tonight i am choking,
broken with eyes swollen
crying with a pen in my hand
a notebook at my feet
eyes too red
to write a suicide note
or complete
any kind of necessary
explination.

tonight i am shaking
aching
breaking
with all that terror in my throat
bottled up like a jump-rope
turned noose.

tonight i am five years old
in the electronics department
at wal-mart
and i can’t find my daddy
anywhere.

i don’t know what did it
i don’t know if it was the short hair
the scars everywhere
or the poetry.
three years of therapy
(so far)
and i don’t know why
he can’t love me.

and i’m lying through my teeth
there are holes in my sheets
where my tears have burned through
saying fuck you, i don’t care.
fuck you, i’m done.
fuck you, i’m over it.

don’t know why i’m still crying, though.
can’t get you
wonder if i even love you
wonder if i’ll ever call
when i’m twenty-two in college
and i want to bring my girlfriend home for dinner
wonder if you’ll pick up
or hang up
or ask me if i’m ever going
to grow up
and get over that kind of stuff.

wonder if you’ll like my hair
or my first tattoo
or if you’ll just move away
so i can’t see you.
wonder if i’m allowed to visit
for thanksgiving.
christmas?
wonder if you’ll get me a present
or if you’ll like mine.

i can’t seem to find that photograph
where i won that trophy
where we were hugging
where your eyes caught the sun
and glistened
and you were so proud of me.
not of yourself, but me.
and we loved each other.
unconditionally.
unconditionally.
i can’t seem to find it anywhere.

i may have misplaced it,
but i’m pretty sure you threw it away
with the poem i wrote about forgiving.
you said that you liked it
but i don’t think you read it
because if you read it you would have burned it
like i should have.
and it’s funny because these tears
don’t know the difference
between a burning slap on the cheek
or i love you.
ironically,
i love you.
it’s not that funny, actually.

and if you love me,
you will be happy for me
for the girl i bring home on thanksgiving
and for the ‘A’ i get
on a paper about bisexuality.
you will be so proud
that i quit that stuff
not ashamed that i ever started.
i don’t know when it happened,
when we parted,
but if you love me,
you will have to love my short hair
and you will have to love my scars
and you will have to love my poetry
and you will have to love me
unconditionally.