role model

i've always aspired to be burroughs' wife.

dancing in a bathroom after successfully shooting up, jacking off thinking about killing yourself, and realizing you're transgender while giving blood at age 43

listen to more madonna.

complete life.

and scribble in the blanks.

because life is a mystery,

and i hear you call my name.

take me there.

in dirty clothes.

to strip clubs that smell awful

where i can fall asleep

and drink cherry cola.

i'll be alright awhile

because

it's like a prayer.

"i swear on my..."

your father's ashes really don't mean shit.

you always have told the truth
even though
you're the
biggest
fucking
liar.

1/5/17

You are at a family function: it's Christmas Eve dinner at your parents's house, the place where you grew up, but you're not allowed to say the night. So when the house is distracted as it is being filled with family, cookies, and presents, you take the screen out of your old bedroom window, hide it in the closet under some blankets, and prop it open so you can climb through later in the night unnoticed. Just like a year and a half ago when you snuck in, stole mom's gold necklace, sold it for money, and shot that into your veins. She always told you each piece of jewelry held a memory, and you murdered that one.

It still bothers you.

You are a murderer.

You understand why, but you just can't sleep in your car tonight.

Not tonight.

You think about yesterday and tomorrow, instead of savoring today, as you say hi and make small talk with your cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandmother, before you dart outside, snagging a bottle of bourbon and a couple cans of beer. They slosh around in the pockets of your coat as you walk through the backyard to the patio by the swimming pool.

You don't drink.

You try to forget.

It isn't working.

Your depression is amplified along with the loss of your motor skills as your stomach fills and mind drowns.

You tumble inside trying to avoid humanity because you feel so alone around the people you love, but your house is full so trying to camouflage yourself is impossible.

The room is spinning.

You vomit some Manhattan clam chowder onto the living room wall, but are able to keep the rest in your mouth before swallowing it back down your throat. Then you fall into another wall. Unable to stand, your family can't ignore you any longer, as the tears start to stream down your face.

Your cousin's kids: scared.

Your cousins: disgusted.

Your aunt, who has taken care of you like a second mother sits in her wheelchair: betrayed.

Your sister and her husband: embarrassed.

Your grandmother: heartbroken.

Your father: beyond pissed.

And your mother.

Your mother.

She rushes over with a glass of water, and a plan to gather you up into a bed. She hands you the glass and tries to pick you up, but she doesn't have the strength after all the years you put her through. You start to really cry like you used to when your were an infant as you're both stuck to the floor on your knees in the center of the room. You drop the glass and the water pools on the hardwood floor then soaks into each of your pants.

Wake up.

It is 4:30 am.

You are in a Dunkin Donuts in South Philly in front of your laptop with an empty brown paper bag and a flat half dunk can of diet vanilla cola on the table with a film of powdered sugar smeared into your black work pants. Under your hood the tears are still streaming down your face, as the Indian lady, who you trade pizza for doughnuts with, laughs and takes an order for a poppy seed bagel with cream cheese and a caramel coffee from a man in a teal tie and navy suit with white piping who is holding a brown leather satchel bag.

It was all a dream, but, for some reason, you can't stop crying,

a sad social media post about a dead person you hardly even knew

dont believe words
that leave other people's
mouths because
the truth
is
the biggest
fucking
liar.

i spend days under the covers...
falling in love,
then watching it die.
growing young
while becoming old.
getting eaten by spiders.
chased by a never-ending
pair of tattered outstretched
arms and hands.
trapped under tidal waves.
in a place covered in leaky rusted pipes.
listening to music boxes ping
notes from childhood
off damp swollen walls.
protected and secure:
i'm too lazy
to rise up.
exploring all types
of possibilities
and potential
in a car seat bed.
just a small speck
blowing along
in an oversized world.
a single solitary dot
drawn on a piece of paper
meeting new friends,
reacquainting with old ones
over dozens of ice cream cones
and
bavarian cream donuts
in a castle made of clouds,
or a spooky laboratory,
or on the decorated branch
of a christmas tree
next to a plastic fire place
drenched in warm orange
flickering light.
making a lifetime of memories
forgotten by morning.

wake up.

all alone.

same daily routine.

over
and
over
again.

going to sleep
even when it
isn't really
that dark.

i spend days under the covers...
but i can't escape
my little nightmares.