The Weather and Her Hangover

Oh my,

I wanted so

to craft you a sunrise,

but the weather had 

a bad hangover 

and just didn't feel up for it

so she rained all day.

And in the aftermath,

the concrete

looked slimy and unforgiving

like the stare 

he thrust at me

after I screamed 

at him

in my wrathful dragon's tongue

that night

he grabbed the pretty girl at the bar

with the red skirt on

who didn't want to 

be taken 

but he took her anyway

and I felt her heartstrings break

even from three streets away. 

What was I saying?

Oh yes, 

the rain kept coming down

and we took our mouths

out for a walk in it,

held our faces 

to the sky

until we almost drowned 

in her stormy wake

but it felt good

like the high you get 

when you get your eyebrow pierced,

pain and pleasure 

and those strange days 

in which 

I felt addicted to the toxic,

the dead weight lovers,

my drunken stumbles

in high heeled lace up boots

seven blocks 

back to my car 

in the middle of the night

because I had fucked you 

but didn't want to stay

though you wanted me to,

I sneaked out as you slept,

and my friends called me 

when the daylight came, 

told me I was acting

odd and dangerous,

but I huffed 

off those worry words,

refused to explain 

the craving to die

before I had to lose 

my brother 

to cancer

that took him

three years later,

kept adding poison

to my coffee in the morning

after he was gone

and mourning the loss

of reality and sanity

who fucked off

for a time

because they were bored

with my sad stories 

that I had told

too many times.

Then one day

in September,

I awoke 

and could see angels again

sitting at the foot of my bed,

and I noticed

the trees whispering 

to me again,

the lilies happy in the sunlight,

the owls 

chattering to each other,

enjoyed the snow falling soft,

friends with smiling faces,

tea and scones

tasted delicious once more,

and I knew 

things were getting better

and I laughed 

out loud for the

first time in a year and a half,

and it echoed

back up to the 

dark cloud cover. 

The Girls in my Head

We all had

our own talents,

ways of coping

with the mirror monster,

whatever that looked like for you,

always mocking gestures

and laughing to your face

as you wept with the weight

of it all.

Joy kept up with time,

compulsively checking her watch,

always wanting to leave soon

from wherever she was,

pressed suits,

pregnancy tests,

and scalding baths,

so hot as to feel

as if her very skin

could be turned

inside out,

just her way

to shake off the dark.

Morgan

hugged trees,

ran through neighborhoods naked,

punched policemen in the face,

and danced in

the fall leaves

until her feet

turned smoke to fire

because she yearned

to fucking burn.

Scarlett

didn’t speak much

at parties,

but screamed in the shower

when her roommate wasnt home;

she quit jobs every two months

just to prove to herself

that no one

and no thing

would ever own her.

Krista hitchhiked to

new towns

and stole cigarette lighters

that she found

in the glove compartments

of her good samaritans,

which made her feel a

wild sort of freedom,

akin to the sensation

of airplane take off,

setting your sights

on the equator and

changes in the weather.

Carrie enjoyed

sniffing coke

in bathroom stalls

and only shared her secrets

with complete strangers

just before leaving the bars

that she frequented

so as to

unburden the twilight

in her skull

but never got too close;

she was a girl

that everyone

fell in love with

at first sight

and she knew it,

rolled her eyes

at their stupid faces,

not even remotely interested

though enjoyed

never having

to pay her liquor tab.

Lisa felt safe in libraries,

and this was the only place

she would sleep,

ripped pages of

Tolstoy and Joyce

out of their hard covers

before closing time,

and held their pages close like hearts,

to wander the streets

until the morning came.

Aaron

spent her days

working a cash register

in a shopping mall,

and spent her weekends

weeping at the grave

of her brother

who had killed himself

after the war

to stop the visions and loud noises

in his head.

Rebecca

picked up men

in hardware stores,

asking questions

that she already knew

the answers to,

and smirking at herself

at the fact that

she always found at least one man

that was turned on by the young and innocent act.

She tied them to headboards,

left heal imprints on their chests,

and took their cash

while they threw tantrums

at her

that could only be heard

by the ceiling fan.

And in the end,

maybe you

should’ve just left,

wanted to just stomp your foot

and turn me into perfect,

the ultimate doormat,

the caretaker of all your woes and whims,

and then youd love me,

surely,

I mean really love me

this time around

as the bruises heal themselves.

Maybe we just die alone

with no one to hold

our dreams together,

just broken glass

and dirty pipelines.

But the moon,

she didn’t want

the hangovers,

the dances in spotlights at parties,

sex behind closed doors,

grocery store small talk,

the boys following

her to her car after work.

She just wanted

to hang and shine,
so she did.

Honey and the Weather

Honey,

I answered you

before you left me

standing in the snow,

ice storm cometh

with my gaze

through your flimsy spine

whilst I held my mailbox

with the fishtail for a flag

that you had bashed the brains out of

the night before

when you were drunk

and swore you

didn’t remember.

Oh please,

I rolled my eyes

like pinwheels,

you couldn’t choke me

no matter how many tantrums you threw.

Ha,

try to drown me out

with your raging violent screams-

I rang out

my bleeding drum,

pounding pulse

rhythms with my

dancing wrathful feet,

wailing chords

of fire and frenzy

that rose to the fucking heavens

to create the thunder

rolling down

on your sloppy head

once the spring came.

I always took the weather seriously,

and suggest you

finally,

fucking,

listen.