Sometimes I come home

at two o'clock in the morning

wearing someone else's clothes,

with thighs exposed and heels

that beat against the concrete

in time with the ringing

in my ears.

The neighbors hear it,

and in their windows

index fingers emerge through

dusty blinds, and they watch me

up the stairs with my head high,

the walk of

triumph.

Sometimes I come home

smelling like smoke other people

have breathed on me,

and beer I didn't have to

pay for.

I peel my jeans off,

pull my shirt like a cobweb

over my head, and climb into

white sheets unfazed

by the things you used to mumble,

still sleeping.

I have grown parts of myself

in petri dishes since I last saw

you,

built back bridges you set fire to

inside of me so my backbone

could not connect to my

courage, so I could never

feel whole enough to

forget you.

I have lost parts of myself

between couch cushions and

under car seats since we last

spoke

that I do not want back,

that do not become me,

that are better off tucked

deep in those places,

because it feels better to cut the

dead away,

like a fresh haircut,

like a frostbite amputation, like

a grand opening ribbon

marking the first full day

I didn't miss you.

"Be thankful you woke up today, for God let you live another day."

Fuck this.

FUCK. THIS.

Fuck God.

FUCK GOD FOR TAKING CREDIT OF EVERY ACCOMPLISHMENT I EVER MAKE. HE WASNT THE ONE WHO LET ME LIVE- I WAS. I AM THE ONE WHO SAYS IF I GET TO LIVE OR NOT. I WAS THE ONE WHO DIDNT GUZZLE DOWN PILLS LAST NIGHT- NOT HIM.

IM SICK AND TIRED OF GOD BEING SEEN AS THE CONTROLLER OF ME. I AM MY OWN PERSON. I AM NOT RULED BY A HYPOCRITICAL BASTARD WHO LET'S HIS CHILDREN SUFFER. I AM TRULY RULED BY THE SHADOWS IN MY THOUGHTS AND THE DEMONS IN MY BRAIN THAT GOD COULD NEVER SAVE ME FROM.

FUCK OFF, 'GOD', BECAUSE YOU ARENT AS POWERFUL AS YOU LET PEOPLE THINK YOU ARE. YOURE TERRIFIED OF LETTING PEOPLE KNOW THAT THEY ARE THEIR OWN GODS AND THAT THE POWER TO SURVIVE AND TO CHANGE AND DESTROY LIES WITHIN THEM. BUT YOURE JUST A TYRANT RULING OVER A KINGDOM OF A WEAKENED SPECIES.

BUT GUESS WHAT, GOD? EVERY KINGDOM HAS A LIFECYCLE AND THIS ONE IS ABOUT OVER. WHY DONT YOU LET US LIVE IN PEACE FOR THE TIME THATS LEFT AND GO FUCK UP SOMEWHERE ELSE.

Writing from the mattress

fog bank head

sinuses drained to gums

pulse heavy in ear

filling an old notebook

Saturday night on Central

a waxed-brain drive to the drug store for medicine

sweating in line

the guy behind the counter

looked slightly

touched with

Downs syndrome or

fetal alcohol syndrome

or a premature birth

but whatever it was

he also had an angry look on

his face, a chip on his shoulder,

something to prove

-a little chubby cowboy

in his heart

wanted payback

for something

on some level-

He looked up at me

and asked me if

I was drunk

and if I drove there

a few people in line

looked me up and down

I ignored him while he put

the Tylenol in the bag but

he handed me the bag

and told me he was

serious about

it

was I drunk

I stared down at him:

Why? You want to fuck me?

an old man in line started laughing

but I kept my eye across the counter at his half-frightened stare

and started to feel bad

anyone with a normal brain

would be

able to tell by my color and sweat that I was sick

I waited for the war to rage

but he just stood there with

his mouth half open

wide moon eyes

and a mole sprouting hair

just under his eye socket

I looked dead at it

and something changed

inside me, something in the

heart

a flicker

or a trick of light

a feeling that

his face

was my whole past

staring at me

I smiled at him:

I'm sorry, buddy. I'm just sick, and I need to sleep. Make it a good night.

Back here in bed I can't get that mole out of my mind

and I worry that he's even more aware of it now

and I worry that

I hurt his feelings

and I know it's going

to keep me awake all night

even though it brought

an old man some joy

and showed me

the past is

more breakable

than I thought

it was.

They're like maggots

Eating up my brain

Making me think things

That I shouldn't be

It kills me

Pains me

Drives me insane

It pushed him away

Or did I push him?

And it just made

My everything

End

He's a thief

But behind the act

Was a dying son

He's a killer

But behind the act

Was a man who protected his daughter

He was a bully

But behind the act

Was a man beaten by his father

He is a drunkard

But behind the act

Is a man who's been lonely

He is a cheater

But behind the act

Is a broken heart left to wither

People tend to judge

Everyone's appearance

But behind every facade

There's always a story behind

Not being good enough, always judged behind my back. thinking I'm annoying, ugly, never worth the risk, never took the chance. Always looked at never talked too. my weakness is myself my own judgment, the battle between me and myself. the wall that I haven't broken down. Not going to be good enough—Terra

the ghosts come sideways

diagonal

vertical

forwards

backwards

and up from the floorboards

angry fellows

one holds a clock

the other a ring

one a set of keys

two are cradling a marble coffin

and one has my face on a pole

my heart wedged in my mouth

that's a new one, I think to myself

normally he just laughs at me

Christ, don't tell me he's running out of

ideas, too.

He never

got to do what he’d

wanted to

even though he never knew

but I’d see it on his face

in his skin

his cigarettes

his prison tats and his

brown beard

he loved

his food

his TV

mostly that

but what he lacked

was overall courage

I wasn’t always pleased

with his choices

or his slovenliness

or his punishment

or his style

or his complete and total absence

of grace and class

and basic human function

I never liked the way he ate

or the way he would grind his teeth

when he became angry

and I would stare up to his teeth in horror

his bottom lip pulled down with disgust

his burnt finger poking me in

my bony chest

taking out his failures

on my weak structure

it wasn’t an everyday occurrence

like some children had it

he did what he could

before death took my mother from him

then the heroin, meth, coke, and Marbs took his natural teeth and his home

our home

and in the remaining years

he wore away to leather

and nothing

toward the end

he ended his words

in whistles from false teeth

I could’ve easily

knock him on his ass

which is why I’d never drink

with him.