you knew I had a bad desire to destroy it
all before
I hit the ground.

show me how to be an angel,
I think I’ve been there before
before I found out what my hands could do when they’re not pressed together anymore:
bring donuts for the office,
offer silence,
paint houses. mend fences.
pull the nails from my true loves feet.
I placed them everywhere.
smile openly at strangers,
hold the door and inner bleating,
stop repeating anecdotes that expose the dark recesses I’m engulfed in so I can save some space for longing, for mystery,
for silence.
it’s the surprise that I can’t take.

I invite them to dinner,
ask them to bring a favorite song,
a defect they love.
I like strings and female wailing,
chords that are long, surfeit with unrequited love.
I want it to sound like a heart that’s starving for admission but will
take it with a snare drum.
I apologize profusely for how bright my apartment is these days.
I know you expected something darker, but I prefer
a blinding scripture to the days I waded in
shade and open constriction,
open haste.
they understand the situation,
and they offer me some gifts.
I waste the night with demands and curious
Show me all the books you love.
Recite your favorite lines.
Are you some sort of prodigy?
I think the world is crawling with
caged geniuses that got lost along the way.
I need to see your insides and your
hands. Palms up to show you
aren’t hiding anything.
Are you the predator or prey?
Do you believe in martyrs;
do you believe that the devil traps the saints?
I’m no killer, I promise, but I’m
not the easy way.

Do you believe in chance?

I once watched my fate unfold across my eyelids,
two parties coming together in black and white,
a future that was possible, but someone whispered:
it is better to ruin this thing.
I believe in lessons.
There is no such thing as a mistake.

They show me teeth, piano, films. I show them
I show them a dozen ways to trample gardens,
I show them the drugs I bought,
show them my notepad:
do you see how I can write the future?
Look, I planted bombs everywhere.
I show them demolition.
I show them scribes can craft the wicked.
I show them what my insides look like.
I’m never naked for long but they need to see my
hopes. They need to know.
They know I’m a strange accidental channel and they ask
to see they’re grandma again.
They see my vacant stare.
I continue with the questions and they finally say:

Have you ever let a thought just pass?

So I repeat to them what I meant to say to you
the first time we met to explain
the danger of restriction.
but now I’m pinned to pages,
and one of you has the guts to say



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