I wear your tags around my neck,
my own personal lockets with your name engraved,
where they hang low enough to hear my
heartbeat pulse within the safety of my chest.
The metal is cold against
the skin that covers my *******.
And they’ve folded the fifty stars
and thirteen red and white stripes that protected
your casket, even after your heart stopped beating
into its triangle form, and
they handed it over like a death sentence
given to the wrong inmate,
for a crime he never committed.
I held the shield against my body,
wrapping myself around the cloth,
curving my body about the ripples
which reminded me of the heart monitor
that showcased your breathing
before the line went flat.
But it felt nothing like the way
your body felt folded against mine
in the darkness of your last night home
before you left for your final tour
in the foreign land that was as strange
as the first time we made love,
exploring the geography of our
different maps holding buried treasures
beneath the surface of our skin.
In our strangeness, I lost everything to you,
wandering without a compass.
And ultimately I ended up losing you to
the strangeness of the land, instead of
in the familiarity of my arms.

And I wish I could’ve convinced you to stay.
But I was never good at tug of war,
and Iraq was so much stronger than I.
Standing next to your casket, dressed in a mask of tears,
destroyed mascara and black clothing for your funeral
as your fellow brothers in arms,
who became my brothers too, hold their guns
pointed towards you in the sky; your own salute.
But it’s peaceful to know that your ears no longer ring
with machine guns and you’ll sleep peacefully from here until forever
instead of fighting enemies, even in your nightmares and daydreams.
I am grieving but I am blessed
that you are no longer suffering and miserable.

For every star that whispers against
The cold December sky, there’s a wandering
Soul that tiptoes like a ballerina skates across
An icy stage before losing control underneath
The only street lamp that glared a yellow light
Up and down a short distance on the empty street.
One lost and broken body, crawling over
Paved concrete, looking for a part that hadn’t
Had the time to dry in the lukewarm sunlight.
For each shattered heart, waiting to be buried in
The wet concrete, hoping to mend its cracks
And fill its craters from too many punches to
The center of ourselves that should
Receive nothing more than love,
Will find its peace within the outside flooring
Where nothing is no longer temporary.

We are crying--laughing.
Uncorked the bottle.
Can't undo
Don't want to
Sorry. Pour me one
Or four. Sitting on the floor.
Pull me into bed--it's already done
And it's fun
Can't undo
Don't want to.

Our whisper wars in the dark
Speak louder than the stars
Shining above. Their luminosity
Brightens my skin while I
Cradle into you.
Your secrets at 3 in the morning
Burn deep into my heart and
I keep them protected behind
My ribcage.
I hold your breaths against my *******
While the rise and fall of your chest
Moves like the tide of the ocean
Against the sand of the beach.
When you begin to drown in
The moonlight of the night,
Know that I am pacing the shoreline
With my flaming candle,
Waiting for your cries from within the waves.
Please know that when the wind blows out
The flickering fire, making wishes
For happiness, that dust from dandelions
Will still be visible in the air;
No matter how crisp the water’s kisses
Are against my cheek.
And know that even in the darkness
Of our ocean, when I’m losing
My strength to tread salt,
I will always reach for you,
Both to save you and be rescued.

I could always tell when it was just me in bed, instead of the two of us. I opened my eyes to the darkness and the alarm clock glared the time at me. 1:46 in the morning was no time to be awake on a week day but all too often, I found myself awaiting his return that never came. Lying on my back, I looked over to the mess of sheets and comforter next to me that harbored the absence of my husband.

The house was quiet and I couldn’t tell what room he was in, if he was in a room at all, but rather casing the walls, his invisible gun between his fingers as he secured our fort. I threw the covers off of me and stepped cautiously into the night. He had closed the door after leaving the bedroom and when I opened it, I could see the dull glow of the light above the stove coming from the kitchen up the stairs.

I was careful walking down the stairs as not to scare him if we both came around the corner at the same time. Peering over the railing, I could see Kenny at the dining room table. He was shirtless and hunched over with his forehead resting in his palms on the table. The dull yellow bulb softly illuminated the kitchen and Kenny’s shadowy figure paced on the floor next to him with each breath he took.

My bare feet were quiet against the hardwood floors as I stepped off the final step. I heard the faint sniffle of Kenny’s nose as I stepped into the yellow light. I took a deep breath and leaned against the counter next to the sink.

“Kenny?” I whispered and when he didn’t answer, “Baby?”

He stayed quiet but I knew that he could hear me. I watched his back rise and fall; his breathing steady, letting me know that he wasn’t in the middle of a flashback. I walked over to him and squatted beside his chair at the table.

“Kenny, baby,” I said quietly, then cautiously rested my hand on his bicep. “Baby, talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say,” He said, “it’s the same thing every time, Maggie.”

He kept his head in his hands and I saw a few tears drip to his thigh where his boxers didn’t cover.

“I want this ******* ringing in my ears to stop,” he said a little louder, “when I close my eyes, I don’t want to see someone’s body torn to shreds.”

“I know,” I whispered, “I wish I could help.”

“I wish every time you rolled over in bed, I wouldn’t roll over too and almost choke you because I think you’re an enemy.”

I’d never heard him admit to almost hurting me. I’d known that he’d sometimes thought I was the enemy and almost pinned me down to choke the life out of me, but he always realized what he was doing. He’d never gone as far as putting his hands on me.

“Maggie,” Kenny whispered to me, bringing me from my thoughts, “sometimes I wish I would’ve died over there.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I said, interrupting him quickly.

“It’s true, Maggie,” he said, “I can’t stand living like this. I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

A car door slammed outside, a teenager arriving home late and Kenny pushed his chair back, stepping around me to look out front through the living room window. I sat back against the cupboard of the kitchen, feeling the cold floors beneath my bare thighs where my underwear didn’t cover. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I wrapped my arms around my legs, hugging them as tightly as I wish I could hug Kenny.
I could hear him walking through the house, looking through different windows, before he finally returned to the kitchen, peeking through the small window above the sink. I looked up at him from my spot on the floor as he leaned against the counter.

“I think it’s safe now Maggie,” he said.

I didn’t bother trying to tell him that we weren’t in any danger. I wasn’t looking for an argument at two in the morning. I looked up at him again as he stared into space, focusing on something, if anything across the kitchen.

“Do you want to go back to bed?” I asked him softly, touching his shin that was beside me.

“Sh, no Maggie, I think I hear something,”

I wanted to tell him that there was nothing outside, there was nothing inside, nothing was going to harm us but before I could, he gripped his head and ears, and his face displayed his pain. I could tell that his ears were ringing and in his head, he’d told me before, it sounded and looked like bombs going off.

“Make it ******* stop,” he said, “please make it stop.”

He was gripping his head harder as if trying to get inside his skull. Slowly, he slid down the side of the counter to where he sat beside me, his knees folded up as he tried to get the ringing to quiet down. He was beginning to surrender. I unwrapped my own legs and put my arms around him, stroking the side of his head with my thumb. After a few minutes, he began to relax and lean into me. I hugged him tighter and felt his entire body begin to loosen as he rested against my chest, tears landing on my T-shirt. A few more minutes passed and he’d completely laid down against the hardwood flooring on his side, his cheek now on the thigh of my outstretched legs. I continued stroking his shoulder, his neck and his head. I could feel his tears coming one at a time, landing on my bare leg. Kenny rested his hand on my thigh, hanging on as if he was about to die in the battle of his own head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Me too.”

By the end of the tenth month,
I’d have cut myself at least ten times
On ten different nights.
Ten mornings I’d wake up and put
On a long sleeved shirt
And not because I was cold.
Ten bracelets would line my wrist
And I’d say that they matched my outfit.
Ten nights I’d cry myself to sleep
And wish that I was dead.
Ten mornings I’d wake up with my eyes
So red and swollen that ten people
Might’ve asked if I was okay
And ten times to those ten people
I’d say that I was just tired.
Ten Band-Aids would be laid to rest
Over my wounded skin.

And after the tenth month,
It would be November.

My first paper cut happened so fast
I didn’t know something so thin
Could hurt so badly.
Thin was never an adjective
I’d associated with pain but
The sting of red blood that
Appeared on the surface of my skin
Would later become an addiction
I couldn’t get away from.
Thin silver razor blades
And thin white paper
Shouldn’t seem so similar.

My teacher asked me if I needed a
Band-Aid at my kindergarten conference
When a paper cut sliced my finger
While we were going through my materials
As if looking into my future.
I told her I didn’t need a Band-Aid
And in return, she told me that I was strong.

Kindergarten has come and gone
And after a very long time of thinking
Band-Aids made you weak,
I’ve realized that bandaging up your
Wounds actually makes you stronger
Than trying to bottle up the hurt.

There are parts of you that make you who you are,
And parts that don’t.
Parts of you, that without them,
You don’t feel like you belong to the group you
Once associated with.
Having my ******* removed in order to enter remission
And beat breast cancer
Feels like my womanhood has been lost.
Flat chested takes on an entirely different meaning.
It’s crazy how I hear women
Wishing that their ******* weren’t so small
But they don’t know what it’s like
To have no ******* at all.
Or that they wish their hair was longer
When mine is the length of the guard
On an electric razor that my husband uses.
How does a man begin to love a woman
That has scars where her ******* should be?
The hair on my head has yet to grow back, even a little bit.
Reminding me only that I’m still a woman
Is the gift Mother Nature sends each month.
The cramps in my abdomen seem ten times less
Compared to heaving an empty stomach
Into a pan or toilet bowl next to me
After the chemicals have entered my system.
Throwing up from morning sickness
As my unborn child has just started to live
Told me that I was indeed a woman.
But now after she has grown and must
Watch her mother battle cancer,
Lose her hair, throw up nothing but emptiness,
And she still tells me that I’m the
Most beautiful woman on the planet.
How do I tell her that I feel like
An alien from Mars?

Venus sighs.

a camera on your own life
a camera in every room
following your daily routines
from dus(t) until Dawn
your apps have cameras
so you can update your day
like you update your software;
you update your Instagram

The noose tightens.

reality Game
no escape from the fly eggs
grubs in your routine
stitches on your day
you can’t look away or put it down
bombardment;
the reality game show re-union special
happens every time you look down
old reality recap episodes on loop in your head,
etc., etc.

Venus died
and you didn't even tweet about it.

I’m sorry.
I’m sorry it had to end this way. I’m sorry to put you through this.
Nothing I say would ever make you understand the pain I was going through. There’s no way to describe the suffering I was torturing myself with.
I tried. But five years is too long.
Too many nights of cutting my wrist, crying myself to sleep, then waking up the next morning and pretending everything was fine.
Everything wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine.
Imagining your funeral day after day after night after night is not normal.
Thinking of ways to **** myself had turned into an everyday routine.
I couldn’t remember the last time that I was truly happy.
A smile is too easy to fake.
I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.
I can only imagine that you’re going through Hell right now. And I never wanted to hurt you but I couldn’t live the way I was.
I didn’t know how to fix it.
John, please don’t do anything stupid. Mom doesn’t need to lose both of her children. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye.
And I know you’re probably thinking half of this is your fault because you’d caught me cutting more than once and didn’t say anything because I promised the last time would be the last time.
This isn’t your fault.
I know people will say that they never saw the signs. But I’m still trying to figure out how everyone has missed them.
Too many text messages telling people that I wasn’t happy and I didn’t want to live anymore. Too many text messages telling those people that I wanted to die.
Too many text messages begging for help.
Too many posts on social media asking someone to save me.
No one ever cares until something bad happens though. Because now I’m dead and everyone is trying to figure out what happened and why.
I only hope that when word gets around that I killed myself, all the people who received text messages or read a post that they ignored, will catch their breath because they know they should’ve done something.
But it’s too late.

I shaved my head this morning.
The sun hadn’t yet conquered the horizon
But the birds outside the window cheered for me
As I pulled the shaver from my forehead to my crown.
My tiny fingers gripped the electric razor,
Holding on for life,
As it were much too big for my nervous hands.
I cut my skull three times before allowing myself to cry.
I peeked at the blonde clumps of hair that rained
To the cold bathroom tiles and puddled around my feet.
After finishing, I went to lay in the arms of my blankets,
While my pillows kissed the back of my head,
Healing the nicked wounds scattered over my skin.
I left the hair to sleep in the sink and over the floor.
Welcoming the sun rise, it felt warm against my bare skull
And I wondered if this was how heaven felt like,
Walking up to the gates.

I cut myself again for the last time the night before last, proceeding to fall asleep, hoping I wouldn’t open my eyes this morning.
Waking up to a floored mascara line so straight down my cheek, I didn’t know tears could glide so unbent.
Ruler aligned cuts stand ***** like railroad ties over the flesh of my wrist.
I walk around, careful because I’m concealing a secret that only I can possibly know.
The bracelets hugging the veins in my wrist are nothing but a fashion statement working to disguise the cuts that haven’t yet turned to scars.
I walk around, half hoping someone notices, but still praying they don’t.
The feeling as if everyone around me can hear the thoughts whispering inside my head as they grow louder the more I try and look someone in the eye.
Can they see that the dam inside my eyes broke and was put together when I focused on keeping the blood contained from my wounds?
Gambling with the idea that the people I walk by and next to and towards know that I tossed and turned too many times to remember.
Risking and hoping the **** Band-Aids won’t draw attention to the damage I’ve done to my skin,
Until I take them off, allowing the cuts to breathe,
To heal into scars.

******* isn’t the same;
My collarbone doesn’t peek up through my skin how it used to when I removed my shirt.
I can’t see my ribcage protrude over my flesh under each breast like it used to.
My hourglass figure has too much sand; it’s spilling over.
The mirror seems to hide its eyes and turn away and the scale screams for me to scram.
The numbers glare up at me as I look down over the overfilling sand to where I wonder what it’d feel like if the ocean washed up over my toes in a skimpy bikini,
My hair blowing in the wind as I let the sun kiss my cheeks.
How it feels to be kissed by the glass watching me strip into the dim bathroom light,
Instead of slapped by the picture I see in the mirror.
When I bend over to finish removing the clothing,
I have to look away from the extra bulge of sand that sits directly above my waist
And haunts me by the rolls that hang on to my fattened skeleton.
I wonder how it feels to be loved by the reflection staring back at me.