My mother tells me I should be ashamed

of my love. It is too pure, too reasonable,

too full of truth. She tells me,

the human brain is about three to five times

heavier than the human heart,

and yet I let it outweigh

every part of me that knows

better.

And she’s right.

I should be ashamed of

a lot of things,

and I am.

But loving cannot

be one of them.

Because no matter how much it

kills me, it ...

so I was born into hands

that didn’t know they were claws.

and loving was a vice

because, without a doubt,

you’d be unloved in the end.

so—my sister grew teeth

faster than she grew a heart.

my heart grew inside out,

and my teeth never learned

how to come in.

so—my mother rubbed my gums

with alcohol and leaves,

then left me alone

in hopes I’d learn

to make loneliness mine.

when I hear growling,

...

when my father dies,

I am like chalk on sidewalk.

I have prepared myself for this

moment for years.

when planning the funeral,

I am like summer on

a sunday night.

I tell the mortician exactly

which casket he deserves,

and say the suit doesn’t matter.

when giving my speech,

I am like ice in water.

I don’t lie; I tell everyone

what a horrible person he was.

when my father dies, I am

fear living i...

Picture this:

A faceless man

on the corner of a street you’ve never

been down before.

Shackles bite his wrists,

his ankles,

chains that spool out endlessly,

like veins of iron.

In each link,

a name is faintly inscribed,

ghost-script in the metal.

You know,

in that strange, buried way,

you know what the

names mean. And you know,

with the quiet dread of recognition,

who the faceless man is,

and...

Say _remember_ like it’s nothing.

Sour tears down your cheek,

worship on your tongue.

You don’t count the days like I do,

the days until winter arrives

to die quietly inside me.

Say _carnage._ Say _surrender._

I remember a poet

who happened to be a man,

who happened to be crushed

by the one thing he called his will.

I see him now,

building himself up,

tearing himself down,

as if waiting for som...

I was promised:

a mother.

a father.

a house with four walls

and a bed that knew my name.

ice cream on Sundays

after church.

God,

in the shape of light

through cloudy glass.

a good movie,

a better kiss goodnight.

a door that opens

both ways.

I wasn’t promised,

but nearly had:

a stray cat,

half-shadow climbing a tree.

a boy on the slide

who called me toothless.

a father who stayed.

a mother who loo...

There’s something in the air

at 12 a.m., when the world

is sleeping and the lights

are off.

Something that brings forth

memories thought long forgotten,

pain thought long healed.

I remember every person and

everything I have ever loved—

and the love, it hurts.

A kind of pain that doesn’t

wait for tears.

A kind of pain that lasts

for years.

At 12 a.m., I love a little harder.

I love the sound of ...

It seems that every Sunday night,

the stranger on my couch is drunk.

Usually, he’s quiet and stares at the wall,

with not much to say.

But when he’s drunk, he stares at me

in an _I-have-words_ kind of way.

I can ignore him with ease.

When I feel like sitting beside him,

I offer him some crackers and cheese.

I wonder what it is about Sunday

that gets him so riled up.

On Monday morning, he’s norma...

_(The stage is set: an empty road stretches out before the man. The sun blares with a spiteful heat. There are still many miles to go.)_

_(Finally, a red car drives up.) _

_(The driver rolls down the window. A man with grassy eyes.) _

**DRIVER** _(with urgency)_

Where to?

**HITCHHIKER** _(setting his hand on the roof of the car)_

As far as I can get.

_(The driver looks the hitchhiker up and ...

I think my father

Is estranged,

strange,

a strange,

stranger.

I think he hurt

Is hurt,

has hurt

hurts.

I think my mother

wants to forgive,

forgives

gives

forgets him.

I think she thinks

she might be invincible,

invisible,

invincible,

I think I want

him to love

leav...