There is a weight on my chest 
sinking me further down 
into an explosion of rubble
or a spiral of stairs 
leading me down 
into a dark room 
or a chest of treasures 
filled with porcelain dolls—
and maybe I see hope at the bottom?

Or is it a pair of butterfly wings,
clipped from the 
branches of a ripening 
peach tree?

But this fruit isn't native to
where I grew up, 
so I'm not as familiar with the 
taste of it 
as I am with salt pressed against 
my wounds,
or antiseptic sprayed on 
my tongue. 

But I think that god has picked 
a fruit from that tree. 
He cries like a weeping 
lightning strike.
He asks me for forgiveness. 

What can I do with this unfamiliar 
pair of mourning doves placed on
my palm? 
Whispering like the wind that 
it's okay. 

I don't know this orchard. 
I am not its farmer. 
I cannot anoint the seeds of this field. 

i listening to this song while writing this. SO TRAUMATISING but so good…

"How could I miss these 
morning heron calls and 
nighttime fox cries? 
These dazed summer days and 
docile winter evenings?"

"I'm going back to House,"
we used to say. 
House with a capital H. 
So everything just became
this House, 
that House-- 
the House with the 
room in the attic,
the House with the 
bedroom in the living room. 

And so I've become 
hunched over like a crescent moon 
slowly rolling inwards, 
looking for anything but 
House with a Capital H, 
chipping away at my own stone.

So now I've got 
red, blue and yellow craters 
on the surface of my skin; 
some covered in the taste of saliva. 
Some covered in the smell of a 
much- adored carpet. 

But those dents are so quickly eclipsed by 
"But how could I miss these
warm playful hugs and
late night coffees? 
These crisp autumn leaves and 
soft duvet sheets?"

Each late night whisper and
every midday prayer 
just becomes another dent
on the surface of a distant moon. 

The man in Plato's cave who never looks past the shadows
The story of staring at a page 
The artist starving themselves of paint 
All the things I should say that get stuck in my throat 
The case of staring at the mirror repeating the same phrase
over and 
over.

The fox hiding in his den is
knocking against the 
cage of my teeth.
So I wrap him up in a couple more layers. 

The alcoholic chasing his drink with another
Me chasing my drink with another 
Me wanting to see stars with another.

Then my drink,
and my words
and all that ambition 
are crashing against my 
teeth at the same time.

So now I have to kiss that (damn) almost porcelain toilet seat. 
It's cold and willing, 
almost as if it wants me. 
Maybe it thinks my lips are soft, 
though I imagine they're a bit chapped. 

And it's almost like the stars started dancing 
or the wave finally finished crashing
and the words are in the toilet 
beside the fox
and the cowardly lion 
and the boy who cried wolf. 

I'm sure I could reach my hand into eternity 
into nonsense 
into the greyhound chasing 
the willow tree wishing 
and something holding out 
its hand.

And right at the bottom
there may be 
a corner carved out
for me as well. 

I think I still remember how you used to put me to sleep. You sang no songs but detailed bits of history to me. You told me to remember the past, but oh, how I wish I didn’t.

Did you carry me on your shoulders or in your arms?

Did you cut my food into pieces?

Father, I’m so tired of pouring my grief onto this page. I would much rather stain someone’s shirt and yet there are no volunteers.

Father, anyone, lay to me down to rest. Watch over me while I sleep. Tell me something to ease my nerves. Tell me another story from the past.

Do you remember driving me through the streets, the sun barely risen over the distant mountains? It seems like you can’t and so I carry the weight of this memory alone. I wonder if it weighs the same as your coffin.

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say goodbye to counting every freckle peppered against someone's skin.

say goodbye to contact- without- contact.

say goodbye to the soft gums of youth. To tiny rough teeth nurtured by milk.

say goodbye to "what if?" and "almost". Let it all go like one final wish upon a star.

tuck all your memories into your pocket like a lucky coin. Kiss it one final time just in case you lose it. Kiss it the way your mother kissed your forehead. Don’t forget your love but let it go anyway.

say goodbye to the lightning and the thunder.

say goodbye to the leaves that trickle down the drain.

watch as clouds clear and all is forgotten.

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my hands are small but there are still a few things i can hold. sometimes it is not enough. recently it is never enough.

soft and supple like my childhood stomach. soft and supple like my mother's white stomach. I still cry for her hold me just as I did then. I stare at the knife that cut her open crying just as I did then.

I don't know how to reach tomorrow. But soft and supple I still look for my home.

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