Cover Up

I’ve been peering into the cracking water faucet

and drowning in the stale white light.

The tiles, discolored like the whites of my eyes,

scream an invitation to sink into the water-stained tub

And scrub this sin off my skin.

Matte paint flakes off the wall like the wall said

“No,”

and it listened.

If only it were that easy.

Looking at my blurred reflection

in the toothpaste-splattered mirror,

nothing can strip the bitterness of

tequila and unwanted kisses from my mouth.

The health classes never told me

my friend would be the culprit,

and this bathroom would be his playground.

The health classes told me he couldn’t have.

3,000 square feet, he calls it home.

I call it hell. Tucked in the heart

of cookie cutter suburbia.

The bricks are a mask,

and it’s all about paving over the truth.

Wearing false innocence comes easily

When it’s all you’ve ever known;

and his face says he couldn’t have.

I’ve strolled through all the stop

signs in this neighborhood

and cringed at the names that roll

off my tongue like cursive,

camouflaging the upturned noses.

His parents pay their HOA fees and mow their lawn,

so he’s one of their own;

and they insist he couldn’t have.

City hall has enough glistening marble to

reflect this filth for the rest of my days.

Standing amongst thousands of people who followed

newspaper and magazine headlines,

ending up here.

Next to the opposite of the perfection they were searching for.

And they tell me he couldn’t have.

A country where patterns and shapes

flying on a piece of cloth

tell me I’m free,

but forget to mention the solid metal links of shame

I’m bound by.

They forget to mention he’s freer than I am,

because he couldn’t have.

I live here, in a country that says I’m guilty

and my intoxication is his pardon;

In a city where I’m to advertise my misfortune as my

mistake that I’m granted forgiveness for;

In a neighborhood where Elm Street Is called

Magnolia Drive. And Freddy hides;

In a home I was taught was the American dream

I was supposed to chase after;

In a bathroom where I just can’t

wash this off.

Picking My Poison

I thought I’d woken up

in a cold, wet ditch again,                 

my lips wrapped around

a cheap bottle of whiskey

the way I want your limbs

wrapped around my aching body;

but I’m not sure I’d feel any different

if I’d woken up on the sand

with sunshine in my eyes.

I tell you,

this is how I thrive.

I’m speaking to you,

but you don’t hear.

Is the faintness of my plea

below your frequency?

I’d speak up if I could,

but it feels as if the last boy

ripped out my voice box

and it’s only just now starting to heal.

Tell me what it feels like to feel.

Please,

Tell me why you can’t be here;

why we can’t lie in bed,

scratch secrets

into each other’s skin.

Why can’t you be the one

that does me in?

Five Inch Freedom With Conditions

These red suede pumps

put me at a whopping five foot ten;

but this pedestal is wobbly,

with a double-edged sword

waiting to break my fall.

My ass-

ets are accentuated as I

drift from bar to bar,

sip from glass after glass,

wearing a dress I bought myself

after working my ass

off.

Compliments

turn to

insults

as I shatter

expectations.

Shame me,

for I am a slut;

and this untainted hollow locked tightly

between my thighs

must just be a liar.

God forbid I tower over

a man;

and God forbid I use what

He has given and allowed me

for me.

Men don’t have to remind me

that freedom is only freedom

if I do it their way.

Men don’t have to remind me

that I will never be free.

Lost in Feelings for a Girl Who’s Lost in the World

Bloodshot eyes glued to the ceiling.

Your name pumps through my veins;

What is this feeling?

My damaged heart could use some healing;

but you take another puff. I wait in vain,

bloodshot eyes lost in the ceiling.

A deck of cards isn’t what he’s dealing.

You don’t call me back. Another gram of pain.

What should I be feeling?

You ask me if I love you, but I try concealing

the truth as if my blood hasn’t been replaced by your name;

And your bloodshot eyes believe me, glued to the ceiling.

Your spirit he is slowly stealing,

numbing your essence. You’re not the same.

What is this feeling?

His hollow, hungry shell, feeding on your feelings.

I take a puff. Now neither of us can be saved.

Our bloodshot eyes stuck on the ceiling.

What exactly is this feeling?