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The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros

i’m tired.

Like the old twisted root of a tree, i cut the rot off of me. Apply salted tears to open wounds. Build a moat to keep out liars; liars can’t swim.

Garland Rd Raids

l loved the feeling of you: shaved chest, too much hair reminding you of your father and

my father should have gone to jail too and you should have listened to me

sooner

the better I broke up with you; could’ve fixed you, couldn’t fix that:

touching her like that, you never touched me like that

no matter how I begged you left me; stabbed me

guess I did ask you to

—to wait for me, but you touched her like you never touched me.

how a blonde bitch gonna know how to hold you and

you’re too many long limbs walking out of prison; and

how a high bitch, gonna know how to hold you:

a broken psyche, with such innocent hands not like

my hands

black with dirt like my grandmother’s feet; daddy issue-glass shards

cut deep

like the liquor bottles in my grandma’s feet.

blue thong left out on the floor

of your room:

gave it to you in the back of a car;

cops meant to humiliate you, threw our intimate memories

on the floor of your room:

I held them back out to you and who

held you

still in orange, took your ink stained finger in my mouth, sucked all the paint out;

dressed in all black, you decided it was your funeral; we cried for you.

wouldn’t call you the one that got away but I didn’t love you either, did I.

Ode to that frat bro I didn’t finish fucking

He skirts the edge of my leg feeling slow with soft hands and a jagged ego.

I wish I could blur over men. But I taste an oppressive mouth, And a hairless face; Presidential hands, small enough to cup my chin, But not much else.

I cried for your demons because I knew you couldn’t I loved your women because I knew you couldn’t I left my heart on the bedside table to make room for your conscience a fourth daughter; a second wife; A therapist.

I made two of me to make room for one of You.

one day i’ll be old

and grey

but today

i’m sad and full of regret.

loss of love i’ll never get.

please don’t explain the projects

again.

hyperbolicparadox

Four hands to hold you tight Before you go to sleep at night They tell you even when they’re far away They’ll keep the bad guys held at bay. But I can fight my nightmares I can hold myself.

But I can’t stop the rocking, No I need your help.

You see this boy he touched me. His hands around my neck. It stopped the rocking for a while, Until he pushed me off the bed.

I never asked for much at all, A few small orders, nothing tall, Adult decisions and parent calls, Screams and yells, fists through walls,

And I can’t stop the rocking. No I need your help.

You see this boy he laughed, Brought me smiles that held me down, But he couldn’t hold the time of day For longer than an hour. He couldn’t keep his hands on me, He didn’t even bother.

I never asked for much at all, Just dreams with truth and presence, No I never asked for much at all, But four hands to hold me present.

You see there was this boy, Quiet and angry and lost, His mind broken and bruised and battered, And I thought Should it matter, Maybe my hands Could hold him together. Instead what I found Were hands inside me, Shaking me until I shattered.

I never asked for much at all, Just your hands together. And when the shaking couldn’t stop, When my insides curled around The blackness waiting in my heart, When the rocking threatened to send my soul from my body, When the love I knew slipped slowly, Those four hands started breaking, Falling to dust on the ground, And now I hold myself to stop the rocking, Better than I’ve ever found. Two hands to form a circle, Two hands to hold me down.

realistic-magic

that time I wrote the of thank u next when i was 20

excerpt from a pretty old short story I wrote, “Mermaid Chasing and Other Drugs”

Excerpt from a short story I wrote for a class: “Four Ways to Eat Apple Pie”

“A Fallen Soldier”

“Pangea” 5.22.18

LA Transplant

When I say

“I never assimilated to Texas culture,”

I mean to say:

I was never seduced

by these Dallas

suburbs;

by These Streets

—clean, empty of broken

liquor bottles & cigarette

butts.

When I say

“I do not belong here,”

I mean to say:

I miss the splintered railroad

tracks that grew

sunflowers like the sun

hiding behind dirty smog;

I mean to say

I don’t understand

why there are not broken signs

with too many X’s,

or that store with the pretty beads

& sequins

reading HOOCHIE

in big red, neon letters

in the middle of the day.

I mean to say

the kids here

have never seen a man reach into

trash cans for a full day’s meal.

I mean to say

these kids walked

home from school

without looking over shoulders

and I still don’t understand

why

there are no bars

on the windows.

When I say

“I never assimilated to Texas culture,”

I mean to say

I don’t know how to hide

my chipped teeth.

I mean to say,

I still remember my cousin,

too young to even spell

the ptsd she screamed

at uniformed men.

What I mean to say is

my grandma can’t get wasted on a Sunday,

So I never saw her again.

What I mean to say is,

“No one stole the tabernacle from your church?”

What I mean to say is

where are the 99 cent stores;

What I mean to say is

where the fuck are your 24 hour donut shops?

When I say “I never assimilated to Texas culture,”

I mean to say

my chain link fence

is not HOA approved.

When I say “I never assimilated to Texas culture,”

I am projecting.

What I mean to say is

I do not belong behind a white picket fence.

What I mean to say is,

I’m lucky to be here.

I rly want to do a nude shoot

hyperbolicparadox

Looking for self actualization

in crashing

waves of sensation;

Beating vibration

between shuttered breaths

—only

For me, myself

and i

look for the touches

Of anything

not me, a pillow maybe

like the men I will never open up to.

hyperbolicparadox

I haven’t written really anything in a year. And this isn’t by any means good. But a little public shame on my least followed media presence (or lack thereof) couldn’t hurt

Skid Row.

A real life nightmare on elm street, Unmasked devils who don't bother with candy walk up to the car expecting a father to unhand me for a penny prettier than the sun shining on his tattooed sleeve.

But he keeps driving, past human lined concrete tiles, where kids learn gang signs before they can even spell the street signs on the corners of the neighborhoods they never dare walk through alone.

A distressed child, his secrets pour out from the driver's side like vomit; Settings come built in smokey rooms, a little boy sits frozen as the naked women on pages left open, awaiting the encouraged objectification by

Eyes lost in time, locked on the road as it spirals out before him; Back

To when childhood was a humid summer: Lost to leaching mosquitos, leaving dried up adults in still growing bodies, forced too early to know how to clean wounds, leaving scar tissue in place of loving hands.

I can see fear wading in youthful eyes, tears I've never seen cried and I can only hold the hand large enough to engulf mine but I can't heal passed time.

I asked him one summer why he colored the dying grass green. He said, to remember the sun in spite of the parts I couldn't save.

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