• This is what I know:
    Streetlights in the windy city are
    never quiet and seldom friendly.

    I was 13: A stained glass dream of opalescent tomorrows.
    Excusably young, trying blindly to numb
    bruised knees. Failing to realize the faultlessness
    of falling prey to age. Failing to realize that
    prayers are just wishes
    made with mouthfuls of selfishness.

    They convinced me wordlessly; to live with them,
    I’d have to live like them. So mindlessly I sipped from
    plastic tinged tragedies, smoked bowls of stagnant satisfaction,
    and caked acid eyelids with imaginary anthems.
    I learned to dance
    like money in an empty wallet.

    A television terrible room clings to the fall of my lashes:
    Sitcom solace curled like smoke rings, The Simpsons’
    cued laughter clouded near the ceiling. Green striped couch
    tipped 90 degrees out of rage’s way. Shoulder blades
    twisted tighter than the slam of a door. And vomit that slipped
    under clammy cheeks and crusted to subtle stench in a corner.

    This is what I know:
    When hummingbirds die their wings sigh—
    and maggots steal songs from needle thin throats.

    The man who slit my threadbare innocence
    ripped with crystal hands that shook vein tight,
    and bones that glowed siren blue through Teflon skin
    more dark than smooth. His arms
    pinned me carpet-like to the floor.
    Reeked of marijuana, sweat; breath poured
    prickling hells upon my neck.

    Ruined clothes flung as sanctuary to all sides cried
    for tears that clung to knots in concrete throat.

    His friends took turns with what was left
    of a chalk-box framework. Like bishops
    with holy texts they extracted me from my sins.
    Pounded submissive litanies into my stomach, my face.
    b***h
    Slammed four times into swollen, bloody cheeks.
    Kneed four times into trembling ribcage.
    Slapped four times across adolescent hips not taught yet to fight.
    Kicked four times into tense back sending muscles into firework spasm.

    The girl I hadn’t learned enough not to love
    sat mute and hung-over
    in December’s neon glare.
    I could see only her legs —
    still sad, still beautiful;
    they held me safe on another planet just across the room
    while mine screamed and expanded.

    There was nothing left except bruises and pleading.
    So broken, I let go—
    and let men pretend they were gods
    with the demons of unopened darkness.
    They could tame nothing but the
    devils in fumes we’d inhaled.
    I waited.

    The spirals in my eyes
    tightened past hallucination
    and kaleidoscope rage.
    I built cages for emotion and hid
    behind boyfriend safety nets.
    Reasoned that pain was what I deserved,
    so I’d take the least I could get.

    This is what I know:
    Linoleum floors swim now
    making plaster whirlpools from
    aluminum memories.