There Are No Windows in My House

Sixteen candles sprawled over vanilla icing and lighter fluid.

Take one back, tuck it in the shirt pocket of our father, for every year after he would feather the wings of you in a ruffled manner,

hollow grammar and time to kill. Climbing past Saw Tooth mill and screaming at  the top of lungs and teeth when it finally hits you:

freedom can be found in the gut.

Was there ever any reason in your eyes to kill the boy next door?

You slept soggy and senseless after seeing the lips of his mouth turned upward, Saw Tooth smile, (he was with you at the water tower, ground cut between each palm like pages of scripture,)- he is holy , but alive in only the back of your mind.

There is a small blue blanket in the trunk of your Chevy. There is a bottle of Vodka wrapped underneath, underneath,

underneath the bridges, we escape our realities. We are the goblins hiding under and the people walking over and (you tend to see things). Wrapped sterile in the sanity of being no one.

This makes you someone.

We are good

girls. We are innocent. There is purple near our irises and our hearts are strung together on twisted twine- we are empty and throat slit.

If I could make up one good story about our times together, you wouldn’t be there. I am ruin brutally beaten by another, our mother, father,

brother (hold my hand and tell me the truth).

The vase sits on the table, untouched. Wait a few years and  the mounds of dust will crack it through the center. There are no windows in my house; people don’t want to see the things that fall apart at  the fireplace. Brash black eyelids droop heavy over our frames.

There is no screaming (we have grown out of that, like old pairs of shoes).

Tell me there will be more than the darkness after death. Tell me of the wildflowers poking their heads through before Hell’s wrought iron gate. Tell me it wont hurt too bad.

People can change, and people can remain.  I am one of both, as I have no idea where my mind left me.

I am a body against the asphalt, highway stretched beneath my palms. I will sleep against the desert sand, hand in hand with the ghosts I’ve caught.

And it’s rambling, I know, but there will always be  laughter behind a dripping red grin.

(Again, and againandagain)