Take me to school
And I promise I won’t raise my hand up this time
I won’t try to show off
I’ll just listen and watch
File right into the back of the line
Cause I’m falling further and further behind
Words in my heart
Much louder than what they’ve assigned

And my breath is arrested by the sky
And my neck is straining to keep both my eyes



Something came up screaming
in me
Like a baby
An unreasonable
Bushel
Of flesh -
Wanting not just any arm
Any cradle
But growing
Toddler-shaped
Shaking the glass til it breaks
Fishtail shards
Flashing in the waves
This yell
This wail
This angry toddler I have
Is turning violent
No, I’m turning violent
On him
He runs at me
Wanting more than I can give
I hold my hand out
His chest hits it
I win
He falls to the ground
I lose



When I was younger I used to count the syllables on my fingers,
Like this
"What do you want to do today?"
That ended on an odd number, my middle finger, 3
No good.
I liked to land on even numbers, 2 and 4. Pointer and ring.
I would count the syllables in things other people would say, I would count my own thoughts, count the song lyrics
To see where they would land,
To have something to do,
My hands always trying to catch up with the swiftness of the words
I have been catching up to words
All my life
Obsessed with getting it right
With that feeling
Of evenness
In time



They say that 25
Is when the cortex is fully formed -
So I do not count the pubescent scribblings, the theatrical yearnings
To dissolve into nothingness
They were too romantic,
Too fleeting
To be counted on our communal chalkboard under
"Times I Could Not Cope."

I am not a survivor
You are not my survived
Only one time in adulthood
Did my private thoughts,
Become too loud
And I had to utter them
In your grandmother's parking lot
Next to the dumpster
Gasping at a brain I couldn't control
And fearing you would leave
When I told you.



Holy root
Criss-crossing
In search of better hold
Divulges it's methods
Without ceremony.
The best way to entrench yourself on this damp earth
Is to twist and tangle,
Burrow and knot
Finding comfort
Not in outcome,
But in present pause.

There is no aftermath
Only living
The space between breaths,
Reaching
Wrought.