give me something seventeen credit Suzy will stop studying for. I want something that I will lick off my fingers because I don't want to leave any of it behind.

I'm not always practical. My mother never taught me to follow the recipe. I forget what day of the week it is and I substitute pink for poison. But I am brave. I am hopeful. I am honest.

And today, that's good enough for me.

I'm all out.

I'm all out of poetry.

I'm all out of bedside prayers and forced conversation. All out of used tissue and hanging light bulbs. All out of evidence and skin. Sorry ma'am. Sorry sir. I'm all out.

My broken body's been taken off the menu. You can't order my hands anymore. I was a limited edition item, a seasonal special. You can't drink my blood as holy communion or pull me from the bottom of the breadbox, piece by piece. I died for you. I died for you.

I'm the happy prince's lead heart lying next to the dead swallow and I gave my eyes away a long time ago. The angels will sing "hallelujah, hallelujah" because of my beating heart. They never rest their elbows on the table and they never talk with their mouths full. They never use the wrong fork and they know how to butter their bread.

I'm all out of poetry.
We're chanting yes we can, yes we can, but the words don't reach our hearts.
We're screaming no you can't, no you can't, but their hands still force legs apart.

My lungs are full of water and I'm praying in five different languages, but no one can hear me.
My lungs are full of water and I'm all out of poetry.

Symbols are cynics and synonyms are pretentious. Metaphors never answer their phones and personification is overused by the best of us. The words don't want to get out of bed anymore. Every breath is labored and the doctors are still working on a diagnosis.

I'm all out of poetry.
All out of black pen, blue pen, lack pen, new pen.
All out of one stare, two stare, they share, no one cares.
All out of he she you we.
All out of poetry.

closed curtains

the flowers' petals sun-dried and wind-bled,
youth and colored cheeks long since shed,
their faces turn towards the cold earth.
my nails wet with red in the old hearth.

the grass whipped dry by mother earth,
soft dying breath whispered into dirt.
moaning as hands pull off my shirt,
i sell myself for warm sheets and cold feet.

my dad's eyes i no longer can meet,
i'm winter with closed hands and old dreams,
a sister with bruised hands and broken things,
a twister running out of steam.

a china doll pushed from the shelf,
cracked face shining in the hell,
icicles deadened by the bell.
god couldn't hear after darkness fell.

i see death in the eye of needle and vein of thread,
in youth and loneliness,
cold fingers and bated breath.
she's empty cupboard legs and stale bread,
she's empty classroom thoughts and a stump for a head,
she's empty compliment kids and brain dead.

her lips turn out the light,
the candle's wick blackened and shy.
she slits her wrists, the blood gone dry.
her eyes forever see the night.

look, these are my knees,
crease after crease meeting grease after geese.
listen, these are my pleas,
calling out to the hes and shes.
close your hands around the keys,
close the sands beneath the seas.

slept-in sheets and a hospital bed,
clean white sheets and open casket dread.
no one's eaten, cold eyes in their head.
no one's eaten, blood running red.
no one's eaten since i'm dead.