i. to the itch of mind hives,
the crimson of their
aftermath
and the sandstorms of
internal debris after--
fuck you.

my chipped, stubby
fingers,
swiss-cheese-ravished
mind and blasphemous
crying-to-sleeps are owed
to you, old friend.


ii. to the lonely side
of my single bed, the vacancy
in my shelves for needed but
unknown
occupants and the nerve wreck
of a shivering impulse
i have become--
i love you
i love you
i love you;

this is a promise to yourself
you will only learn to
break twenty times
over.


iii. to you, who
writes
and
writes
more cringes and
slammed doors than i could
muster and make
pretty, naked,
poetic,
shallowly
misinterpreted and
loosely connected,

i
am still
here. i
am still
writing.


iv. to my only
bonne nuit rouge et
de l'amour mort,
fuck you
especially;

actually, i hope
death greets you with more
familiarity than you
greet it with and waits
at the bottom of the river
for you,
when your lungs
are strangers to air
and your body
rejects survival
like foul
breath.

to my only
bonne nuit rouge et
de l'amour mort,
fuck you
especially;


v. to the incantation
of maternal instincts, alienated
utter fear of loss, driving
and water--
i am
fine. my shoes
numb my feet
and the hair
on my head
makes it heavy but you,
mother, you

are doing just fine.

(i have enough,
you are enough)


vi. to myself,

standing by may
make you the inflicted
on (it is better to be
this way), but it
doesn't make you
a hero either.

you are
tall but you never stand it;
you are beautiful
but you never act it. you are
a boulder curve that's
lost it and you
are better than this.


vii. to the mirror,
to the weigh scales,
to the whispers in hallways;


viii. to the cousins-entitled-to-be-better-
and-forever-un-me,
to the letter from my grandfather collecting
dust in my memories,
to the prettier, fairer bullies,
to everything i could never
please,

i
am still
here. i
am still
writing.