you stand small in your armor, tall on your tiptoes
insides always yearning for an explanation
for a way out, a reason to explore your world
and find more than what’s out there
it’s always been less than you imagined
but soon enough you’ve day drawn
worn paths on new city streets
the answer to your question around every corner
on the tips of stranger’s tongues
the question you’ve asked probably starts
with a why or how, specifics lost by now,
and, of course, ends with a question mark
quest you will, mark you might
chasing dreams dawn to dark

for such pale skin, bruises don’t show easy
they linger under the surface, tender and invisible
hard to see, hard to talk about
better off cradling wounds in private
in bed with your own hands softly softly
you’re home, you’re safe, nothing to see here
until there is  
until you are pried open and explored, examined
exposed and you didn’t want this, didn’t want this again
back flat, fists clenched, fresh tears go, get dressed 
it’s all routine, you see, and that wasn’t so bad, was it?

it is bright and i am only wearing a paper top and socks
i cannot stop crying even with questions meant to take my mind away
even with pleads to just relax scoot further down now that’s it
i am crying and no one knows what to do with me
home much later i am wrapped in flannel pajamas, a sweater
the lamps are on low and warm. my feet are cold and i do not cover them
i am out of tears but feel unmoored. they did not mean to do this, i know 

my memories they leave me
they leave me all the time
you ask, don’t you remember
i say, of course
i say, i was there, wasn’t i, wasn’t i? wasn’t i-
my memories they leave me
they leave behind the wreckage
and the dust the fights and the shame 
i clutch photos of green grass
of palm trees of smiles and try
to find them inside of me
my memories they leave me
they leave me slow like honey
pouring soft out of my mind
every detail blurred, out of focus, just beyond reach
conversations on repeat on repeat on repea
my memories they leave me
they leave me and soon
i’ll have nothing
left

for all of my life, my dad was a functioning alcoholic
and i didn’t know until he sat us down
after An Incident with one of my aunts on a family vacation. 
he told us that he had a problem,
that he was working on it,
that he was sorry. 
for the first time, a lot of things made sense-
the sudden anger, the shouting,
the careful orchestra mom played every afternoon,
each of us an instrument that needed constant tuning, 
never quite playing the right notes, 
discordant clutter on every stair step
ringing in all of our ears when it was discovered. 
it was a symphony i had never heard until it was announced
and then it was the only music in the house, on repeat every day. 
places, places everyone, the show is about to start. 
these days the music is soft, quiet enough to play over,
and most days i make my own music,
but some days i am overcome with sound- 
the chorus we learned by heart, 
the beat burned into our baselines. 
i’m not sure who’s playing the music anymore, 
who’s conducting, who’s listening. 
I’m not sure it matters to anyone, but me.