If someone asked me to describe myself in one word
I would answer with shaky.
There are seven days in a week
And eight of them consist of me standing in the eye of a hurricane
With my hand stretched out remembering how the storm
Used to whip through my hair.
I fell in love with love before I could even walk
But every time someone says they love me
I lay awake at 4 AM, searching for hidden lies
And what they could take away from me
My heart is woven from broken glass
With shards sticking out in odd places
But it still beats, and it falls for boys with brown eyes
Way more than it should.
I used to like to dance,
My feet tend to take me in twists and turns that make me stumble
Both metaphorically and literally.
I have thought about wearing a sign
Telling people to proceed with caution
Before I get too close and sink my nails into their skin,
Trying to lace their bones with mine
Because I have a terrible habit of always feeling alone.
My blood is really the ink of so many pens
That I chewed up and spit out,
My inspiration dwindling fast.
I’ve never believed in the face I see in the mirror,
Because it’s all a lie.
I can still remember counting my ribs
Like they were ladder rungs I could climb.
Every time I close my eyes,
I feel ghosts tearing me apart
And my dreams are filled with people and flashes of lightening.
I’ve never told anyone but every time I wake up,
I have to start all over
And remind myself that I do love life
And not to take the pills I still have hidden under my mattress.
I’m scared one day I’ll have a daughter
And she’ll ask why my hands tremble so much,
And why there are scars traveling up my left arm.
I don’t want to have to tell her
About the monster I tried to cut out of my elbow,
And how much I cried before the blood made me pass out.
I don’t want to have to say that sometimes the simplest things
Made me curl into a ball in the shower and sob until it ran cold.
I can’t bare to see how she looks at me
When I explain that I get scared so easily
Because all my courage was stolen with a calloused fist
Hitting my face over
o v e r.
I don’t want to have a son,
Because I’m horrified at the thought
That he might inherit my temper
And we’ll be able to compare the bruises
That line our knuckles when the voices get too loud
And we punch a hole through a wall
Because punching our heart out isn’t possible, and it’s way too messy.
I’ve always said if there’s one thing I do right with my life,
It’ll be to give my children someone who wouldn’t light a fire
To every hope they had,
Leaving their confidence weeping on the floor.
They won’t cringe at the word “daddy”
And my daughter won’t ever think for a second that she isn’t beautiful.
She won’t think that compliments
Are just another way to fool her
Until she is knocked off her feet again,
Shattered like a mosaic before it’s pieced together.
I think too much,
I love too much,
I am too dependent,
And I’ve been told over and over
That I can’t make houses out of people
I know all too well that they don’t make good ones.
But I’ve been standing in this hurricane,
And all I’ve ever wanted was to be somebody’s everything.
The hardest lesson I’ve ever learned was that it will never happen
Not when I’m not even anything to myself.
To the man standing on the corner holding the sign that said
“God hates faggots.”
I’ve never seen,
who it is that you paperclip your knees,
meld your hands together and pray to
But I think I know what he looks like:
I bet your God is about 5’10”.
I bet he weighs 185.
Probably stands the way a high school diploma does when it’s next to a GED.
I bet your god has a mullet.
I bet he wears flannel shirts with no sleeves,
a fanny pack
and says words like “getrdun.”
I bet your god—I bet your god—I bet your god watches FOX news,
Dog the Bounty Hunter, voted for John McCain, and loves Bill O’Reilly.
I bet your god lives in Arizona.
I bet his high school served racism in the cafeteria
and offered “hate speech” as a second language.
I bet he has a swastika inside of his throat,
and racial slurs tattooed to his tongue
just to make intolerance more comfortable in his mouth.
I bet he has a burning cross as a middle finger and Jim Crow underneath his nails.
Your god is a confederate flags wet dream
conceived on a day when the sky decided to slice her own wrists,
I bet your god has a drinking problem.
I bet he sees the bottom of the shot glass more often than his own children.
I bet he pours whiskey on his dreams until they taste like good ideas,
Probably cusses like an electric guitar with Tourette’s plugged into an ocean.
I bet he yells like a schizophrenic nail gun,
damaging all things that care about him enough to get close.
I bet there are angels in Heaven with black eyes and broken halos
who claimed they fell down the stairs.
I bet your god would’ve made Eve without a mouth
and taught her how to spread her legs like a magazine
that she will never ever ever be pretty enough to be in.
Sooner or later you will realize that you are praying to your own shadow,
that you are standing in front of mirrors and are worshipping your own reflection.
Your God stole my god’s identity and I bet he’s buying pieces of heaven on eBay.
So next time you bend your knees,
next time you bow your head
I want you to
tell your god—
that my god
is looking for him.