I was born two decades ago,

screaming in Morse code,

hiccuping gunpowder and milk.

I was the bullet chewing through my

grandfather’s skull,

which was actually a watermelon,

which was actually a door,

which was actually my

mother’s ear—where I now live,

whispering: he isn’t dead, he isn’t dead.

she wrings her hands,

twisting out the ocean

until her tears are dry,

until the sirens choke on their colors,

until the lies set themselves on fire.

My parents say I am brave.

The angels in my nightmares say I am brave—

but listen—

they say**—**

stay in your grave.

Everyone’s afraid of you.

I drink the stars like apple juice,

but they taste like vodka,

like spit,

like the voice of—you know who.

I bite into lamps to see

if God is watching,

but all I get is fluorescent grief,

light leaking out of my ribs.

It is time I stop speaking His name.

I know nothing of Him.

We are strangers staring at each other

through a two-way mirror,

pretending we don’t exist.

I only leave my grave when I’m drunk.

I walk through the streets

past men with red hats,

their eyes sealed shut with glue,

their mouths full of static.

My parents say I am brave.

The mosquito sucking my

blood says I am brave.

Now we’re both drunk,

laughing into each other’s veins,

while the angels tug on my shoelaces,

and drag me back to the grave

I keep forgetting I belong in.