building house out of the ugliest bricks you've ever seen

 my house 

didn’t explode into being-

no Big Bang

or a supernova, dying star.


it was built up 

little by little

bricks for words heard

or sights i saw.


i am supposed to be a genius.


i can’t fail

but i am small and sobbing 

into 

my mother’s arms in kindergarten

because i want to know why i can’t be good

because i made my teacher cry

and i don’t understand

what i did wrong.


i lay a foundation, push my fingerprints into the concrete

like a hollywood star

in a creature’s body.


still crying in fifth grade

because i was at the top 

of someone’s list of bad people

to punish.

they caught him

before action

but i would’ve been first,

sitting numb

at the plastic green tables


maybe if i seal myself in the walls

i’ll be okay.


i am supposed to be genius.

aren’t people supposed to like a genius?

they shouldn’t want a girl dead

who still sleeps with stuffed animals

and fairy lights


crying in eighth grade

because of words traded 

in a park after school.

i am physically safe

i am still in my backpack and itchy sweater 

and shoes


but a boy

with a smartphone

records my tears

from the things he says

and 

laughing

tells me to kill myself.

it still doesn’t feel like a joke.


i put up a chimney

so i’ll be warm in isolation.

at least i can see the world 

through the windows.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

self-portrait as a Changeling

  self-portrait as a Changeling     from the crib, it was obvious oddity of a child much too quiet, uncrying than a swaddled babe ought to be. there but not, right but off long thin, picking hands and skinny bundle of a body wide eyes like an insect. plain but oh so Fair.   nearly sideways and clothes inside out tear out tags and set out milk for my kind. they know not what to make of me, elf-child sat in the corner quiet and chaos my teachers thinking me a brutish, biting thing skin burnt by the iron in the blood i draw.   scream in speaking, my hands recoil – too bright, too loud taking to human’s wisdom but not customs, speaking of bugs or myths or the taste of wildflowers in my teeth, i tear with burning hands my own heart and wonder why i am so sad.   the elders, the unseeing, silly people with silly, angry hearts shout in the streets and squares seaspray in their blind eyes “ the blessed folk, the ...
Read more

grimy (being weird with it)

you already know it's true.  the drawings in your margins are better than they are in the sketchbook, so you tape them in there with the ragged edges showing.  jeans breathe more easily with holes in the knees, and half the choir sings more musically at karaoke than the competition. scars and moles and acne and stretch marks make better character design, and i hope i get old and my makeup gets caked into the creases on my face.  you can measure flaws if you're a computer, but a blank face looks like a perfect lawn, unlucky without the clover. if your voice doesn't crack when you sing too high, you need to sing louder. God made us in His image, freckles and - I stopped putting concealer on my dark circles a while ago, and brushed glitter on them instead, I think the world's grayer so we need more color, more gritty shine and greasy blush - our faces are human but our souls are incomprehensible. stardust is overused, but we are inherently undefinable.  spray paint clot...
Read more

winter's eve (a shorter, older poem)

when the weather starts to freeze something seems off about the trees. sky turns grey, and shines like steel - loses summer’s dancing, bright appeal. yet an odd elegance it now gains; snow and ice may still be gentler than spring’s stormy rains.
Read more