Egg Tooth

Each relationship I cultivate with another human life

Is a tooth, erupting from my gums,

Armored and available.

You were my egg tooth,

Used to break through the protective shell

In which I was encased.

My walls sank lower 

And lower 

In acquiescence 

And the tooth rose up stronger 

And stronger 

In anticipation.

I asked for warmth and
You handed me a light bulb;

Melted my guts like chapstick that had been 

Left in the car too long.

So is it a coincidence that 

Your body and the earth are filled 

With the same percentage of water?

Because you fell through me like 

A stone falls through the ocean: 

Quickly sinking into a soft ending.

Where I'm From

I'm from the right stock.
I'm from the wrong side of the tracks.
I'm from the old colonial that, named appropriately, invaded and pillaged me even after I left it.
I'm from public schools and public pools
Where little boys brag "I have a bigger head than you" before ducking into choppy, green water.

I'm from my mother; her heart is deep, absorbent purple,
Like new asphalt in the summer.

I'm from Hannaford's; I used to be from Stop n Shop, but when I left home,
I ripped out the power cord connecting myself to my childhood and started fresh.
Fresh, like the produce section.

I’m from the drunken nights that cannot be measured in vomit or so many texts, wryly tossed into the atmosphere of a Friday.
I’m from slowly regaining self control,
Shrouded in a misty cloud of dysphoria.
I’m from the mornings in which I throw the words
"Piece of shit" in my own face most.
I'm from the left lane, which is where I drive 95 mph with
The radio on full volume in an effort to blast her out of my brain.

I’m from a world that I left behind; one that
I was fucking good at.
I’m from the early mornings of buffering a laundry list of insecurities –
Anything but light reading.
I’m from a hero complex, I guess.

I’m from the appointment at a dentist who stuck the only needle
Full of enough novacane to rival the numb I’m feeling now.

Better Now

You can feel the Cheerios in your belly - you can feel each one individually, less like food now and more like 55 separate promises. You catch yourself addressing the hungry urge, which you assumed to be carnal, but it's more than that, really. Halted, pensive, you consider your cigarette for a moment before dismissing the notion. It too is burned up like a series of paintings stolen during the war. After sitting with the idea for a while, you can feel its spores all over you, like being covered in hair after petting a cat. 

That's why you hold your breath when we drive past the house where we grew up. So you don't inhale the spirits of those days. So you don't catch that too. Although these words stretch endlessly in the other direction, you know it's better now.

It's better now.

But you didn't write anything down; you didn't even get a picture on your iphone. You know by the time it's penned, it'll feel like a copy of a copy of a copy, xeroxed into a smother of stray black lines and fuzzy copier static. Sure, you drive too fast, but having a lead foot also means you stop short.