Write what’s alive for you, they say

i don't know how much more fanciful twirling of batons these white boxes can take

i'm tired of wearing natural makeup and still not feeling like myself

what's alive?

well, my mom is, for another 30, 35 years if she's lucky

we blinked and missed my teens, she’s only coming into herself now, i'm not even done being lost yet,

so how long's she got with me after all, really?

and my dad is for now, if his liver stays lean and the cupboards fatten up

extra plates, forks, spoons, bring them all, because 2 of each is for family but 3 is for a significant other,

and i want a couple more years past what his running shoes and smoothies would have me believe

my words are alive, they bring me alive, if i let them breathe and speak for themselves

they don't need dressing up, needling to be plumped, shaving for their bones, nor trimming their fat

laying them bare is justice for open eyes

and my lover, he's alive, but only until I write the darker version of that story always writing itself,

the end