32/104:04/30: Sometimes Things Were Bad

10077.
That was my first library number.
When I was 8.

I was a tiny wristed, white toothed 8 year old.
I learned to ride a purple bike with a purple dress on.
And I blew the hell out of bubbles
on a creaky porch swing.
I had a baby brother who I sang to
and made laugh and sometimes cry,
but more laughs.
and sweaty cousins to play hide and seek
and set up fake carnivals.
I even took piano lessons.

Sometimes things were bad,
but sometimes they were the complete opposite.

31/104:03/30: Let's try optimism

Take an inventory of all the things you're good at.
Start now.
It may take a few days.
Add items to that list that may not be completely true.
Then add "creative connoisseur"
if only because of the lies.

Anything that comes to mind -
write it down - or, better yet,
write it in the sky.
Let your neighbors know that
yes, in fact, you may cry a lot
(a lot),
but that can be a radiant and delicate characteristic.
The ability to openly weep, well, not everyone possesses it.

For example, on my alphabetized inventory
I might talk about my rib cage.
I think it's beautiful.
And occasionally,
I blast light straight from my sternum.

See? It's simple.

30/104:02/30: Two steps to remain lonely

For starters,
think about when you were little.
Remember, laying in you bed,
how fast your heart would pump hot blood
through your tiny body
when you knew this night was the night
you'd have to call the police again.

Sometimes he drank too much
and sometimes, she hit him with the
meanest words ever spoken.
(The reciprocation would blow the walls down)

Remembering; that's the first step.

Secondly, know that no one you know
can relate.

29/104:01/30: Never Ceasing

I will stand knee deep in heavily laden soil.
There I will craft that wheat grass into ropes and
tie my own wrists tightly.
I will rub the mud on my face if only to jump start
the decomposition.
(Not in a field of lilies, mind you,
just soil.
Stripped and full of broken boulders and empty)
That's where I'll die.

I will walk there willingly and I will
rip out my own intestines to beckon the crows. (i am them)

And if there is a god who cares about my personal queries,
well, it'll be then that I ask her about things like my skull
and my rib cage,
oh!
and I'd probably bring up about sacrifice.
But probably, I'd just ask,
politely of course,
"what the fuck?"

And for once, I will
let loose the glass from my marrow.

28/104: Poverty, who will survive?

Today, I said,
"things aren't always the way they should be."

I believe that, I mean, I must.
I said it.

The mere statement, spoken without a second thought,
took me aback.

I am living a fucking cliche,
in the worst way.

27/104: A dedication of sorts

Sometimes a girl might get lonely.
That girl, well, her bones just might break
because of grief;
brittle little sad bones
white with surrender.

Her nose might bleed.
The pain and the war,
it just gets to be too much.
And then, naturally,
there becomes no love left.

Harpsichords eat up the background
while the girl becomes magnolias.
No one listens.

26/104: Far from you.

You sat still.
(Except for your hands and feet.
They moved with intention, and more importantly,
grace.)

My heart blew down the walls as you sat there,
bathed in light,
singing.

You made me remember that I used to know you,
but somehow, this day, I don't.