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 12th
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
Afghan people chant “Death to
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.
