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.