Self-Conscious

I am a little girl whose gotten too old

Since last September.

A lover shaped by death

A loser shaped by life. A friend-

No a sister.

Sister to those who wear pink frosting on their lips.

Pushing out more love than my blood can hold.

Trying to be a selfless granddaughter.

Thanking God I’m not a mother.

A bitch who can’t quite hack it and

feels guilt for days.

A wealthy white girl who loves black art.

I am a brain exhausted from analyzing itself

Trying to plan life before it screws me again.

Sheild up- alone in a city of millions.

Its 2:55 on Monday April 12^th

Six days since I’ve been to the cemetery

Exactly 96 hours til he holds me.

Avoiding outdoors because the subway should have been bombed today

Sending flames into the cloudless blue sky

But it didn’t

Instead a Hollywood producer murdered his wife-

Afghan people chant “Death to America”-and Kim and Reggie

Broke up again. It’s lunchtime

But I’ve lost my appetite.

Hidden at the end of the hallway

On the air mattress that consumes the living room,

the one I stole from the bitch who fucked my boyfriend.

Sitting in the shadow of a tower of dishes

With sparkling sunlight

Bouncing off the 3 day old tequila soaked shot glasses.

Protected in my shelter

Three blocks from the dirty river

Two blocks from the dirtier hospital

I see dead flowers in another student’s window

And hear children’s giggles rising from the schoolyard

My computer is missing a crucial key

The glow of YouTube coercing me into getting lost within it…again.

Music from high school plays from

The bedroom I abandoned.

A stained paper plate lies ravished on the floor

From the cake that had her face on it.

Elmo and Janis smirk at me from the walls

And it doesn’t smell like spring in here.

The Polish President has just died.

I’m taking advantage of solitary time-

Rushing before the metal door opens and slams shut

Not putting off the poem in my head –

Forcing inspiration so I don’t feel guilty for staying in.

This poem- it mocks me like all that came before it

Unlike usual, it won’t beat me this time.

Need to write another for the thirty/thirty

Finally using theatre with the poetry it negates

Objective: I want prove I can do it- to find a voice I want to share

Tactic: to say fuck you and mean it

Because I really am fan-fucking-tastic and know it

Distraction, fear, lack of a thesaurus and a dulling pencil

All get in my way, creating an intricate obstacle course

Of ideas and school supplies

But to get what I want

I breathe

Shake out my hand

Forget erasers exist

Click off the news

Take one big sip

And write just one more line than I planned.