literary buttons

I am blue as blue can get
but I know how to shoot a shotgun full of buckshot bullets,
I know how ‘no’s turn boys into beasts. 
I’m not scared. 


This is a truth and an untruth.
I am a wrecker
Not of homes,
Of people
(Including myself)
Im an equal opportunity wrecker!
Does that make me a feminist?
Or am I a meninist?
I mansplain all day to these boys,
They should really know by now
that I am a curator who knows better,
they taught me well.
They sharpened my skills.


Truthfully,
I’m not a notorious serial killer,
I’m a petty criminal who took all the credit.
The only way I can explain is through shitty analogies.
I am a metaphor that the reader thinks he understands.
I’m Lady Macbeth, and my hands are just dirty as fuck!


It doesn’t makes much sense to me.
I’m a shitty texter,
I’m not cool,
I’m loud
I think I’m smarter than you
(I’m not)
And I know I’m prettier than your ex girlfriend
(And your current girlfriend)
I light all my bridges on fire
I drink boy tears mixed with champagne,
(try it sometime)
and I sit at the head of the table.
I am a mob boss with a monopoly
over whiny boys who don’t get what they want,
I’m a girl made of alpha male,
and I protect my own.
If you fuck with the people I love,
you’re in for some twisted shit.
I am a multitude,
my blood is sarcasm and self-pity,
cinema and endless analysis,
I am a pain in the ass!
I will keep you up all night
And make you late for everything,
In the morning, I’ll oversleep soundly
And you’ll curse me from your work desk,
Only to come home the very same evening
and say you love me,
And say that I’m the most everything out of everyone that you’ve ever met,
and that you’ll wake up everyday excited
to do it all over again
Eventually, you’ll say I’m “too much” too often,
and when I decide not to come home anymore,
You’ll start knocking down MY door
and you tell I’m the most everything out of everyone you’ve ever meet
and this time,
You mean it!
I’ve rolled my eyes so much,
I’ve detached retinas.
(and you bore me).


Sometimes I think about my conquests and feel full,
Full of laughter and indifference and numbness
Not the bad numbness,
(I know that mother too)
But the kind of numbness you get in your face
When you’re drunk and it’s warm
and you’re swimming with you’re best friends,
And you’ll live forever.
But most of the time I am very sober.
It’s my duty to slap me awake,
to remind me of the truth.
I’m not a dictator,
I can be glamorous
but THIS isn’t glamorous,
I know the difference.
(caution: this isn’t an apology).


Those boys,
the ones I ate,
they were beautiful and hand made
of tiny shipwrecks.
I sailed them until they sank.
The seas we sailed were the only ones left that weren’t melting–
we weren’t the first to hit icebergs,
we weren’t the first ones to get lost.
I loved them,
But I don’t miss them anymore–
Not those boys, and not myself.
I’m not trying to bring us back to life;
An autopsy must be performed.
We all need a cause of death.


It’s still strange to me that
My body count is so high.
I’ve led many little lives
I’ve played the protagonist and the antihero,
The villain and the victim.
I’ve never chosen the roles,
They’ve chosen me,
(I’m a method actor).
I thought it was clear who I was when went we went to sleep, but
we were all wrong about me.


To those boys
I’m the small-town star quarterback,
The one you adore and resent at the same time,
The one who’s tragic and a little sick
But endearing because they’re beautiful and hard.
To them
I’m a rare catch,
And they can’t decide
If they should catch and stuff and hang me on the mantlepiece,
Or catch and release me back into the wild
Just so they can watch.


I don’t always know what to do with me either,
but I am not mythological.
I can’t tell you what I am
But I am not a suicide to be romanticized.
I am a championship
and a game lost by 1.
I am decorated
But I am NOT undefeated.
I’m not an Olympian
I am a soldier,
one who is valiant and strong
not because they’ve won it all,
But because they survived it all.
I am many
and I am few.
I am a fighter
And I don’t mean that in a story book sense,
I mean it very literally.
I have survived myself,
I have saved myself,
and I still don’t know
whether the blood on my hands
Is mine or theirs.


Those boys thought I was a war zone
(I did not feed them this lie).
They were shocked and horrified
when they realized
I was not propaganda.
They forgot
that all fire is enemy fire,
that there aren’t any “good guys” or “bad guys”,
just people trying to survive.
I didn’t mean to hurt them by living this truth,
but I can only be so remorseful over rain.
I am not your local weather man.
Everyone is made of bones and flowers.
I never wanted to teach those boys
that people are graveyards and gardens,
But I did, anyway.
I’m unqualified to articulate the ways in which one learns
how to love graves just as much as greenhouses,
I’m a cruel catalyst at best.


Still, I wonder,
can lightning strike 4 times?
when does electricity become an electrical fire?
when does negligence become indulgence?
when does survival become murder?
and when does coincidence become confluence?
Have I forged my own death certificate?
because part of me is angry.
It was pure luck that they walked in and watched my performance art.
It was curiosity that compelled them join me here
It was my contradiction that captivated them,
but it was their own set of addictions that made them stay.
They made up their minds about me,
and never asked what I meant.
No one has the decency to pray for fallen angels.
horns and halos aren’t all that different,
(the devil is a highway that we get on and off).


Long before I left those boys
I begged for them.
I loved them,
I loved them,
I loved them.
They may not have heard me
But I happened,
I still made sound in the forest.
I might not have been what they (thought) they ordered
But they ate the fruit anyway
and they loved it,
And they lost it.
My bags made plenty of noise when I packed up before the bell rang.

Come on, boys,
We all did this,
We all do this.
We’re all just fucking 4th graders anxious to go home,
We are unapologetic
We are all geniuses,
no one buys our art
we’re still masterpieces.
Just because you didn’t see me leave
doesn’t mean I’ll stick around after class to explain.
I can’t,
I won’t make it fair just to soothe you,
I won’t remain here for the sake of sticking.
I left early,
But I am a four day weekend,
And I can’t be so sorry anymore
(I’m not really sorry anymore).

The only solace I can offer is a thorough investigation.
I can only remember
what our autopsies smelled like.
I tried to respect them as I opened me up
but birth and death are messy!
I examined my insides and found my rot
then dug it out with my own two hands.
When there was nothing more to report,
I said hello and goodbye to myself.
I kissed my lives and loves one last time
before I had to leave.
I shut off the lights and showed myself the door.

Oh, my bittersweet tooth throbs.
I am on my way!
I have more wars to survive
And lives to live.
I have my own wrecks to discover
and helm to steer.
I am grateful for having shed my skins,
and I hope they feel the same,
but my chest bumps nonetheless.
It taps me, and it whispers:
You are on your way!
You are on your way!