ruthie

I want to write a poem about a clean...

mouth/untouchedand meticulusand icy/like -

mystery water, undrank water

frozen to the glaciers navel until we melt it free/I

know alot about glaciersBut nothing about clean... 

water. -  - - - - - - - - - I know nothing about... being clean.

IWantToWriteAPoemAbout... theSoftnessOfBodies, the...

hardnessofbone,the...

hotnessofbreath,the...

wetnessofhands,the... kinda touch...

- - that sets your skin...

on fire/I want to write about my spine being touched(totouchTouchTOUCH)I

want to do this writingRight, from the beginning.I wish ...

I wouldn't make mistakes... (likehowsometimesIdo)I 

would like to write...

about being FuckedSoHardISeeGod.Fucked...

so hard I see god.Iwant to see god I want to write about it I have never seen god in my entire life ever.

I want to write...

a poem.I want it to be 

a good one.IWantToUseWords!and

lines - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   and ... 

IwanttowritelikeIbrushmyTeeth,write 

words the way I brush my TEETH-Did you 

know that I can't brush my bones but I can brush my teeth like I write words?  

I would like to write a decent poem that people...

will like.I would like to 

like it also, aswell, too. - - - - - - - - - - - I want it to be...

likeVomit(LikeHowCryingIs) And say... 

things that are...

good (fortherightreasons) and I...

  I would spell IfIcould//AndIam//ButIcant.

I don't...

really remember them...

teaching... 

MeHowToSpell, But...

I want...

To.I want to write a poem,

My dream:

You love me.

And when you say it I believe you. You listen to me when I talk, and you remember the things I say. You know my birthday, and my favorite flavor of ice cream, and kissing you feels like dancing, and laughing, and waking up, and taking medicine, and your hands want to touch me. You fulfill my most radical fantasy of being cared for.

And, you love me.

Your arms are a blanket. Your heart is a music box. My ear is pressed against your breastplate like I’m eaves dropping into another room and I hear something in there singing. You put your hands in my hair without thinking about it, and this feels good to you; you kiss me before I have to ask you to. You grab the soft, scarred part of my hip and tell me you think I’m beautiful.

Also, you love me.

You think of me, even when I am not next to you, and you crave my body before it’s near your hands. You pull me closer to you because you want me there; you breathe in when I breathe out. You have never gagged at the sight of my blood or covered your ears when I cry; you have never threatened to kill me even once. You swallow me like in delicious; I love the feeling of your esophagus hugging me. Your eyes taste awake when you look at me.

And, you love me.

You love me.

In this dream, you love me.

You love me in this dream.

Not every wound consents to closure.

Some descend,

mineral by mineral

until grief forgets

whether it is adversity

or architecture.

The pearl does not forgive the blade,

It enthrones it.

Every radiance is

made from abrasion,

Hurt will always become

ceremonial.

The orchid,

It flowers for no remembered hand,

It scatters what purple grammar

it has left in its belly

onto a page

without a mind.

And this is true.

And roots inherit

what the flowers watch die.

You must believe that the earth keeps a meticulous mouth–

never speaking,

or hinting,

or licking the blood off of your icky sores.

It only sinks its teeth in

We march to your desk as a family. 

Arms crossed, we carry folders 

Filled with papers you thought you shredded.

But you can’t get burn the records 

That we keep in our minds.

We will present the evidence to you. 

We are angry people.

You scoffs toads from your throat 

Flip your tiny hands in the air

Your polished little shoes click dirt on the tabletop.

You cement a smile on your jaundiced face,

You avoid our eyes, 

But we will make you stare at us.

We are angry people. 

Our presence contaminates your expensive air 

With the stench of our rotting bodies.

Our untreated disease and open wounds

Que you to shield your nose from us.

You can choose to either suffocate,

Or breathe us in. 

We are angry people.

The steam from our cheeks makes your office sweaty.

The wallpaper starts peeling,

Undressing the ugly wall behind.

The gold ornaments begin to melt,

A quality of plastic.

We break what isn't already on fire.

We are angry people.

The longer we stand around you, 

The more inevitable justice becomes.

You can't hire someone to turn our heads.

No orchestra can drown out the sound

Of an army 

Screaming their grievances.

We are angry people.

We are the ones you lied to.

We are the ones you cheated.

We are the ones you starved.

We are the ones you abused.

We are the ones you raped.

We are the ones you murdered. 

We are the ones that will pour you out of your leather chair.