I want

To take all the good parts and condense them together for the next ten years

I can’t undo anything but if I could I’d erase this whole past year

I would have told you I love you more

I’ll take care of your house

I just want a hug

I won’t use you as a sex toy anymore

I want to fix you pancakes in the morning

Get on Girl – Song Lyrics

(D) Ain’t this grand, ain’t this (D) everything you dreamed it would (G) be

(D) Empty’s your hand and (D) home ain’t where home used to (G) be

Ain’t it (A) funny how no one (D7) stays

When it’s (A) you who’s always going (D) away

There’s no (A) goodbye but you’ve got nowhere to (D7) stay

Ob get on (G) girl, get on (D) your way

Just get on (G) girl, get on (D) your way

.

(D) Where’re you going and (D) who are you pretending to (G) be

(D) Your ships have all sunk but (D) still you’re gonna cross that (G) sea

Ain’t it (A) funny how everyone (D7) said

It’s only (A) you who’s sick in the (D) head

But it’s alright (A) girl, you ain’t (D7) dead

Just go on (G) girl, go on (D) your way

Just go on (G) girl, go on (D) your way

.

Ain’t it (A) funny how (Asus) everything (D) strays

Ain’t it (A) funny how that’s (Asus) always the (D) way

Just get on (G) girl, tomorrow’s already (D) today

Just get on (G) girl, get on (D) your way

Epilogue

It is an art form, being able to discriminate between I never meant to let you down but I do. To not go in the right direction. To die without dying. I did somersaults as long as I could to keep the sun rising, but eventually there weren’t any more new chapters. Eventually there was nothing left to do except rearrange the letters of your silence until I couldn’t tell the difference between a cry and a breaking window. There the bedroom of my childhood and there, arms big enough to gather me in, but both refused to console me. A moon without a night sky. I am all out of deep breaths but I am not sick. Sometimes it just happens like this. Sad endings are just as true as happy ones.

Surgery

She keeps twirling so they keep drawing

equators right above her hip bones

a slow dance with a scalpel a slow motion

pirouette a revolving plastic easter egg

that’s been halved so many times

there’s nothing left except too much pink

too much swollen there’s nothing there

except for all the things she’d been forced

to swallow &fingers &fumbling &tugging

and always the pulling out of things

that no longer fit

Survivor

as if it is a choice one makes

picking bruised peaches out of the barrel

.

as if one hasn’t already drained all the water out only to find there is still a mouth that won’t stop opening and closing

while someone else gets to stand at the light switch

.

on and only the shadows have shifted

off and you pray, pray, pray for sleep

Dirty Girl

And this is how you managed it,
broken things always turn: lust
to sympathy, love
to disgust. Bruises
become a disease.
An offering is placed in your mouth, not a gift but a hesitant consolation.
That caution,
that thin layer between you, is more a brick
wall, as if you really are as dirty
as that uncontrollable shudder, that
reflexive wrapping of your legs
around men who tried making love with
their loneliness;
as dirty as begging
that is really begging.
I’ve tried to scrub it off but it grows
thick and fast in this dark, in this
damp.
A second skin I can’t slough off.

I must

get my anger back.

I must make my fingers forget this

wringing, this careful shredding of paper.

I must get back my hands, the ones

that relished the feel of whole things

before they are hurled, whole things

before there are holes.

.

I must get my anger back.

I must have misplaced it in the

dark or diluted it with survival.

I must have hammered it into

the shape of an ode to water, a name, legs,

tongue, the shape of a story offered up as

an apology.

I must have confused

this fistful of hair for frailty, mistaken

this ache for sickness.

.

I must have leveled

myself flat, uprooted every tree, built all

these stone altars myself but I am neither

Isaac nor ram but able.

I must burn down this wheat field.

I mustn’t stop until all this soil is scorched.

Dream Poem #1

this is the

dream where three

men knock on my door to

tell me there’s a girl hanging in the

foyer they tell me this in a bland manner they

tell me this as if it is the answer to a question I had once

asked the answer is no not with a noose but with hooks it’s not urgent

trivial in fact and yes she’s naked but that too is irrelevant since her eyes are

stitched shut but the door keeps closing and the VHS tape keeps

rewinding and the men keep making me re-open the door so

they can keep repeating themselves every time I try to

leave the door slams shut so I have given

up trying to unhook or cover her

since I don’t know where

the foyer is or what

the question is

anymore

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