The Door

Sometimes i wanna just lay this body down
float away and leave it behind
It’s heavy, this flesh
this warm and soft skin-wreath that hangs on my door
It beckons
This toothy smile, these sparkling eyes
like a lit doorbell in the night
My hands spread open, palms up
A welcome mat

I’m hiding behind the door
peeking through the curtains
The fire behind me illuminates my form
Stop knocking, i’m not here
The hearth is hot and the blue light bids me come
I step in and dance, rippling pink and golden, white, orange
Then grey and wispy, like air with fur,
I rise up and float away
My body lies below me, still warm and waiting

Suddenly, a torrent, and i am acrid
wetness,
Tears in hot ash, sss-ing
Someone’s at the door and they won’t stop knocking
Pushing the doorbell that fairly tinkles my name
while i sweep myself into a pile and inch towards the door
Taking shape, heavier with each step
Light and shadow filling the carved wood of the door
My door, my face, my flesh… Hullo?

Sometimes i wanna just lay this body down

Cry

I was the child who cried all of the time
Sometimes it made them happy
Sometimes it made them hit me
Sometimes it made them stop
Sometimes i saved it for later
In my room when it was all over

I was the girl who never cried
Sometimes it gave them permission
Sometimes it intensified their aggression
Sometimes it bought me reprieve
Sometimes it incensed them
I wore it all as a badge of honour

I was the woman who couldn’t cry
Sometimes it made me seem cold
Sometimes it damaged my children
Sometimes it cost me dear friendships
Sometimes it kept life at a distance
I didn’t understand why i was so alone

I am the woman who is learning to cry
Sometimes it makes me feel afraid
Sometimes it makes me feel furious
Sometimes it makes me feel broken
Sometimes it makes me feel clean
But it always makes me feel

And i’m no longer alone

Love, Mommy

Too much space
Too much waist
Too much taste
Know your place

Make less talk
Make less thoughts
Make less whats
Know you’re caught

Turn your head
Turn your heart
Turn your part
Know you’re dead

Kill that fact
Kill that face
Kill that case
Know your act

Take the time
Take the lyin’
Take the diein’
Know you’re mine

The Fly

I lie in a dry and quiet place
and think of those i’ve lost
I do not mourn them, instead
I wonder why anyone is still here
I writhe in my own chrysalis
i hope?
but i cannot fathom my accompaniment
The questions are too self-focused
The answer is, because they want to be
But i wonder if i’ve tricked them,
That i’m not a butterfly waiting to be freed,
i’m a spider and they’re caught in my web
Wrapped them in silver threads of things that i’m not
coated in the stickiness of pity
I am a thing
I was created to be a thing, and a thing i always shall be
When i emerge it will be from a shiny silver pod
I tried to merge myself with beauty,
But the result will be an abhorrence
I’ll be as filthy and futile as i’ve always been

Everyone Loves A Parade

You would think
i’d be there after all of these years
wherever there is
i haven’t found it and i’m tired of looking
dead tired
I’ve looked for the end
of the crazy parade and thought
if there’s a big, beautiful finale
then everyone will appreciate
the freakish spectacle of it all
the crowd gawps and gasps
at the ones with misshapen and missing body parts
the girl with an in-home slaughterhouse
where her labia and vulva and vagina should be
the woman who’s wearing the massive skirt
that hides dozens of starving children underneath
the one crossing back forth in front of the gaping crowds
oh, she’s on stilts and she’s breathtaking
she bends down close so that they can all see
how pretty she is
but her mouth is sewn shut
and they gasp and look away
the fantastically fat matron
who’s naked but her fat covers everything
so it doesn’t matter
she’s pushing an ornate pram
fit for a princess
whoever is in there is clearly the star of the show
everyone can tell by how the other entrants treat her
with deference and awe
the matron will lift up the curtain and pull back the canopy
for you
her meaty face beaming with pride
for you to see her perfect pink baby
who has neither arms nor legs nor eyes
she is only holes
dead holes
I see the crowd squirming
see they’re not entertained
so I do my juggling and cards tricks and tell bawdy jokes in a jocular voice
I thought we’d be close to the end soon
where’s that damn calliope
and the ladies riding sidesaddle on horses with braided manes and tails
prancing and trotting
where are they
and where are the other clowns
I know I can’t be the only one
I simply can’t
is that music I hear in the distance
or just a trick of my mind
my tricksy mind
I’m so tired of walking
this is a very long route
Maybe the world’s strongest man will carry me for a bit
he’s naked too
his skin is red as blood and he makes everyone scream
and then titter nervously
the crowd is losing interest
thinning out and moving off
the red man piggybacks me for a while
He hasn’t seen the other clowns either
and he doesn’t hear any music
I would think I could hear it by now
smell the popcorn and the horseshit
Maybe a couple of blocks over
and it’s just the wind whipping it away in another direction
I jump off the red man and smack a smile on my face
The show must go on, after all

Blood & Stars

Distilled into a single moment
an exploding star
My heart on my pinafore
Blood again
Scrubbing out the sky with the bleach in my brain
Don’t look up
Don’t look
The star sighs in death and joins the others
A constellation
Ruined panties in an expanding universe
I look up and see my face in the mirror
I look pretty
You can’t even tell where the blood was

Raggedy Ann

I am stuck in this place where the sunlight of tomorrow shines so bright upon my face, but the grey pall of yesterday is a weight that makes it hard to move, to breathe.

I want with my whole heart to be the person that people love: bouncy, ebullient, sweet, the flouncy sharing tree-hugging hippie goddess,
and i think i am her, or, i almost was…

But today today i am Eeyore and it is not a cute cartoon or story.
I am a little piece of cloth that could have been a quilt. But instead, i’m a dirty piece of fabric, that may have once been a dress worn by a queen.

I am now dirty and tattered and my pattern is barely marked.
There are no laundering skills that can make me clean enough for it not to be obvious.

What good is fabric that is too worn to even service as a patch?