Hello little mouse

In my fathers house

It’s nice to see I’m not alone

I’m not the only one up too late tonight

I’m not the only one who runs from the sound of boots too heavy

I am too light

Goodnight little mouse

Be wise. We should both leave my fathers house.

Sometimes I am sad

When I remember all the mornings I have missed

Sleeping.

But then I remember

The sun and the scattering shadows do not belong to me

I’m just lucky to visit.

When I was in Littleton, I would speak to the man who rides the wind. If I had a secret, or a lie, or a neat fact about rocks, I would climb the pine in the middle of the woods and whisper it to him. Sometimes he would whisper back.

Sometimes he would tell me the stories of the people who were here before.

Of the old man and woman who lived in my house and fed the birds.

Of the young men and women who carved the dirt roads through the unwelcome woods between homesteads.

Of the people who didn’t need roads, and who the trees welcomed with open arms.

I think he was one of them.

I think maybe he was lonely. If I didn’t come out for a few days he would scream and beat on my windows at night. He just wanted someone to listen to his stories. To the gentle whispers of love around a bonfire that wafted up to him on the smoke. To the screaming of people running from their homes. All our stories twisted into gusts.

The wind remembers what you say, so leave a story he will want to tell.

My skill is in deception

it is not easy to say

but hear my cruel confession

And then be on your way.

I do it, not for malice,

nor was it done for fun

but lies built my glass palace

I’ll throw rocks when I am done.

I chose the path I walk on,

though it is strewn with thorns

my bare feet feel the poison

but what hurts more is the scorn

of those I want to love me

its the lack of love I fear.

Their souls soar high above me

while I lie bleeding here.

I’m desprate for affection,

what I know I don’t deserve

and though I‘ve known for a while

still it wounds the open nerve.

And so I change myself again

into what I know they crave

I follow signals they put out

to guide how I behave.

It would be better for us all, I think

If I sometimes lost this game

it’s grandios, I know, and still

the results will stay the same.

And now people adore me

sometimes it works too well.

Still, better than abhore me

that would be my special hell.

And so I twist and kill the truth

I hide and falsify

I burn when touched with solid proof

Succinctly put, I lie.

I know I should be honest

my friends would like me better

and still I cannot bring myself

lies hold me like a fetter.

I work so hard to free myself

from the habits I have formed

but then I see my honest self

crude, horrid, and deformed

I shudder at the wretched sight

as one shutters out the cold

and though I pity my own sad plight

I hate it, truth be told.

And so into my pit of lies

I make a fast retreat

I want to be a better man

but my demons I can‘t defeat.

So now you‘ve heard my story

Ive poured out all my sins.

The only truth within the lies

is you should stop before you begin

There are two things that you will find in every house that’s been left behind.

The first: Skulls. I could fill a book with drawings of the different skulls I’ve found. Birds, with their little eggshells heads, looking so small without their feathers and beaks. Opossums and their pointy noses, snakes with the spine still intact, cats and dogs and a few times, just once or twice, a big round one. I leave the houses with the big round ones pretty quick.

The other thing you find, unless the house caught fire, is books. Lots and lots of books. People seem to think if they get left then they’ll just fall apart, but books are sturdy. They last, even though their pages crinkle at the edges and the covers wear away. My favorite is a house with stacks of books about the judges in our county. When they were appointed, what laws they approved and when. It makes me wonder why someone needed those, and what happened to them.

It’s a good reminder though.

In the end, all that’s left of us is our bones and books.

“Why do you wear knee socks?”

To cover the bruises on my legs

“Why do you wear short sleeves?”

to show off my scars

“Why do you love your scars and hate your bruises?”

Because my scars show that I’ve lived through someone trying to hurt me.

And my bruises show that they are still trying.

There are 7 churches between me and Littleton.

Maybe one day I’ll list them.

Maybe I shouldn’t say their names.

Everyday on my way to work I pass the Second Presbyterian Church of Littleton. A small, white building about the size of my bedroom, with about a hundred cars parked around it. No way all those people could fit into that tiny concrete structure.

Maybe it had a basement.

Every Sunday the parking lot would have cars parked, with people milling around enjoying the sunshine or clustered under the tiny awning in front of the door trying to avoid the rain.

Every Wednesday night the same thing would happen. Same as every other church in Littleton. Same as it always is.

But one day I passed by and all the lights were out.

The parking lot was full. More than full, there were cars parked on the road beside the building, in field to left of the Church, but not a single soul in sight.

It was a Friday.

Maybe they were in the basement.

You are like a cigarette.

You looked so beautiful in someone elses hands

on their lips.

I had never tasted anything like you,

and you tingled on my tounge.

The taste of mint and ash.

But then you burned me. You burned my fingers and my throat and my shoulders and thighs and it hurt, but the pain stopped and I was back to draging you between my teeth again.

And then, when it hurt too much to keep going,

when the scars stopped fading and cough started and the smoke stopped smelling like burned roses and peppermint and started smelling the way skin does when the fire kisses become too intense.

Then, I realized you were poisoning my lungs.

Then, I felt you staining my fingers with your smell, the smell of blackness.

I loved the fire inside you, the one you hid in layers and layers of ash.

I tried to protect it, to nurture it, but then I realized

in trying to keep you alive

all I was doing

was letting you burn me.

I dreamt of cigarettes,

of long thin white lines with orange tips like flowers blooming.

I do not remember the taste

I do not think there was one

The taste was not important.

I dreamt of fire at my fingertips,

of slow flames coming closer faster than I could breathe, faster because I could breathe.

The ash at the end of it all

like fallen snow

like a frayed piece of fabric.

I do not smoke.