I Would Leave Me If I Could: A Collection of Poetry(2)
It’s sitting in your own filth for days, staring at the shower across the room while minutes become hours.
It’s six months since you’ve talked to your dad, And whining like an infant to your lover begging to be spit-shined like a piece of silverware, “I have given so much to the page, please tell me I am not worthless.”
It is not a desire.
It is a clenched jaw and an aching back and a disposition to spite everything around you.
To find the world not worthy of your words, and to find yourself unworthy of the world.
It is towering arrogance that says, “Let these passages be free in an existence that will cherish and worship them.”
It is a terrible self-loathing that sends your teeth sinking into your lips.
It’s a gut pushed out and shoulders slumped and a sneaking suspicion that everything you see is altered through your gaze.
They cry,
“But I WANT to be a writer!”
And my head hangs.
You are asking to be shot square in the head.
You know not what you seek.
You ask for bleeding brains and carnage that stains your pillowcase.
You ask for jelly
in the place of the cartilage in your spine.
You ask for kindness that is never returned.
You wish to burn alive in the flame of a love unrequited.
It’s simple.
Write.
HOMEMAKER
listen to that
cool
cool
water run
never been good at being alone say “hello holy father.
where’s your daughter?
she could make this house a home.”
you got a
new
new
closet
never been good at savin’ cash.
chrome on the faucet and you bossed it.
i’ve never seen you on the counter before.
listen to that cold
cold
winter blow
never had time for absolutes.
new steam shower for the powder.
his-and-her sinks but
just
for
you.
you got a brand-new bedroom.
a clean set of sheets I’ve never seen.
thread count’s pricey, for your wifey.
i know she don’t make the bed like me.
never seen a Persian rug look so homely never heard a sadder voice than when you phone me.
are you lonely?
you said it’s time for some renovations.
time for conversation.
but I flipped houses bigger than you before.
enjoy the silence in your kitchen.
been watering all these plants made of plastic and you think they’ll grow.
homemaker.
shiny new things but they’re all for show.
SUMMER FRUIT
I spent springs and summers as a child
eating the fruit from a watermelon.
Grainy sugar bites
and juice slick up my cheeks like a Chelsea smile.
My mother used to warn me if I swallowed a seed it would get stuck in my belly and grow a watermelon plant.
My stomach would expand till I’d combust.
I always spit them out in horror.
I spent a spring and summer eating the fruit
from the flesh of your lips.
The bounty of two round mounds, hard like pink sugar.
Your grip on my cheeks with a firm hand
holding my mouth open.
To drop seeds into my belly.
To spit a virus in my throat that grew into a giant “you” plant.
The branches
crawling up the walls of my insides and begging
to claw my mouth open and make me say things I don’t mean.
The dying leaves
flaking off
and swaying to the pit of my stomach in an imaginary breeze landing with a deafening thump.
Echoes that bounce up between my teeth.
And remind my tongue there is no more watermelon.
Just empty space.
YOU WERE FIRST
So many men who came before you So many women, one-night stands I guess I found it easier For me to charm a man
’Cause a woman always crumbled in my hands.
Could only act on what I knew.
Was raised to earn it that way too.
I guess I found it easier to split men at the seams At least that’s what I learned in magazines.
All this
soft skin, soft eyes
All these
Beautiful laughs and beautiful thighs Always kept me up at night The truth is I was terrified.
Pink lips, warm curves
All these
Wonderful aching shaking nerves Heart like it’s about to burst The truth is you were first.
I AM ANGRY BECAUSE OF MY FATHER
I am angry because of my father.
Because he would come home Wrinkled from work,
And slam the door so hard the house would shiver.
I am angry because of my father.
Because his furrowed brow Repeats itself in my Punnett square And opens the curtains On my forehead.
I am angry because of my father.
I can hold a grudge like it’s a hand.
I throw my watch on my nightstand.
I am a worthless smudge On the floor, in the rug In the kingdom of the almighty God who will judge