An Ode to Alcohol (And Other Tragedies)

this will not be pretty.
I am hating my hands as they write,
and all I can see is the night
that I was left bleeding from my eyes
while everyone else was still at the party.

they tell me I am supposed to stop drinking.

but who the hell wants to stay sober when it means 
remembering what made the space between 
your legs hurt so badly when you woke up this morning?
who wants to see clearly when I could just
swallow a few mouthfuls of poison
to blur my vision, make the bruises fade to smudges
at the edge of my peripherals and I might be too drunk to think
but at least my mind will be too dull to remember
what I am dying to forget

and trust me, whiskey works like an anesthetic: 
I glaze it over the wound like honey, and
sometimes I get lucky enough to stop wincing, at least
until I catch a glimpse in the mirror, and then
I see the circles under my eyes
and  the places they touched that still burn
and the bones that should have broken 
under their hands, and then
even the frostiest beer mug can't cool me down
so I switch to hard liquor

but the rum gets me blushing, and
my insides start to overheat as my thoughts
are forming iron knots
and my fingers twist into fists I should have thrown
in their faces as they held me down
but I didn't, no -- their hands were too tight
around mine, and I'm still here
belly somehow both hollow and sloshing with vodka
all because of the night that I bled from my eyes
while everyone else was still at the party

this is not a pretty feeling
this is sprinting barefoot on asphalt, holding
a half-empty bottle in my hands and sobbing
slamming my feet on pavement because I swear,
something sinister is trying to steal what is left in this body
though there isn't much left to take, really

see, they tell you not to walk down alleyways
alone at night, not to wear short skirts
or pucker your lips too much
they tell you about men with dark coats, but
they don't tell you about boys with nice eyes
and strong hands
and soft voices and wide smiles
and hungry mouths that swallow you whole
the kind with plenty more liquor at home to shove down your throat
and cameras in their back pockets.
and I am supposed to feel blessed
because I survived, because I am not dead, but
somehow I find myself hesitant to thank God
for putting me through hell without at least
having the decency to kill me first.

I'll just try to distract myself from the fact
that I still smell like fear. I'm told that predators
can sense it on your skin, so maybe that was my first mistake.
and maybe if I had been sober, I would have seen it coming.
hell, that should be reason enough
to stop drinking.

but sometimes
the only way to stop the visions
is to black out.

113.

it has been winter here for years

and I have only written the frost, lingering

over my aching fingertips

never warming my hands in my pockets

I have complained

about loneliness

and I have kept myself

alone

maybe because it seems safer

to hold myself at night

than risk a stranger’s hands leaving marks

but my own arms only reach so far

and there is still a small space on my back

that I cannot touch without help

so I am sure you have been wrapped in other women's sweaters
and I am sure you are wrapped in one now
and I doubt I could fit into your clothes, but
I would not mind a shot at it
stretching woven knits to slide my arm into the same sleeve as yours
our necks filling one collar, vertebrae kissing
I would not mind drinking from the same coffee mug
and breathing from your steamed lungs

and maybe you are just my excuse to write poetry
but the words fall freely from my hands, so
let's not overanalyze it

because I have been told that fingers are not defibrillators
that holding hands will not bring back what is dead in me
and sex can't save my life, but
it is so cold here
I am beginning to think the frost is slowing my heart
and I cannot help but wonder whether your touch is electric
and whether I will be nerve-damaged or revived underneath you
maybe your sheets are positively charged
and our sweat would conduct sparks through our lips
and maybe that might be enough
to keep me warm.

112.

we were a road trip planned by teenagers

who don't even know how to drive

all dreams, no map

no one knew us

like we did

(and no one could hurt us

 like we could)

you were a security blanket

that I carried a few years too many

and I still miss the way

you smelled like not growing up

our miseries bled into one

we indulged ourselves too much

and we were not strong enough 

to carry each other's burdens

or old enough to know not to try

I was a sickness you kept catching

I came back to you when I grew weary

and I made you weary, too

we were so young

and you have faded from my skin

but there is still a splinter of you

in my lungs that pulses

with your heart (I imagine)

some nights I am still sixteen

and you are still my sweetheart

Catch

so you will wait longer
for the moment when it catches
(up with) you:
the truth
you have hidden under your tongue
for so many years now

you paint lipstick in the morning
over lips you have not yet
even learned to love
and you are running
(from yourself
 and from the things you do not want
 to see in the mirror)

your feet are
bruised and bloody
pounding the cracked pavement
and you think you are being chased
by some monster with hooked teeth
who will shake your shoulders
and force you to admit
you are not
all that
special, really

but

here is what they do not tell you:
the truth is not hungry.
it does not want you to fall.
it waits, and it is not hook-toothed.

the truth will not sting or bite or crush
the truth does not rend or tear or demolish

it builds
and frees
and hurts like hell
and it will shout if it needs to
but it is also soft some days, and
it will speak to you gently
when you are tired

here is what they do not tell you:

the truth
will not
kill you.

it may be sunlight harsh
and it may stain your hands
and you will not be the same
once you invite it in

and likely, it will pull tears
down the slope of your nose and cheeks
maybe for weeks at a time
and your face may be drenched,
but the water is holy.
it will clean your skin.

the truth is not
that you are worthless.

the truth is
that you are radiant

and you must fight for yourself.

(you have been running
 from what you have been hiding
 for too long now

 perhaps it is time
 let it catch (up with) you.)

111.

you have glorified and excused yourself
and you have not realized that you were both
only sixteen, and then eighteen
and then twenty
and he was part of it, too

you think of him crying
you think of him telling you he could
not keep going without you
and you remember trying to fight his battles
for him, and his arms
when he visited you in the hospital
the yellow sweater he wore

forgiveness is a strange thing
it sneaks up on you
fills your lungs with fresh air
and reminds you
that you were not the only one
hurting

110.

you have tried to be smaller, to be easier
to hold. you have tried to fold
yourself in two
and you have closed your mouth at times, but
at best you are wide
and uneasy

and you have never been skilled
at hiding your fears
(in fact, they often rattle
 through your teeth
 and scare the neighbors)

and perhaps you are
more difficult
to love

but you will meet someone someday
who will not be so easily shaken
with hands broad enough
to hold you
unfolded

Not Unmove

I have been
blind and wound-by-every-inch-tightly-up
drawing breath and keeping it
knife hot inside me
(exhaling never)

and I have been
slinking sluggish deeper
into vaguely yesterday's reflections
watching dusted mirrors and
forgetting
that my muscles are
for moving

I have been
wind-knocked-out
back flat and waiting for air

I have been
bound
and static

but

I have noticed
an eyelid-fluttering and finger twitch
this morning
(a slow
 inhale
 exhale)
and the window is open

I have noticed a spattering of speckled light
green and leafy across my arm
it must be sun spotted

and I would rather not
be a have-been
today
I would rather
not unmove

so
perhaps I will
make a good breakfast
and take a walk

Rip

it settles over your eyes like fog
and you are too tired to push it away
you have been too tired for ages now, your
limbs collecting dust and your hair matted

you suspect that you were born with wings
lithe and delicate, made (you think)
of woven silver and parchment
they might have carried you off already

had it not been for the drought
that withered them from your shoulders
and your own temporality.
you are no longer infinite.

now flight is a childhood memory at best
and you are tethered fast to solid ground
and abandoning your wings
has left you exhausted

so you have made camp here on Earth
among the gray tree roots
and fallen into a twenty-year sleep
while wars are waged and won

and when it settles over your eyes like fog
this hopelessness that you cannot see through
you let your lids fall heavy again, and
you sink and drift and fade

it seems better to sleep and dream of the sky
than wake and watch it slip away