Let’s see ma’am now where should I start--

my sister is the sunshine of the family.

We orbit around her like drunk bees waiting for a drop of pollen or a joke, saying nothing.

I sit still and silent with clenched teeth until I’ve got bloody red gums from smiling in too many planned photographs,

I change the color of my hair like it’s in the witness protection program.

And I guess I’m all used to this sort of thing by now so I’ll tell you how

every night when my family goes to sleep I’m still up with a book on account of

I don’t wanna leave but I’m wanting to get out.

I stick my fingers in the edges and slam it shut till all we see is--

I’m sorry younger me, but what the hell is freedom? Is it something you buy in a tricolored popsicle at the fair

    or has consumerism not grabbed you by the cup size yet and asked your name and number?

    How young are we talking here?

    Yes ma’am I think I stopped growing around twelve or thirteen and my mind feels like it’s stuck there

    but the point is I’m done, done,

    now all I gotta do is wait slowly for my body to deteriorate

and fall to the ground up and down quick like a climax chart.

Yes ma’am I believe in a God not on my accord though cause I been raised in a church

and sure I seen them comedians that come in and make gentle jokes about being a Home Schooled Kid Like Me

but that ain’t exactly what I’m going for here see I think just by nature I may be a bit edgier.

Am I outrunning stereotypes yet?

(That was a joke ma’am you can laugh.)

Now how long exactly have I wanted black hair? Has it been long because nah it can’t’ve been

    do you have that in your notes, ma’am? Do you have in your notes how I can’t seem to do nothing permanent

    or that my favorite color’s red but I wear more blue? Do you have in your notes how I hold books like security blankets,

    how my mom and dad are real successful and my brother he’s good at math and I’m just not no matter how hard I work? 

    You been writing down that I’m sad? Or why? What you put down there in your notes, is it my favorite art or poems

    is it terror dreams is it the recurring one about baby Rosemary crashing out of my arms like a fish flopping for life on the art class floor

    cause my arms ain’t strong enough to hold up an act anymore?

Things are crashing, ma’am, they crashing real hard.

Planets are coming out of alignment but Pluto here’s just a stubborn one, huh?

And she don’t want to revolve around the sun no more, huh?

And it’s been about an hour so I should probably take a sucker and get the hell out so you can see the next messed up kid, huh?

But when my family’s all sleep y’all think about me still up reading.

I’ll stick my fingers in the edges of the pages and slam em real tight.

Now all you can see is the red.

you're the one that screwed us over; i gave us a chance, painted the vision soft on your palms; it was you who washed it off.

beginning relationships // constellation blind.

you held blind trust against my eyelids as i felt your hands on my hips, i thought your laughter tickling my ears was pure sincerity; no, i didn't suspect it then to be pure mockery at the unforeseen irony. so when you showed me the midnight you had crafted on the first of january, darling, i penciled in stars and hearts. who would've known i was blind to the constellations you were making, you stole my stars once i moved on to another and sew them together into something far more. and i never noticed anything until the quilt was done and you suffocated me with my own dreams.

struggling relationships // celebrating cruelty.

i once praised words are pieces of art, but old habits die easy when your lover grows cranky. and so i traced the phrase in the air, my lips pursed as i watched my heart scratch against the shattered glass. "happy anniversary, you're drunk." but you're just shaking your head and leaning in, wondering i won't kiss such a forgiving man. carefully i slipped the card from Wal-mart off the bed, told him he was sickening, something i couldn't stand. "

ending relationships // inevitability tastes bland.

it was like i couldn't even remember why i loved you i just know i do; that's the pain of loving you. and long-distance sucks but i've met couples who pull through, but not us, no, not you-you just acted the part when the camera rolled but the space felt like it was wasting you away. i tried, i truly did, but why leave the house when the world scares you? so when time came to pick up the pace, i shoved my ballot in his face: "i vote for my saving grace." it wasn't you, that much i know is true.

remembering // the ghost's name is nostalgia.

lyrics cry every night you promised to hold me tight just to forget the knife you left in my spine (careful, blood stains easy). and you mirror rejection ugly, quite unbecoming, like how the publishers told me my prose wasn't worth collecting. but i've learned to adore a me without you, regardless of the time it was taking (and how it's still a tad heartbreaking).

i should've known it was over the day i met you; i was far too excited for that fairy tale ending; you had such the audacity, it was appalling.

There is no such thing as ghosts.

I just needed to put that out there. Yeah, sometimes seemingly inexplicable things happen around the house, particularly at night, but I can guarantee you, if you dig deep enough, there is a very rational explanation as to why said thing happened.

Ghosts are not a rational description of events. Ever.

Yeah, the clock goes on and off in the middle of the night occasionally and scares the bejesus out of me. No, there is no ghost getting his jollies jerking me out of a deep sleep. The clock radio is probably 20 years old. I’m sure there’s a short in the wire. I just need to unplug it. Replace it. Easy fix. Not a ghost.

And sometimes, the door creaks open and slams shut. Clearly, there’s a window open. Somewhere in the house. Air waves are interesting like that. It happens. No reason to start talking about ghosts.

Occasionally, you might think you hear voices whispering when there’s no one else in the house. Might be the heat coming up. Or the air conditioning unit. Termites in the wall. Heck, might even be the wind. What it isn’t, is ghosts.

Now, what if you start seeing eyes in the marble in the bathroom or shifting shapes in the living carpet? I’d get your eyes checked. Might have those things they call floaters. What you don’t have? Ghosts.

In conclusion, there is no such thing as ghosts.

There is no such thing as ghosts.

There is no such thing as ghosts.

Maybe by morning, I’ll believe it…at least until tomorrow night.

i.

my seventh-grade classmate slapped me with the back of her hand, inked in slurs

and i stood there and let the words become an iron brand on my cheek.

she spits into my food: “sorry to ruin your lunch—wouldn’t want to ruin the taste of dog.”

the words on my face burn hot. i don’t move to rub them away.

ii.

i bet your parents came to america to work in a california nail salon. i bet they probably cleaned my grandaddy’s toes.

actually, my mom arrived in ellis island, and she waved at lady liberty, and i bet she didn’t know that lady liberty’s a filthy snake and a liar

i bet your parents are proud that this great country even allowed them in

yeah, i bet they are. i bet it’s everything my dad imagined when he starved, drifting in the pacific and i bet he really liked being called a yellow gangster and i bet he felt real welcome when he wasn’t allowed in some restaurants and i bet it was way better than his family’s life being threatened by some men in red uniforms back home.

iii.

i wore a face mask in public last weekend and a man told me to bring the chinese disease back to where i came from. i wondered if i forgot to wash off “alien” from my forehead that morning

he spat on me, so i used his spit to rub his slurs off my cheek

he ended up breaking my nose, and i heard the noise of my bones snapping, and it sounded like: “chink, chink.”

iv.

well, i mean, america spits on people like me and 

america spits on people who don’t really behave all that right

and america kinda spits on everything that makes it scared but

i think you know that. i hope you know that.

but it’s just, selfishly, all i can think about is me, and that

america spat on me last weekend. and i don’t really think i liked it all that much.