GPOM

I gave up my dolls when I was eight
years old,
sticks stopped being swords and staffs
and the park behind my house
became only a few hundred yards wide
rather than a dense forest
populated by elves and fairies
and little butterflies lurking under
rotting logs.

I held my tongue
and grew up
under the iron fist and shaming pointed finger
of my “future”
but as I lay in this bed
talking about comic books
and telling tales of other times,
and as we were wading clothed
through cold river rocks
and strong currents
I found the love for fairies
and swords made of oak
and hope for happiness in the moment
hiding
deep in my head.

I picked you up at three in the morning
and we waited
beside an empty runway
for planes to fly
above our heads.

We
smoked cigarettes and
told each other stories of
what it was like to be
you, or
me,
and quickly,
like some doomed clockwork
I lost track of whose
heartbeat was whose.

I am a good trapper
I stitch the stomach shut when it screams “riot” and
I squeeze all the bitter, beautiful emotion into a tiny ball, that
creates a knot that sinks so deep and
so heavy
into the flesh and lining of her bitter, beautiful belly.

I harden the brittle bones and tighten
the skin on her
as to keep away the world,
which forces those bitter, beautiful
thoughts that
I cannot handle for her.
Stitch tightly the skin
so like a china doll
she’s ready for the storm and the rain outside

(But not to be broken by it.)

I stare deeply into my own reflection and jump back in fear

because all I can see

is your eyes staring back at me,

fingers twitching

time

to time

and your dry lips wrapped around a cigarette.

You lay me down sideways,

kiss me and, with my breath,

suck the soul

out from wherever it was hiding

like the smoke in the tiny room where you sleep.

Within you I can feel my own fear, the fear to know

myself and to know what is under the faraway gaze,

the imprinted dark circles,

the pale ribcage that makes up you

and me (dis)respectively.

-

I took a picture of what it was I felt for you

your face smudged in that mirror where I saw you within me

and it wasn’t perfect, not even a bit

the edges of the photograph frayed and the words of many nights to come

the unaffectionate “fuck you’s” laid right in front of me to ponder

yet I still lay my pumping, bruised and bloody heart right out for you to take

and make a home somewhere in your pale, pale ribcage

for as long as I can stand to look at your face and see my reflection

staring back at me

drunk with emotion

I wandered down yellow-lighted streets

and there I found a moth

struggling to take flight.

It fluttered its wings

and shook in a

chaotic dance

unable to lift its frail

body

from the ground.

Everything is beautiful

at two-thirty

in the morning

for the small portion of us

who do not feel

the crushing weight

of the world

below our feet.

incapacitated

my eyes roll back into my head.

Because of you

all I am capable of doing is

laying starfished

in a cold bed hearing Bon Iver

playing

like a ghost

through the radio.

People say

everyone’s got a vice,

something to make the time slow down

to almost standstill

and to turn the letters in turmoil

to tolerable.

I lay quietly in my bed

and I close my eyes,

turn onto my side

and I can almost

feel my fingertips

barely touching your shoulder,

your breath kisses my face lightly

and our bodies tangle together

until I open my eyes

and wait for sleep again

without avail.

Who knew that something as simple

as a touch

could make a man thirst

for anything but his empty home

and a cold side of a mattress

could cause a girl to lose her need for rest.

A muffled touch between
two human beings in a
shady island park.

He leaned her up against
a silver car and kissed her
told her everything half too late
half on time
that he missed her
and that if she fell through the ice
he would catch her.

I have known you so long
but you have become so far
away
and I hold onto the silk strings
keeping us together
and pray that God
or whoever brought you back to me
will tighten the bindings
before I decide it is better
to cut the ropes and fall.

It’s 12:03 

he’s got his arm wrapped around

my waist in some other time continuum.

I see words spray-

painted on the siding of an

old abandoned house

like the house I built to

hold your love

and my unstable want

for your bed.

With fingers crossed behind my back

and a phone to my ear

“Can you come over

Can I see you tonight”

but he won’t buy it.

Not anymore.

My mind’s encased

like a damsel in a tower far away

from the night and the snow falling softly

in front of my eyes.

I can smile and nod and speak of past days

brag about running about

and floating topless down a river

but the heart that felt it

the soul breathing in the summer air

is in that tower

waiting.

I said

“I hope you make it to the ocean”

and I do,

I hope you come to a point

where you can let yourself go and feel

the spray and

wonder what tiny creatures may be lurking

inches from your sandy feet,

and I hope you can come back and

remember but not be waiting

for the day that you can return,

and so your mind too becomes

trapped

and you cannot enjoy life

the way that I cannot enjoy you.

I ruffle my feathers

like fingers from another time

or place in my past,

plumage of red and blue

floats light and bright to the

floor.

Stretch my arms attached

making wings span out

far as I wish to reach.

I’ll glide on air

little bird

little heart

as far as I can

manage and

try to find rest

for my hollow bones.

Keep your promise

like my song

with a grain of seed

and a steady beat.

I thought today about the time where you took me to the Asian market on centre street. We were cruising around in your white Jetta, looking for something to do then you casually mentioned some sort of aloe juice that you could only get at this market. I didn’t want to go there with you, let alone be around you at the time. I was sixteen and you were eight years my senior. I convinced myself that all that you wanted from me was a good fuck but for some reason you wanted to take me to that stupid market. Maybe you were trying to convince yourself that you had pure intentions. Maybe you did. I had nothing else to do to entertain myself so I agreed and we entered the post-rain parking lot of the tall brick building. The puddle (more like a lake) flooded your engine and I laughed at the situation but more outwardly at you. The yellow zen beads hanging on your rear-view mirror matched the leaf-shaped air freshener that swayed there too.

We perused around aisles and shops that were filled with plush Hello Kitty and strange squishy candies and symbols that didn’t mean a thing to me. Not much at the time meant anything to me. You certainly didn’t. Although I looked you up and down and you were perfect in your own dysfunctional way, you were nothing to me. I forget what you were asking for at a kiosk dedicated specifically to Nintendo characters but I remember your voice. Shaky, unsure. as we walked you stuck your hands in the pockets of your jeans and looked only at your shoes and at my ass from time to time. When we were done looking around we got back into your car, avoided the puddle and got on the road home. I can’t remember the conversations we had very well but I do remember that I couldn’t see your eyes through your Ray-Ban’s when you looked at me and that bothered me.

You dropped me off a block away from my house. If my parents knew I was hanging out around someone like you I would be barred in my room for the rest of my life. But I’m sure you would have tried to find a way around that.

That’s my most vivid memory of how we worked. It seemed as though you adored me (though how could I know, you probably just wanted me to suck you off) and I hated the fact that I liked your company.

I remember you were the only one who came to visit me in the hospital when I was weak and that made me adore you. I jumped into your arms and hugged you which I am not accustomed to, but it felt so nice to have human contact after so many months of hiding myself away from the world. You sensed it and you wouldn’t hold my hand when we took a drive outside the unit. I don’t think that you seemed cold or distant, just more respectful. You looked away from me as I examined your features that were so foreign now. Your mustache, the disheveled hair that you attempted to tame with Layrite, those stupid fucking Ray-Ban’s that hid your blue’s from me. You told me it was best if we didn’t see each other anymore, or something like that. It’s not really something I could have said yes or no to because you had your mind made up so it seems.
And I was in no mood to fight or argue.

I don’t know if you learned anything from the time we spent together but I hope you have. Every now and again I text you when I am having a sad night and even though I thought writing this out would make me feel better I will probably wake you and your girlfriend up with a text just to tell you I wrote it. I haven’t learned my lesson there. Although I have gone through two boyfriends, one that I still am with and love very much, I still can find time to bother you with my presence. What you taught me was that the people who mean the most to you in life are the ones you think you hate but realize you care about on a deeper level when it is too late. From that, you also taught me a lesson on letting go and moving on from your mistakes. And now when I drive down by Centre and 16th Northwest, or when I smell Lush’s Dirty scent or when I read that book by Ned Vizzini I’ll think of whatever it was that happened to me in the spring of 2011.