Illustrate hatred in chalk on the driveway,
but the rage won't wash off in the rain.
Clutch my knees like the bars of a cage,
but I can't find a way to escape from myself.
Grasp at the dreamcloud as I tumble from the sky,
but I'm still gonna fall and break all my bones.
The cracks in the sidewalk gape wider today
as words like bullets ricochet off the walls of
my skull, as the concrete kisses the bare skin of my knees.
Oh mommy, mommy, I'm bleeding again, but she's
not there this time, she doesn't care anymore. And I try not
to remember how she turned away when she saw who
I am because she knew she could never love me, only
the illusion, only the veil and never the truth.
Stumble down the moon-scape street, two seasons later but
centuries older. Ice grabs at the souls of my shoes and it takes
all I have just to keep on my feet. How many years of
fucking things up, and still I slip, still I ruin the best. Still, I'm still
me but there's hope for the future, if it ever does come while I'm
silence-screaming, retribution-scheming, apocalypse-dreaming but nothing
ever happens because the snow never melts, only thaws
to tepid puddles of silence and pretending not to see.
Frigid winds burst in through the tears in my sweater,
freezing the tears into scars across my cheeks. Last winter's jacket
can't keep out the cold anymore and I can't forget what she said; she said
she'd like me to crawl behind a rock and never ever (ever) come out so I said
I'd like to kill myself with pills except I'm only twelve, thirteen-fourteen-fifteen,
how old am I now?
The years slide smoothly through the cracks between
my fingers until I lose track of who I am, who I used to be and what
I'm becoming like the ghost of a person, the silhouette of a soul seen only
in my eyes when the shadows collide, when the poems come slowly, dully and
flatly like shallow graves for heartache because the razorblades can't bleed
this taintedness from me and the ink can't help me to swallow the sorrow.