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A Girl


700 Tylenol PM..
80 Aleve.
63 Advil.
40+ Trazadone.
28 Benadryl.
10 years of memory.
6 failed attempts.


~


we preach apology to the masses,
tattoo forgiveness beneath the chins
of 14 year old half grown babies
who have just finished carving last month's advanced history lesson
into forearms
into bellies
into thighs
into any pale piece of skin
easily accessible to nine chewing fingers
with 'agitated' stitched on the tips.

we teach
"surely goodness and mercy"
old fashioned country prayers
learned in back rooms
repeated and memorized
repeated and memorized
daily,
forwards & backwards
inside & out
when really
we should be saying:

Shirley Goodness
and her half-sister Mercy
will follow us
all the rest of our days

because we,
we were too busy
too scatterbrained
too self involved
to notice the way
Uncle Goodness's eyes followed Shirley
when she came home in the afternoon
sticky from the school bus

and took off her coat.

Because we,
we didn't notice the lump in his lap
or the sweat on his forehead
when little Mercy plunked down on her belly
to watch thirty minutes of Saturday morning cartoons
and he wiggled
HE WIGGLED
around
in his chair.

Because we heard
first one,
then two
blonde headed babies say
'Men are Shit.' and instantly tried on our own
oh, those were the days shoes
in order to understand
to relate
to remember
exactly what it felt like
to be caught up in a teenaged love crisis.

Love Crisis?

Love Cries Its
self
to sleep every night
on Shirley's pillow as Uncle Goodness
spreads her legs,
uses his thick knees to hold
her tender red thighs

apart.


(big man hands shove her head d
                                                 o
                                                w
                                                n.)

Love?

Love snaps itself awake
shortly after midnight
evey night
as Mercy pukes
gags
spits
out
the scent of her sister's wasted innocence
still
wet
and warm
on good old Unc's chin.

Love?

Love tries its damnedest to dream
on the scabbed over legs of a sometimes thirteen
sometimes fourteen
but maybe even
10
11
12
9
year old bloodied baby soul

who just wants to
v a p o r i z e
into thin air,
crumble her form

so that Uncle Goodness won't have a place
to rest his head
at night
every night.

Love?

Love screams at us behind dead
little girl eyes,
underneath secret red bracelets
from unknown wells
and plastic scratches

it screams
and screams
and screams
and screams


until silence is the only option left.



~




3 Med Techs.
2 Lungs, Collapsed.
1 Broken Heart.
A Respirator.
A Memory.
An Innocence.
A Girl.




LIVE.
LIVE.
LIVE.
LIVE.
LIVE.

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bex box : poetry : a girl