When I was seven my cousin John put a water pistol in my ear and pulled the trigger, laughing so hard he peed himself while I stumbled around the patio shaking my head and crying. Earlier that morning he’d boasted that everyone in the world was shit, except me, and someday he’d make the shits pay. That summer John was only nine, his arms covered with self-inflicted bite marks and Magic Marker skulls.
The road to you
Is full of broken glass
The five sand dollars I found
I used for a down-payment
On a piece of ocean
I cut a hole for you to climb through
A little article I read somewhere said you were trying to get rid of me. Possible cause of cancer, it called me. Restrictive to healthy flow of toxin-flushing lymphatic fluids, it said. Well, that article didn’t have the story quite right. Surprise. I’m still here. I’m the support your mother can no longer give you. The phantom touch of your ghost child holding your heart. You think you can get rid of me? You think silly science chatter will silence me? You think wrong. My underwire bites like hell And like the gods in hell and above It holds all [Read more]