I should walk out
naked
heart the size of Venus
glowing
bleeding
opening my arms to people
(i’m on my knees anyway)
if I was ever honest
about it.

My arms are crossed
in a purple peacoat,
pink lipstick,
hair curled like the old ladies
I served
to add ebullience to errands;
to gather self importance in felt bundles,
to hoist myself on self and never talk about it.
Paint my nails a bright color;
a conversation starter.
Vapid as possible.
Rip it all out later as if beauty matters
when I’m on the floor in tangles,
trying to untangle
words I can’t commit to;
where I am
making the motions of crying
stopping to
cough politely
to no one in the room.
Heat my dinner in a microwave
and fall asleep
unemptied.

AM radio today:
I want old crooners
giving it to me
to grasp the magnitude of legacy,
of death reverberating
against each window,
understand how most lives are wasted shirking
the embarrassment of a simple
“I love you” when we could have just
hugged more.
Lit a cigarette & choked.
But I put distance between myself and those I
run to.

Pick up charcoal at the vitamin shop to rub the tar away,
a Kombucha,
a pack of overpriced gum,
a candle for good measure
if I ever choose the high road and
drown myself in light and
love.
Dying to drown myself in three consecutive hours of
smuggled moonshine
& a quick spin around the block,
no seatbelt,
knees up and the airbag on.
Dying to be rocking atop a giant ladder
leading to the sun,
finally project my inner warmth
all over pedestrians in
middling dust
and they’ll say
I feel like I was gently touched.
Or cooked in an electrical storm.
Or hung from a tree.\
Or locked in a necklace that bruises my clavicle when
I’m not careful and I suddenly have to
run! away from it all.
I want to be fetal in silver and sapphire
grabbing his charred pinky,
hugging his hard heart and I still can’t call home with
any urgency.
I notice how many more streets there are than trees
and something tugs.

Grey storm clouds form on the side-view,
settle and condense:
the glass is  dotted with a thousand tiny reflections
of  survivor’s guilt
anthropomorphized.
This decade feels like elastic chaos,
one overwrought vignette.
The rain tastes like a bleating shore,
a pleading more
like God intended to rip this from my insides
this way,
hurdling into a glass mirror in an effort to
(break the perception)
memorialize
fresh heart
all over the closest floor
without a towel or a
polite giggle
or a frown about it.
No diatribe or saccharine delivery or any real
motive.
Like I was honest.
Like I was talking about it.

Take a drag.
Composed.
Watch the smoke cut designs into the ceiling
You liked this, don’t forget the feeling
of the first inhale;
the first time you rolled the stick between your fingers
it smelled like the kitchen window.
The first time you saw your brother smoke behind the garage–
you had spray painted your name into it first.
Before you learned to paint the worms,
he taught you how to shake the can.
He taught you how to tag the shed.
He taught you how to lie to dad
about the missing colors.
He taught you how to
curl up into a ball and drift back into your own insides
whenever you hear the rattle
like baby’s teeth
being tossed inside the bottle.

Whenever you see his yellow face
wrapped in silver worms
being tossed inside the bottle.

“around Earth Day”

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