Little Brother

It has been three weeks since my last confession...

Dirty chestnut water bubbled from the depths of the pipes in my neck, and threatened to spill, like wretched sewer water, down my face.
This happens every time I see your face.


Uninvited recollections of our past creep up
and get my heart all strung and tangled--
a trapped and wiggling stillborn.
in bloody, umbilical net.

Everyone says that the reason you are this way is because your metamorphosis has yet to take place-- that this is just a phase.
But, against the sage persuasions of our elders, I disagree.

You'll never change.
Breathy prayers are whispered upwards, but they don't make it past the ceiling.

Remember when you told our cousin-- eight years old and frightened of planes-- that hers was sure to crash and kill her the next day?
Or when you held our dog's mouth shut until his eyes grew red, and his desperate wince and whining summoned me to save him?
Or the hell you put our parents through?

Mom still has hope for you.
And as the one who gave you life, it is her duty, I suppose.
I, however, would never waste such a powerful conviction.
Instead, I have wrapped what little hope I had for you in pale green tissue paper, and have tucked it between pairs of ratty underwear and faded socks--
awaiting the day when I need it instead for my own salvation.

I feel nothing for you.
And that, I am convinced, is worse than hatred.
Last month someone asked if I had any siblings and I told them no-- only to realize, seconds later, I was wrong.
I have you.
And worse than blatant exclusion, I'd sincerely forgotten.
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Our mother once threatened that
there's a chance God
will send me to Hell for not
claiming you--
my own brother.


I didn't bother telling her:
Even He wouldn't blame me.

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And it has been three weeks since my last confession....

Untitled

I should have been prepared
for something like this

Able to recite,
effortlessly,
scriptures
that could help you through your pain
but
I don't know what to say

words usually
drip from my ears and lips
in overflow
but now

my speech has
betrayed me
as i gasp for words
like breath
something
anything
to say
to help you

I pray these words have not hollowed from overuse:

But
I love you.

and will do for you
whatever
you ask

charge
indecent response
to my head
and not my heart

it's just
sometimes
the silence
says it best

Sin and Suffocation

I think it entered through my mouth, somehow.

Foolishly,
I fell asleep with it wide open,
a habit I can't escape,
and it slipped slickly down my throat
and made it's way into my stomach,
and has feasted once more
on all it's lining


I know this because
my sheets are wet with blood,
and my neck is sticky-
coated with saliva

Deja Vu:
This happened, too,
just four nights ago.


Surely I can not bring this on myself...
right?

How could I fight so desperately
to preserve my insides,
only to allow a ravenous poison
to excavate them while I dream?

These nightmares look to be the end of rest as I know it.

Jesus.
This is where you come in.

I can not save myself.
I have tried so many times,
each time my mantra:
"THIS will be the time I save myself."

But before the ink dries on my name,
scribbled sloppily amongst
others on the list of those
destined for Hell,
save my soul

Faith in myself has worn thin.
Any more strain and I am convinced
I will imitate the march of the woman in The Awakening.

I beg You shamelessly,
snot-faced and red-eyed
to save my soul just one last time,
and kneecaps slam-kiss the concrete as I drop in thanks
when you drop your head and I hear you whisper
"Yes."


Save me from myself.
And restore the very lining I allowed my sin to chew away.

I am ready
To be drowned in waters deep,
and raised reborn
For at only twenty-one
I have tired of prayer

Tangle-haired and ashy-faced,
I ask you to order my steps
again

Because each time I feel there can't be much further to fall,
the drop becomes a little deeper.

And I'm scared to think just how deep the well does run.

You Are

You are the high that I am on
You’re every line by Sarah Vaughn
You are the heat from Florida sun
You are mine

You are full moons in all their glory
The “well, we met in college…” story
Embodiment of God’s love for me
You are mine

You are a photo, black and white
A boy’s mustache grown overnight
And his chest puffed up and filled with pride and joy

You are the reason I am here
To stand behind you when a fear of going forward's
Left you stuck and paralyzed

You’re sweaty love between my sheets
Country song and afro-beat
You are the truth they claim to see behind my eyes

You’re sweaty love between my sheets
Country song and afro-beat
You are the truth they claim to see behind my eyes

Air Like Water.

I am upstairs where the air
tastes like water
Like the water we tainted
in the Bahamas before December
melted into the face
of a new year

You are downstairs where the water tastes of rain.

Despite all you have chanted, I know it burns your eyes.
Despite what you have told me, yes, I know otherwise.

Red eyes belong to beasts.

I have exhausted God with all my praying
Just yesterday He asked me (sweetly) to let Him be
And it turns out that my last prayer was for you
I still wonder if shoulda been for Me

Because as you are dancing
in the rain and
call it jest
I eye the door
in hopes you'll soon
join me upstairs

where the air
tastes like water.

Read My Shit.

Read my fucking poetry.

More than half of it is about you ANYWAY.
God, song after song after song I listen to of yours.

Not because I want to do you favors.

But because I care.

Like, no.
I actually sincerely care about your shit.
I believe in you.
I BELIEVE in you…
In the POWER of You.
I stand in accordance with the stars which align
to shine favor upon all of your talents and dreams.
So the least I can do to prove
my devotion to your craft,
the least I can do to prove
my excitement for all that excites you
is to listen to your shit.

And I don’t mean press-play-and-let-it-serve-as-background-music-to-me-doing-other-things type listen.
I mean, press-play-close-my-eyes-feast-on-your-metaphors-and-take –time-to-appreciate-your-mind type listen.

So read them.
Feed on them.
Let them drip slickly from the outermost corners of your grin to the very bottom of your thick chin…

Read my shit.

Sad Open-Mic Song

Fake sticky lashes
Fresh digital prints
wrinkled up bedsheets
still drunk with his scent
ashy grey tear-lines
streaking her cheeks
itchy blue headaches
and two tired feet

It's all of these things
and sad open-mic songs
that the poor girl's got left
'cause he's as good as gone

It's all of these things
and sad open-mic songs
that the poor girl's got left
'cause he's as good as gone

Chipping red polish
and black sin-stained panties
all that compromising
'cause he upped the ante
wedding magazines
all dog-eared in vain
what good is a bride
with no new last name
what good is a man
who will never change

what good are her poems
what good are her songs
what does it all matter
when he's as good as gone

what does it all matter
when he's as good as gone

Now she's in the bathroom
for more than an hour
Guess time in there crying
has extended her showers
and the same eyes he swore
he could gaze in forever
are a little less gleaming
and hopeful
and clever

What good is the "right thing"
when we opt to do wrong
what good is a man
when he's as good as gone

what good is a man when he's as good as gone?