a toxic wasteland.
Say so.
Say you’ll grow old with me.”
“I don’t want to grow old with you.
Stay young with me.”
“You are
too good
for—”
“Boy, can’t we
be
us,
and still be
you & me
separately?”
“You are mine—
nothing (not/even/space)
comes between
us.”
What I Don’t Get
is how he can
love me
and also hate me
so much
he
hurts
me.
He hugs me
so tight,
he squeezes
all the me
out.
What They Don’t Mention in the Cautionary Tales
is how lonely life gets,
and how sometimes
even though people suck,
if it means
you don’t have to be
alone,
you’ll take ’em.
As much as he loves
is as hard as he hits,
which makes the pain
reassuring
in a sick way.
You know,
some days
I see me
as a
victim
in an unjust
attack;
other days
I wonder if
I am the
antagonist
he says I am
or—
Maybe, just maybe,
I am
the protagonist
of my own life story.
Regardless,
somebody forgot
to cast me
a supportive best friend.
Quiz
He doesn’t love me.
He doesn’t need me.
He cheats on me.
I’m not He’s not good enough for him me.
We should break up.
False.
False.
False.
True.
False.
Sign Language
He hesitates.
His fingers move
forward and back
on my skin.
I encourage him
to come in
by turning over
my forearm
like a new leaf.
His fingers graze
the delicate skin,
tickling me through
my entire body/soul.
We could not speak
for days
and still know
all there is
to know
about
each other.
Reconnaissance
Lately,
life is a murky
swamp
obscured. What I mean is,
Mom cries
all the time.
She’s stopped
cooking and cleaning
and looking clean as well.
She’s stopped
functioning
really.
Dad drinks ALL his meals
now.
Mom is so beaten down,
Dad doesn’t even beat her
anymore.
Now me—
that’s another story.
It’s like
World War Whatever
up in here.
Sometimes I don’t
come home, I roam
all night, check
for lights
in my Girl’s window.
She writes all night.
That marble notebook
is like another man.
I watch them, but
somehow,
she can’t feel me
down here
in the depths,
needing
her.
Healing
Yesterday,
he blew up
worse than ever.
My right
side still hurts.
My hands wouldn’t,
couldn’t
write a word
about it
until today.
Maybe I shouldn’t write
about it at all.
I know I said
I’d leave,
but
I love him
and
I know
he can be
good
some day.
Most of all, I’m afraid, though,
that
no one
could ever
love me that much
again.
Cupid
He hits,
but always misses
the mark.
When he puts his big
hands on me, I feel
small:
skinny,
pale,
easily broken,
but
the thing is—
that thing that surprises
even me?
I don’t break;
I bend.
Here’s the thing:
He hugs
so hard, but still
can’t squeeze free the
solid seed
of my heart.
Crush
all you can, love,
it
won’t
die.
I won’t let it.
So why do I close my eyes
to the obvious?
Because
when he hits,
the love
he lets me have
after
is amplified.
It’s like I feel MORE when
my skin is bruised,
when my blood
bubbles up to
the surface;
it warms me so I
can melt him
to tears.
When we’re right there,
in the bluest portion
of the flame,
it’s the best
kind of love.
I can barely feel
the hate.
Thinking
The worst part
is when
you scold me
with various versions of:
You’re a bitch
who only cares about herself.
I think it might be true.
Sometimes, I feel like I have to pick:
me or you.
Our love is changing
into something else,
something permanent,
and the change feels like
a swirling tornado
in my gut—
Who would let someone
do this to her,
and then crawl back
into his still-shaking arms?
People
in love
wouldn’t do this
to each other,
and I’m too young
to turn into my mother.
Eye Witness
Peter X
could tell something
was up. He saw me writing
frantically in my marble notebook
and asked if my muse was in town.
You know how boys flirt in the most unconventional
ways?
Peter X grabs
the book
from my desk
and flip dee doos
through my life/pages
like they’re nothing
but paper.
“Don’t,” I say,
struggling
to reach—
Pushing me
playfully away,
he grasps my shoulder
—nothing really—
unless you’re as bruised
as
a month-old peach.
Seeing me wince, he pulls
back pitifully
and asks,
“Everything okay?”
But my shirt has
slipped over my shoulder
and there on my pale-
skin canvas are painted
purple fingerprint stories,
evidence
of the most
recent
crime committed.
I can make up
excuses like
you wouldn’t believe, but
I don’t.
It’s easier to lie to myself
than to Peter X.
And for a brief second
it’s like I’m a cartoon,
and he’s not Peter X at all.
He’s relief
personified.
He’s a door
left open
on a deserted
road.
Truth-telling
Because I didn’t
prove my love
to his satisfaction,
he grabbed my wrists
and squeezed them
together in one of his fists.
He told me not to move,
like I had a choice.
Because I didn’t
tell him I wasn’t
going to show,
he found me
and made me
sorry.
Because I
am a “stupid
little slut”
(his words),
I have these
scarlet
letters
on my
shoulder.
Because,
because,
because.
“What Happened?”
In the library,
between the stacks,
we stare into each other’s
dubious eyes.
“Why would you put up with that?”
Ugh.
“I don’t get it.”
Me neither.
“You don’t have to—”
“Don’t I?”
“Do you think he’s the best you can do?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you because you’re
. . . involved . . .
but I like you—”
“But he loves me, and I love him, too.”
(As I repeat this mantra,
the picture in my head
is movie-esque.
We are outcasts—together.
I could never imagine
myself
in some everyday
casual romance
with Peter X,
who knows just what to say.)
“But I wouldn’t hurt you—”
Before I can stop him,
he takes out that camera
and snaps.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s just—I wish I could make people see
how the world looks to me.
It’s why I take so many pictures.
When I stop,
take a picture, and stare,
I see how so many
giant fiascos
began with some
tiny, out-of-sync
detail
no one noticed.
They’re always there:
a million pixel-sized clues.”
He scrolls through a brief visual history of me
on his phone.
We both watch
me go from
unaware dreamer
to smizer
to some sad chick.
I don’t recognize her.
I don’t know what he intends
with this slideshow,
but suddenly what scares me most
is how much he knows.
Something Happens
I avoid Peter X at school,
ignore his unabashed,
accusatory glower.
With Random Boy, it’s like
someone knowing
has brought us closer.
I tumble in his
open palm,
crash
like a waterfall
down his rib cage,
and drip through
his fingers.
I eatsleepbreathe him
and never turn him away.
I can’t explain it
only to say
that he is my
imperfect darling,
and I, his. If we
don’t overprotect
one another,
who will?
Mom Wants to Know
why I’m moping around
in sweats while
she kneels
in front of the
open fridge,
scraping coagulated jelly
from glass shelves. The interior
light illuminates her face.
“You look good, Mom.”
“Thanks. Wish I could say
the same for you.”
She eyes me, and
I despise me
a little more.
“Thanks?”
“Why don’t you
call up your girl
friends and go
to the mall or
the movies or . . .
Do you want to
try that new Thai
place with me?”
I’ve been dying
to try
something different.
A question mark
hangs in the air,
a curly request
for more information.
Maybe we could talk
about things
over dinner;
maybe we could talk
period.
But how would I word it?
What would she think
of me?
I walk away from her
interrogation and
slide into bed.
I spill my secrets
to the blankets,
to my pages
and sheets.
Mom comes to the door
and doesn’t say anything.
Finally, she knocks
just once. “I’m here
now
if you need me.”
Even Mary
notices the absence
of my smile these days.
“Trouble in paradise?”
“No.”
“Where’s your man?”
“Coming.”
“Girl, that boy
is trouble
you don’t need.”
“What do I need,
Mary? What
do I need?”
“Hell if I know,
bitch.
I’m just trying
to be nice.”
Nice, my ass:
I swear
she gets off
on getting up
and
leaving
me
alone with
my misery.
Cornered
When we go out,
we are not
Random Boy
&
Forgotten Girl
anymore.
We are some kind of
four-legged organism.
He stands where I stand,
I sit when he sits,
and none of this is planned.
It’s just
how we are
now.
If I laugh, he picks up
the vibrations in the
air and smiles.
Because of this
biological connection,
I feel my boy’s muscles tense
before Peter X appears.
Peter X doesn’t seem to see me.
His glare is connected to
Random Boy. “Can we talk?”
I open
my mouth and close
it as Random Boy peels
his hand from mine like
a scab from a wound.
All three of us stand there,
gaping.
“Go to the tree house,” Random Boy
whispers in my ear. He squeezes my
hand.
On eye contact with Peter X,
I know I should stay,
but I don’t.
Peter X
doesn’t argue.
My Un-proudest Moment
Picture it:
me, kneeling in muck,
digging my fingers into
moist moss to stay upright.
They didn’t know,
(did they?)
I was there
watching
the few calm words
before
the thunderstorm
of punches
Random Boy threw.
I thought I’d seen him at his worst,
but what I saw
him do to Peter X
changes everything.
Or maybe it wasn’t
so much what he did.
Maybe, the main thing
that kills me
about that moment
was me,
hiding,
unable to move,
silent as an assassin.
100% Bullshit Free
He is bigger than I am, yes,
but I draw from something
greater than physical
strength.
He tries to
level with me,
but he might as well
be speaking Chinese
’cause all I see
is a pile of words in her
penmanship.
All I see is
the possibility of this
nameless piece of shit
stealing
what belongs to me.
So I don’t wait,
I don’t listen
to his reasons.
I pound
harder than I need to, use
reserves of anger I’ve been
storing since childhood.
I give
it all
to him.
Something flies from his pocket,
explodes in bright light
as it hits the ground
searing the moment
in my memory.
What I’ll never say out loud
is how it’s her face
flashing in my mind
as my knuckles crash
into his bone and flesh.
How it’s her I’m hitting
when I thrash him.
As he’s hanging there,
lifeless as a worm,
I warn him:
“Don’t speak
to her. Don’t look
at her. Don’t even
think of her, or I’ll
finish you.”
Tree House Rendezvous
From the old plywood platform, I hear
normal night sounds and smell
the evening rain ready to arrive.
I didn’t have a choice, did I?
When he comes to me,
he smells like sweat
and blood. His
expression is
dazed,
I guess.
I run
my fingers
across his fuzzy scalp
and listen to the sorry
sobs he makes
into my lap.
I thought he’d be mad,
and I’m so confused,
but relieved
he’s something else.
No matter what he shows
the world,
right now
The Lost Marble Notebook of Forgotten Girl & Random Boy Page 8
