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it is easy to forget i have the power of words. i have been too afraid to write the stories, too tired of having to feel the memories.

i am like anne sexton. crazy at the edges. insane and i turn rotten to the middle. a bad apple.

why arent you here, honeybee? im so angry with you. my fingers are turning yellow from rolling joints. i keep remembering before you were free, when you were still trapped in a body that was born to be somebody elses. i saw you since the beginning and you needed that, but once your voice changed and hair grew and surgery was over... you didnt need me anymore. you could see it too.

do i just love you more? this floor is cold. im taking my medication again. it makes anne sexton go away. it makes me tired. it makes smiling not hurt. it makes my writing stop.

it makes me forget about you.

if it was enough to make love to you with my words i would.

i would write to you everyday. i would fuck you on piles of books, eat you for breakfast, smoke bowls with you in the morning with the dogs before our eyes were fully opened.

lately my head has been too full of thoughts i should have outgrown. the poem you read every week to monitor the change in your voice feels sharp. i cut myself on every jagged edge of every broken letter.

sometimes you being gone takes my breath away. i miss you. im empty.

all you want is someone who will be enthusiastic about waking up in the morning. who wants to brighten children's lives instead of become frustrated by the noise.

you keep waiting. and it's all very typical.

twirl your hair between your fingers. hair you don't wash often. that girl said something today about that summer, when you picked her up from an ihop and her legs were hairy and you wanted to touch them. and then maybe that night you bought alcohol that burns and it went down soft and you kissed her. but maybe that was later. it's running together like paint.

a boy in your class says your name like he has rights to it. he looks at you. that kind of eyes tearing into clothes and dissolving skin. my freckles. my molecules.  so many people have tricked you. you heal things with your hands and you are still wondering if people are healing you, back.

then you do things you shouldn't. like see videos. like let yourself think about that girl and her legs. lick lick your mouth until it gets dry and cracks. you and your missing things that don't exist.

i fall asleep places. on the couch my grandfather brought us. because you sink in. i try to stay still but it's hard and robotic and there are these things to do. always these things. i steal tinctures to make teas and juices to keep our brains quiet. i don't take showers for days sometimes and the blue in my hair takes longer to fade. there's oatmeal, it's in the microwave, they said they just heard the beep. and that's my cue. to go and to take to school and to go to goodwill and to run and run and run.

there is still clay on my shirt from yesterday. i have to make grades or i stop getting paid. i'm nervous about it. i want a yogurt made out of soymilk. i have to have the windows open and he doesn't understand. if i can't feel the cold it's like i can't feel myself.  if it's too warm i suffocate, claw at the covers, scratch my skin, cry. when it's real bad i lock myself in the bathroom. sometimes i take blankets or coffee. maybe it's the safest place. or maybe it's just dark, and never too warm.

my whole life, i've missed people i've never seen. like you.

i noticed that windows are windows.

Survival Poem #17 by Marty McConnell

you smoke a cigarette and he slams a door and the only difference is your lungs burn and your fingers smell like smoke.

your fingers and mouth are still stained with blueberries.

i have secret anger inside of me and i can't get it out.

you wouldn't touch my body if you had a chance.

you have to tell yourself that its not your battle. over and over again you say things like this but it still feels stuck. there's still that voice in your throat that explodes and demands and fights. you get mean. your hair is dirty. you have yoga tomorrow at 11 am. and ceramics. and you have to wake up at 7 30 and it's 3 in the morning, now.

it's not your battle. you listen to the shins and there's some kind of thing in you that slows down. and you wonder about the way you said "sometimes love isn't enough." because that man taught you that. and that man had a lot of fucking things in his head that weren't okay. or true. so when you're saying it, you're shaking a little because it's hard to say. defeat. contempt. but you feel confident. until you're sitting at a computer thinking, "did i just say that?" nothing is really real.


you bought a bird thinking the bird would make you feel better. but what you realize is that the bird is just as sad and afraid as you are.


when you're making love doesn't everything feel like the first time you've ever felt anything? and it feels like that for awhile after you come. and then eventually you're back to the place you were, before. who even reads this shit? haven't you all moved to tumblr? what the fuck is tumblr even about? do you know you spend too much money on fucking shoes and your expensive sunglasses look like shit?

i spend days in a punk house. sometimes. when i feel good.  when my size does not bother me and my head feels right. there is too much love, there. you know though, that that is a lie. there is no such thing as too much love. there is only a matter of being too vulnerable.

oh, child. i wish i could hold you.