Why not?

sometimes life is just about being pretentious and having fun

[writingunspecified]

Crash Out on I-69

Air hits bones connected to muscle, Connected to fat to flesh to fabric seating. Metal framing and grass overgrowth, Bark so close I could touch it, Leaves so close I can feel them. Cars rush down the highway; I almost think the vibrations are from my own, But rust's eaten through the engine And the gas evaporated from the tank. The barrier's fixed, now I am the remains.

[writingunspecified]

the title of this poem is a joke for me alone sorry

I tell you that I’d devour you whole And you hear that I love you. Come closer, won’t you? Grab my hands, I'm so starved For attention. Won’t you look into my eyes? I love you, Just keep looking at me. Don’t you love me? I love you, just keep your eyes on mine. Can you feel my ribs? Gaping, maybe too much, I love you, Won’t you let me love you? Can you feel my teeth now? Ribs, teeth– they’re all bones in the end. I told you that I’d devour you whole, And you heard that I love you.

Honest mistake.

[writingunspecified]

there are no angels in the city

I.

It’s sunny out, When you get home from school. The driveway is long and winding and the school bus drops you off at the very end. There’s an angel waiting for you, halfway down.

It is taller than you, even sitting as it is. It does not slouch. It does not look like an angel; It has no face, it has no eyes, it has no shape. If you look directly at it, there is static. You can feel yourself forgetting.

It does not look like an angel, But the sun frames it in such a way that an angel is the only thing it could be. Angels always have halos. You sit down next to it.

“Do not be afraid!”

I am not. I’m too old to be afraid.

“Rejoice! For you are the Chosen One!”

What was I chosen for?

“Does it matter?” There’s a mosquito nearby, you can hear it.  Strange, though. Too early in the day for mosquitoes. The sun is setting, when you look at it again.

Your dad’s car comes into sight. He jumps out when he sees you.

“Why haven’t you come back to the house yet? Your bus should’ve dropped you off hours ago!”

You look to the angel, but it is gone. You never heard it leave.  The mosquito is still around, though.

I met an angel.

“Don’t talk to angels.” Your dad squints at the ground next to you, as if he can see the imprint left behind. He can’t. It’s like the angel was never even there.

II.

There’s an angel in the doorway When your dad brings you home from the hospital. The porchlight hums a halo around its head. Your mom is arguing with it, to the best of your interpretation. Your mom doesn’t get mad. You lose sight of it once you get to the garage, And it’s gone by the time you enter the house.

Who was that?

“Just someone looking for directions.  It’s awfully dark out, easy to get lost.”  Your mom says. Your mom doesn’t get mad. She gets tired.

Okay, loveyougoodnight.

“Make sure you keep those stitches clean!”

You’re not quite in your room yet. Your parents are talking.

“There are no angels in the city.” Your dad says. Your mom is silent.

III.

It’s too bright in the city. The buildings gleam in the day And the neon signs shine at night. People stand under the signs, sometimes. They are the wrong shape. They are perceivable.

There are no angels in the city.

“Angels don’t like the city. It’s too bright for them.”

The city is too bright for me.

“You’ve always been sensitive to artificial lights.”

The city is loud, too. You like that though. There are mosquitoes in your head, sometimes. The cars and the shouts and the neon, They drown the mosquitoes out.

There are no mosquitoes in the city.

“Angels have always been pests.” Your mom smiles like you’ve told a joke. You’re not sure what the joke was.

IV.

There’s an angel standing on the sidewalk outside your dorm building. It’s so much taller than you, You have to look up at it to see what it has in place of a face. Moths taint the glow of the streetlight halo. There are no angels in the city. You are not in the city.

“Do not be afraid. Rejoice! For you are the Chosen One!” It speaks and your head fills with mosquitoes. It has no arms but it spreads them anyway, And the streetlight brightens.

Will you leave me alone?

“You are the Chosen One! I will not rest until you have lived your destiny!”

Who was I chosen by?

“Does it matter?” Mosquitoes and bees and flies and the buzzing and the buzzing and the buzzing.

Yes.

“You are Chosen, isn’t that enough?”

You suppose that it is.  Nothing better to do, at least.

Do I get to be Holy?

“Soon, Chosen One. Soon.” Thebuzzingthebuzzingthebuzzingthebuzzingthebuzzingthebuzzing it stops. The angel laughs. It sounds like gravel.

V.

You slam on the brakes as hard as you can. The angel stands in the middle of the road, Imperceptible aside from the occasional car that passes by. The headlights enshroud it, wrapping around and around and around And the light bends into an astigmatic glow of a halo. You get out of the car, and approach it.

“Where are you going, Chosen One?” Its voice crawls through and under and out of your skin.

Home. It’s winter break, the semester is over. 

“You know that I can’t reach you in the city. Why are you leaving me behind?” Its voice crawls into your brain. Static.

I want to go home. I miss them.

“Didn’t you want to be Holy, Chosen One?  Suffering is sainthood, martyrdom is a virtue. You cannot be Holy without drawing blood.” It does not laugh. It sounds like salt in your ears.

“Turn around, Chosen One. We have so much to do!”

You get back in your car. The angel doesn’t leave the road until you’ve completed the u-turn. The angel is sitting in your car and it is watching you. The radio is static.

VI.

You had a name once, you think.  You’re pretty sure you still do. You get test grades back and people can find you on social media And your professors seem to know who you are, You just can’t seem to remember what it was. What it is. Is it still yours?

Do you know?

“Does it matter?” The angel in your dorm room laughs. It sounds like gravel. The harsh overhead fluorescent light surrounds its head, Its halo for now.

It seems like it should.

“It doesn’t.  You are the Chosen One, that’s all you need to worry about.”

Static, as you try to remember, Or maybe as you try to forget. You have the papers and the tests and the lecture notes; You wrote a name on them,  Why can’t you read it?

Maybe you shred the papers, maybe the angel does. There’s too much static to know. It surrounds you.

“You don’t need to worry about it, I promise.” The angel pulls you into a hug. It has bony shoulders and a raised scar on its arm. You can feel it against your back. It burns.

VII.

There is an angel in your way. It will not be there for long. I want my name back.

The angel laughs. It does not sound like gravel. “I never took it from you. You have your name, Chosen One.”

You can look the angel in the face, now. There is static and there is forgetting but now there is remembering. It looks like you.

Give me my name back, or I will take it.

“I cannot give you what I don’t have.”

You can, and you will.

To draw blood is to make Holy.  You are not Holy. What happens when You draw Holy blood?

The angel laughs.  It sounds like you.

There was an angel in your way, And it is there no more. The sun glints off the pool of blood on the sidewalk. Angels always have halos, even in death.

VIII.

Mosquitoes bounce and burn on the porchlight, As you sit and watch the road ahead.  You crush one that lands on your leg.

There are no mosquitoes in your head. There is static and gravel and voices that crawl, But there are no mosquitoes.

“Awfully quiet night, for this side of town.” Your dad says.

He’s right. Fewer cars than normal pass by; not many houses have lights on. He’s right. There have been no angels tonight.

There are no angels in the city.

“We’re not in the city anymore. I guess that’s good though. You always hated it there.”

Other angels exist, you’re sure of it. One angel isn’t enough to be a pest, an infestation. One angel is enough to kill.

There are no angels in this house.

You say,

And you are only partially lying.

“I sure hope not, kid. Nasty business, dealing with angels.”

There are no angels in this house, But you are Holy, And that may be too close. The porch light hums over your head.

[writingunspecified]

You choke on happiness in the same breath as you choke on sadness, fear consumes you in the same way that fire will, when it reaches you. Doesn’t it feel more pleasant, more bearable, to just leave well enough alone?

[writingunspecified]

You gave so much, you’ll never get it back. Doesn’t it feel better knowing what’s left is protected from anyone that wishes to harm it? You’ll go through life cold and tired but you won’t hurt anymore.

[writingunspecified]

Did you think you could run forever? Who’d be surprised if you did, anyway? There’s no time to stop and think, not when you need to leave and leave and never be left. It’s the end now. There’s nothing to do but stop and think.

[writingunspecified]

Jump the starting gun and you’ll never lose, you’ll never lose out. That’s how that works, right? You run in like a whirlwind and out like a wildfire, there’s no peaceful moment for people to regret.

[writingunspecified]

Teenage Something Again

Twist and tug at my hair, I can feel it growing through my fingers. Fifteen again, Lungs too small for my ribs and ribs to small for my skin; Teenage girlhood, or something like that. Hair cascades down my back Into my lap– If I shave it all off, Will I come back to the present? I feel like this is the future Or maybe a dream, Or maybe I’ve been rotting for so long That when I leave my room I’ll emerge into a new world

[writingunspecified]

Wildfire, Revisited

Set yourself aflame See how long it takes to leave behind bones– Keep running until then. Let them marvel at you as you pass. Let them enjoy the spectacle while it lasts.

You have places to be and things to do And ever-growing third-degree burns from your own personal timer, Hair burned to cinders and the stench of cooked skin. Let them lose sight of the person under there. Let them whine when you’ve left.

The flames hide the future, still, And you can’t see the past anymore. All you can do is move on, let the fires burn on. Let them ignore how flammable they are. Let them get too close.

Run and run and run on by– Outpace their deaths with every step, Remember it’s your own you’re trying to outlive. Let them curse you as you leave. Let them figure out how to run.

Everything you touch is incinerated, Yet you burn on. Destruction’s a tried-and-true miracle. Let them convince themselves of heroes and martyrs. Let them think of blessings and curses and higher powers.

You will collapse, eventually. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Charred and alone and at last at rest. Let them wonder where you went, Then let them forget.

[writingunspecified]

Angel, Puppet, Doll

Witness me in all my viscera, Picked scabs and nails bitten bloody; I am reborn in your image, Over and over again Until nothing human remains. Can you love me like this? Can you look me in the eyes? There’s so many, now, you only need to pick two. I thought this was how you wanted me All-seeing, all-knowing, all-loving. I remade myself for you Flawless, divine. You gave me a razor to carve myself up And the needle to sew the skin together anew, And you can’t even look at the final product. Wasn’t this your plan for me? My guts on the ground don’t feel like much of a reward.

[writingunspecified]

And–

And it’s almost dark out, But we lay there on the driveway. It’s almost cold in the way that summer never stops being warm, But we stay and–

“I don’t love in passion, I’m not sure I can love at all, But if I could have a best friend Who expects nothing but me as I am now I think I could try to love them.”

And your head is on my stomach, Back pressed into the pavement. It must be uncomfortable for you, But you stay there anyway and–

“Isn’t that what love is? A best friend who looks at you and thinks That if you were anyone else They’d still want you exactly as you are?”

And I pat your shoulder, So you shift enough that I can lay on my stomach instead. I’ll have road rash along my ribs tomorrow, But this way I’m comfortable and you’ll stay and–

“I think about you that way, sometimes.” “I know.” “I can’t love you the way you want me to.” “I know.” “I love you in every way I can.” “I know.”

And summer sunsets are blinding. And I close my eyes. And you reach out your hand and I hold it. And we stay.

[writingunspecified]

Blackberry Blood

I don’t think I dream of violence (I’ve never dreamt much at all) But blackberries stain hands bloody, And I can’t help but feel that I’ve been here before. I hold my hands out. Sunshower rain doesn’t do much Besides wash the juice down my wrists, And my fingers become claws as I watch. Do you see this? Do my teeth sharpen as I smile? I have no blood on my hands (I don't think I do, at least) But I think I’m meant to. I don’t reach back into the blackberry bush. I don’t know what I’ll do if the thorns break skin.

[writingunspecified]

Juice Box

“I think you’re peachy keen,” I say, and pass a juice box to my friend. It’s funny, you see: The flavor is Strawberry Peachy Keen. It’s sad, you see: I’m alone in my room. I have been for weeks.

I’m allowed to throw a pity party, I think. I don’t take up space, I don’t ask for much.

I turn off notifications for the social media I’m on. “Trying to cut down on the hours spent scrolling.” It’s funny, you see: I'm online longer than I ever need to be. It’s sad, you see: I don’t ask for much, Just please remember me.

[writingunspecified]

Pyre

I've lost count of the bodies buried in the backyard. Can you do me a favor? Can you count them? I'll collect kindling and a lighter (maybe I'll drag a couple more corpses back with me) But I can't look at them. They'll look too much like me. We'll build the pyre in the park; Call up your friends, we'll make a night of it. The people we used to recognize can watch as we dance around them. They won't scream; They've been dead too long to care if it hurts. We're still alive though, right? We haven't been heaved onto the flames yet. We're still alive. We're still alive.

[writingunspecified]

Clementine Season

It's cold and windy and gray, But it's clementine season. I bought a bag from the grocery store yesterday, And I brought two with me. You can have one, if you want. I've been told they're meant for sharing.

Would you like to walk with me? You forgot your jacket, but that's fine; It's not too far now. Besides, the trees are warmth enough. November is made for reds and oranges and quiet walks. It's sweet and bright and lonely and brisk, But we're eating clementines And stomping on the dried leaves littering the ground; It's not all that bad, I think.

[writingunspecified]

I rip my heart out of my chest-  red and raw and bloody, pulsing in my outstretched hands. But I don’t understand: why do you recoil so? Isn’t this what you wanted from me? Isn’t this what you asked for?

[writingunspecified]

They call you "grit," they call you "determination," they call you "knocked down seven times got up eight." And... and they're not wrong. You've never met a challenge with anything less than more than you should be able to give, you've never given up before you've won.