Friday, May 1, 2015




I sat under the
peach tree in those
days, watching
the sun set on my
bandaged home while my
mom chain smoked on
the porch. I would glance at
the girls playing
kickball in the cement circle
that was our block and
butterflies would get stuck
inside my ribcage. I knew I
didn't have a chance with
any of them when they would
drill degradation into my
ears but I didn't care.
I was young and
hope burst from my
pores, even when disease
and funerals tried to
hold it back. Sometimes I would
play with the child next door
or my best friend. We
were all alone in the
throes of that
suburban malnourishment. I
haven't seen the kid next
door since I moved and
my best friend has
cancer. Me? I'm just
a fool writing about
buried days. These poems
peel from my
fingertips like the flowers
that were on my bedroom
wall. I still see the old
neighborhood sometimes in
my dreams, it's love and
filth perfectly preserved. I
want to go back
there. I
want to
set it all
on fire.

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