Gothic

Let’s see ma’am now where should I start--

my sister is the sunshine of the family.

We orbit around her like drunk bees waiting for a drop of pollen or a joke, saying nothing.

I sit still and silent with clenched teeth until I’ve got bloody red gums from smiling in too many planned photographs,

I change the color of my hair like it’s in the witness protection program.

And I guess I’m all used to this sort of thing by now so I’ll tell you how

every night when my family goes to sleep I’m still up with a book on account of

I don’t wanna leave but I’m wanting to get out.

I stick my fingers in the edges and slam it shut till all we see is--

I’m sorry younger me, but what the hell is freedom? Is it something you buy in a tricolored popsicle at the fair

    or has consumerism not grabbed you by the cup size yet and asked your name and number?

    How young are we talking here?

    Yes ma’am I think I stopped growing around twelve or thirteen and my mind feels like it’s stuck there

    but the point is I’m done, done,

    now all I gotta do is wait slowly for my body to deteriorate

and fall to the ground up and down quick like a climax chart.

Yes ma’am I believe in a God not on my accord though cause I been raised in a church

and sure I seen them comedians that come in and make gentle jokes about being a Home Schooled Kid Like Me

but that ain’t exactly what I’m going for here see I think just by nature I may be a bit edgier.

Am I outrunning stereotypes yet?

(That was a joke ma’am you can laugh.)

Now how long exactly have I wanted black hair? Has it been long because nah it can’t’ve been

    do you have that in your notes, ma’am? Do you have in your notes how I can’t seem to do nothing permanent

    or that my favorite color’s red but I wear more blue? Do you have in your notes how I hold books like security blankets,

    how my mom and dad are real successful and my brother he’s good at math and I’m just not no matter how hard I work? 

    You been writing down that I’m sad? Or why? What you put down there in your notes, is it my favorite art or poems

    is it terror dreams is it the recurring one about baby Rosemary crashing out of my arms like a fish flopping for life on the art class floor

    cause my arms ain’t strong enough to hold up an act anymore?

Things are crashing, ma’am, they crashing real hard.

Planets are coming out of alignment but Pluto here’s just a stubborn one, huh?

And she don’t want to revolve around the sun no more, huh?

And it’s been about an hour so I should probably take a sucker and get the hell out so you can see the next messed up kid, huh?

But when my family’s all sleep y’all think about me still up reading.

I’ll stick my fingers in the edges of the pages and slam em real tight.

Now all you can see is the red.