Buckwheat

By now you've probably
archived all your anger
into this permanent state,
where you only think of
me in red and black, and
speak of me with sharp
bitterness that leaves the
taste of tar behind in your
mouth. It gurgles in the
pit of your stomach, and
thumps in the middle of
your chest, coursing
though your ventricles,
to every extremity.
With every movement
you are trained to only
hate me, conditioned and
taught that there is nothing
worthy in me, nothing
noble that would make
me guiltless, nothing
beautiful that would make
me innocent, and you
eat up this instruction as
if you sincerely want to
believe it. As if you'd rather
believe these distortions,
than the truth.

By now, I bet when people
ask you if you have a sister,
you say "no".

Papillon

I took a pen and wrote 

you a letter only the fire 

would read, and it said, 

"Remember when I told you 

I thought you were nothing 

like my father? Well, that 

was a bold-faced lie. You 

both have the same wild

eyes, the same tone of 

voice, the same dark

mind, and the same ability 

to make me love you 

blindly." 

But what I didn't write 

was the one thing I knew 

would break you:

"...the same thirst to break 

whatever you find beautiful.

Namely me."  

Someone once asked me 

how long it took me to forgive you, 

I said I'd let them know 

as soon as I had. 

Lies and Deception

Smudged eyes,
should have taken that mascara
off before going to sleep,
but it's not as if there's
someone to impress.
Just a reflection in the mirror
that is an unwelcome visitor
most days.
Truth is, I'm not quite
used to this.
You always used to say
"you're too beautiful,
too lovely, too simple"
for all of this frivolity,
but you're a liar.
And though the most
obvious of your lies
were about who you
really were, and not about me,
I find it difficult to tell the
difference anymore, so
I trace the lines around
everything you ever said to me
and count it all
deception,
because it's easier this way.

Queen Station

The man wearing brown hiking boots
is reading a book about trees.
I wonder if he knows
I've just breathed life into him
with my pen strokes,
immortalized him with blue ink,
stolen him from a three dimensional
life, and made him flat.
When I got on at Queen he was already here,
waiting for me to observe
his quiet cry for attention.
Unnoticed by most other passengers,
who are too busy popping gum
to ease the pressure in their ears.
His desire to melt into the burgundy seat
was foiled by those
brown hiking boots.
I don't think he's made eye contact
with a single person, and he
pulls a cookie from his bag and chews,
reading about the largest trees in the world.
B.C and the redwoods,
on his way home
to a blonde wife
to a house on a corner lot
to a front hall closet
with just enough room for his size 12
brown hiking boots.

Rattle

In order to count yourself
among the jaded and the
wounded, you draw out
the lines of an old love that
was nothing more than
a number of little mistakes,
and you know it.

Regurgitating popcorn words,
claiming them as your own
in order to feel vindicated,
justified, and redeemed.
With the subtlety of a Mac truck
you lay out your words like
a street peddler, and we all
wince.

I find it hard to believe
that after all of this time,
you have nothing else to
dwell on. But then again,
I shouldn't expect a child
to be anything but childish.

Stop

You may have already realized
that we're stopped at the side of
the road, on the way to some sort
of destination, unnamed and
undefined. But you should have
noticed sooner, because you're
behind the wheel, and I simply
sit in the passenger seat, and I
wait for you to hit the gas pedal.
How can I expect to move this
along when I'm not the one
who stepped on the breaks in
the first place? Don't think me
indifferent, or cold and out of
touch, but my options are now
but few: wait for you to drive,
or get out and walk.