In Memoriam

So many bad things happened,
And I sat quiet.

But I want to walk into the street and scream.

Fifty of my siblings are dead.
They lay in pools of blood
while loved ones cry
or
convince themselves that
they are fine.
mourning their own friends at the hospital
cell phones forgotten.

I want to cry for them.

I want to confront the
toxicity of men.

I watch my sister's abuser
excused and justified.
Her pain erased,
violation dismissed.
Because of his
potential.

This week has been a series of headlines
About pain and death
and the only news is
that my life is tossed aside
just as easily as
fifty dead friends.

That my narrative is taken
as remorselessly as he took
my body from me.

These news stories
responses
memes
tweets
status updates
photos
only frame the portrait of me
that the world has been painting for
     years - 

A poor, queer woman
who is only newsworthy
In Memoriam.

On The Question Mark

I love the way you say "yeah"
With a question mark.

The question mark is important.
It is waiting for me to continue, of course
But it is also, somehow
Pleased.

It is like a puppy who hears
"Here, boy"
And the ears perk up,
Suddenly alert.

It seems, in a way,
To be excited
with an air of "wow, really?"
disbelieving, yet hopeful.

It is not incredulous,
This question mark,
or genuinely curious,
It is not looking to be answered.

It is, I think, a little shocked-
But pleased at the discovery.

just tired.

I'm too tired to write a poem.
I tried to write one about
how I only ever learned what not to do
in the ongoing struggle to raise a well adjusted child.
Or one about how desperately
I want to teach him he doesn't have to be afraid
like I was for twenty six years.

I'm too tired to find the words
look at my spacing
Does this line meter right?
is the break
appropriate
or is this line much too long?

All I can think about is
making my own tea
how many times I'm going to forget my phone in the morning
and who is going to teach me to drive, now.
The tiny little spaces in my life that he filled.
How he makes me cum long,
and deep,
slowly bringing me to a climax,
and knows exactly what buttons to press
and for how long
and in what cadence
to leave me exhausted and filled with love.

I don't feel loved anymore.
I don't feel anything -
just tired.

Economics

I'm better than this, you say.
     Brilliant
     Determined
     Beautiful
    (Deserving)
That's fine -

Thoughts like that are a luxury
(because there is risk in chasing a better life)
that I can only believe when I have some breathing room.

Some distance from obligations like
     Rent
     Hunger
     My son
    (His father)
Or in your arms.

The problem with boys with money is that,
when they love you,
there is a mania that makes us look beyond our limits.

That glimpse into middle-class possibility -
     A full stomach
     New clothes
     A vacation
    (Freedom)
Gone as soon as they are.

You make me high, or maybe it is the air up there
so far above my place
that you breathe into my lungs after you kiss me.

My medication warns me about
     excessive happiness
     racing thoughts
     reckless behavior
    (unusually grand ideas)
And I am calling my doctor

Because
how can I tell what is a mania-fueled delusion
and what is my use-value?