For Amari, A Love Letter

It is only because I love you this much that I promise that I will never stop being your villain.

I will stand next to her in your mind so that all my dark eats up her light, and you can’t make out a single one of her flaws next to my black mass of wrong.

When she makes you cry, I’ll slither out of that lonely place in your skull and ask you to remember all those time that, though you begged for me to stop, I murdered all the parts of you that loved me right before your eyes. I will curl up in your ear and whisper true stories of my own selfishness and self-inflicted suffering.

That night that you showed up when I was on stage and said that all you wanted was to dance beside me, all you wanted was to feel the heat of my body, and I let you stay but would not allow you to touch me, not really touch me.

That night that you showed up on my doorstep scared and said all you wanted was to lie down next to me, all you wanted was for me to hold you through the night, and I let you into my bed but would not allow you my arms to wrap yourself in.

That night you showed me your scars and said that all you wanted was to feel wanted, all you wanted was for my love to stop the bleeding, and I let you myself kiss you but would not allow our lips to touch.

That night you showed me I hadn’t lost you and said that all you wanted was a smart girl like me, all you wanted was someone to care for, and I let you stay but would not allow you to call yourself my girlfriend.

That night you showed me you’d die without me and said that all you’d wanted was to see your ring on my finger, and all you wanted was for me to care that you’d thrown that ring in the river, and I let you cry and would not allow myself to begin to fix it.

That night you showed me the dress you’d picked out for your date with her and said that all she  wanted was to see your hair in braids, and all you wanted was for her to like you, and I let you go and would not allow myself to chase her car down the street when she picked you up from my apartment.

It took more than three years for me to fully dismember your love for me, for me to gut your heart and stitch it up hollow, so that you could fill it with feelings for someone better, someone who could love you the way that you deserve to be loved. And I hope you never know how happy I am that you’ve found her or how it hurts a little more each day that you still hate me. I hope you never find out about the mornings that I can’t get out of bed because I know you’ll never lie next to me again. I hope you never think that maybe I've changed, that maybe it could work now, because I know that thinking like that only holds me back.

Which is why, all I want is to be your villain. My place is that shadowy space in your memory, from which I appear only to reassure you that you’ve made the right decision marrying her and promising to love her happily ever after. I want to be your villain as long as it keeps you safe, as long as it keeps you from hurting, as long as it keeps you from regretting, as long as it keeps you from missing me, as long as you need me to be.

Fire: A Love Story

Tell me again how we were bound from birth like the wildest animals bred in captivity, born in cages. Tell me again how baptism by fire won't work on wolves like us. Tell me again how even star-crossed arsonists deserve to be loved.
Tell me about the time when you were fifteen, the first time you put something burning between your lips; tell me again how I was busy wailing, bloody, cold, eyes opened for the very first time.
Tell me about that night that you turned twenty and didn't care if you lived or died, how your lungs felt like they'd crumble easy as ash—how that same night my parents began to hide the lighters because I'd stick my fingers in the flames wanting so badly to catch fire.
I can't remember if it was when you were turning thirty or if it was the year that I turned sixteen that we made homes inside warm women's arms and curled up quiet. Wasn't it within a month that we burned those homes at the stake for aiding and abetting known criminals? How many fires did we start in all? How many innocents do you think were burned?
Tell me the one about how a woman loved you for who you could be, just like a girl loved me for who I once was. Tell me how she saw the light in you, just like she refused to see the dark in me. Tell me again how star-crossed arsonists deserve to be loved.
Remind me again about that time that I thought true love meant the end of self-inflicted suffering because I found a girl who'd use me as an ashtray. Tell me how I made that false discovery at the same moment that the doctors were sure they'd found cancer in you, and you kept on with your pack a day. Tell me how when I woke up alone on a red-stained pillow and licked crusted blood from my lip, they told you there was no tumor. Tell me how your girlfriend said she'd stay on the same day they insisted that the smoke was causing my nosebleeds. Tell me how my lips were numb from tobacco when you found her suitcases packed and ready to go.
Tell me about when we ran out of lighter fluid. Tell me about when we ran out of cigarettes. Tell me about when we were unhappy and there was no one left to blame. Please, remind me again how star-crossed arsonists deserve to be loved.
Tell me how they chained us before we ever met, tell me how watching me walk through your door felt like coming face-to-face with the convict you'd been cuffed to your entire sentence, each of us with hands crossed behind our backs and bound together. Tell me again how when my skin blisters you feel it. Tell me again how when you suffocate from the smoke I stop breathing. Tell me again how we each love an arsonist though we hated ourselves half our lives.
Don't say that I'm still a child with my hand held to a candle. Don't tell me you're just an addict with a box of matches. Leave out how this could consume us. I just need to hear you tell me one last time how even wild animals who've burned down whole forests deserve love like ours.

The General

lizard-skinned half-buzzed
head flesh glittering gold
in self-created holes black
boots spit-shined no bra
bars through star-lined
nipples The General is
the creep who shakes me
from sleep makes a slit
in my soul crawls straight
through the hole walks
around inside me operates
my limbs like a demolitionist
at the controls of a wrecking
ball takes charge of my
tongue and turns it silver
dips it in acid uses it on girls
in the bathrooms of dive bars
with no intention of calling
in the morning talks like
a Nazi shitshow charisma
oozing from every pore
she swells my glands with
the use of powder and
sick sick sweat spends my
hard-earned cash on hash
red-eyed nosebleed headaches
premature signs of aging
does my hair up in a style
that says this is the fun-loving
wrung before rockbottom
she marionnettes me
never lets me find a safe
hole to stay in she drags my
conscience from behind
the wheel by his heels so
she can drive me take me
for a joyride jump ship
split seconds before the
moment of impact and like
always leave me alone to
look on singed hair blistered
body smoking horrified

pillowtalk

i love a man who makes
me a bed from his own
warm bones who lets me
lay up in his junkyard
arms with the breath
of a dying dog licking
at my neck until the day
has met its death in the
dumpster out back

when i leave my bed
of ruin barren to sleeptalk
to the tune of his halfrusted
organs settling like a
stormworn st. claude
shotgun my sleep is
garnished with visions
of the bluedress dead
girl hung from the doornail
the bloodstained hogfaced
butcher pumping his
accordion like a rifle
the corpulent green
corpse hollowed out
and used to serve
popcorn the most lifelike
babydolls with heads
that come unscrewed
and spray crimson when
they meet pavement

i love a man who reads
me back my dreams
in the daylight who
asks about the color of
the door the level of dust
on the frame the fabric
from which the hanging
woman's dress is stitched
the pattern of the blood
spattered on the pigman's
apron the expression on
each of their faces and
never once demands
to know the meaning

An Autobiography in Haiku Form

A dominatrix
nesting in the space between
lover and fighter

Survival Tactics

Turn your demons into masks
and use them to scare yourself
into getting your shit together

Turn your fears into fishing poles
and learn to feed yourself for a lifetime

Turn your regret into a weapon,
a broadsword or ray gun,
hold it to your own throat
when you feel yourself giving up
hold yourself hostage
until you make yourself proud

what it means to be in pieces

You have never

truly loved until

you have come

to understand the

plight

of the puzzle

ripped into jagged

pieces separated from

her soul mates

by the beast

known only as

jigsaw

The Collector

I collect poems

like pennies

plucked from

the cracks

of sidewalks

I keep them

in jars

with holes

piercing

the metal lids

just in case

A Theory of Evolution, a poem by Alice Urchin

The audio and video don’t sync up perfectly, which makes this kinda weird (especially because it’s such a somber topic), but the audio is really the important part, so I’m still posting it in hopes that you’ll be able to ignore the weirdness. 

This is a poem I especially felt I needed to write after all of the (mostly horrifying) coverage of the Steubenville Rape Case.

A Theory of Evolution

The rules of the Old Testament are no longer in play;

The you-break-it, you-buy-it policy no longer applies to my hymen.

If you steal me and destroy me, turn me into something unsellable,

you are no longer required to pay for me in full

and keep me in your home as a reminder of what you did wrong.

No, today we know better,

We have evolved,

We are enlightened,

We are no longer barbarians,

I am no longer an object.

Today, if you damage these goods,

I will not be forced to haunt your bed,

I will not be required to lurk in your kitchen,

presiding over your every meal,

cleaning your bathroom with bleach,

fixing your coffee with extra cream,

and never ever the other way around.

Today, you will not have your hands cut off for touching 
that which does not belong to you,

You will not be expected to pay my family a fee

for ruining their only daughter.

No, today were are enlightened.

Today we know better.

Today I will not rip my dress and beat my chest

to signify that I have been sullied,

if I did that strangers would only stop

to stare or shoot me sidelong sultry glances.

Today I am instructed to shout “FIRE!”

if I want people to come running;

I am encouraged to carry a pistol in my purse

because guns are the great equalizer,

unless of course you find yourself half-conscious

on the floor of a family friend’s hotel room,

but nevermind that.

No, today we are evolved.

We are no longer barbarians.

Today I am no man’s property,

Today I am liberated, free,

I am equal, they tell me.

Now that we know better,

Now that we have evolved.

And so my rapists still have their limbs in tact,

They still have their hands, their fingers, all their toes.

They have never been beaten, whipped, flogged, nor stoned.

They bear no scars, no marks impressed upon their flesh.

They have not had to pay in gold for the damage they inflicted upon me

Because I am human now, no longer an object with a price.

I no longer belong to my father, I am no longer an item of value.

I am just a girl who wanted to have a good time,

who was not suspicious enough of a gentleman’s kindness.

We are enlightened now.

I am just a girl, a warm bag of flesh not belonging to anyone; 
there were no insurance policies taken out on my safety.

Now we know better.

I am just a girl who is no longer welcome in her boyfriend’s bed because of her bad judgment.

I am no man’s property.

I am just a girl who will be paying for her own PAP smear and pregnancy test.

I am liberated, free.

I am just a girl being likened to a whore in a court of law.

I am equal, they tell me.

I am just a girl who was not lucky enough to have her insides swabbed

in time to collect DNA.

Now we have evolved.

I am just a girl whose case was made public and then thrown out 
due to lack of evidence that I wasn’t asking for it.

Because I am a human now, no longer an object.

I am a human with the power to give my consent.

And we are enlightened now, no longer barbarians.

Today we are liberated, we are equal,

Everyone enjoys the same freedoms:

My rapists walk free,

and so do I, or so they tell me.

            

The Lightning Rod Effect

We cannot watch the weather report

without arguing over

the likelihood of lightning

striking in the same place twice

You will tell me that once a girl

is thunderstruck

there is some invisible

seal impressed upon her skull,

making her a walking target

for future storms,

like the clouds can tell

by the way she

moves and speaks and dresses

that she’s an easy target

I will ask you what about

all of the girls who never report

having been hit,

all the girls who keep their

victimization locked up

in the backs of their minds,

all the girls who stop

going out when it rains,

all the girls who curl up

with the lights on

too afraid of lightning to ever

leave their beds again,

all the girls who are struck

once and only once

because that’s all it takes

We cannot go outside

without wondering if tonight

might be the night the sky

decides to swallow us up

and spit us out

so that by morning
we won't be the same

Estate Sale

For sale

two red bicycles barely used

but bought with romantic

excursions and summer

picnics in mind,

hand-me-down sweaters

worn to tatters

broken in with embraces,

the knowledge that she

hates artificial cherry

flavoring but loves

the fruit itself,

six poems written in pencil

on sticky notes and saved

in a desk drawer,

the memory of salt

and apricot the scent of

her unwashed hair,

three photo albums

worth of feeling,

the knowledge that she

cannot sleep without

the security of a locked door,

a distant memory of

that time we drove all night

and I said the air

tasted like metal

but she said it was

more like blood,

boxes upon boxes of dead

dried flowers mostly daisies,

the fact that she liked

daisies best of all,

Everything must go

eden

she is peach

I am plum

I am learning

to grasp the subtle

differences in the anatomy

of apples and oranges

I am learning

how devouring

a pear can feel

like a sex act

when putting

a breast of chicken

between your teeth

can feel like treason

I am learning

how the fig felt

when she was skinned

alive forbidden eaten

by a pair of blushing

garden tourists

she is peach

I am plum

He told me I could call him Ryan

I never thought it would happen to me

he has a pinched pale face he wears glasses

I heard he’s a joke that no one laughs at

he never told me what his last name was

he has a pinched pale face he wears glasses

now rape and I are on a first name basis

he never told me what his last name was

I could pick him out of a lineup but I won’t

now rape and I are on a first name basis

I heard he’s a joke that no one laughs at

I could pick him out of a lineup but I won’t

I never thought it would happen to me

Dead Meat

Out of ideas for improvement, 


She turned to self-destruction, 


She poured her dinner down the drain,


Calling it a plan for reduction

She ran four times around the block,


Swallowed capsules thick and red,


She thought of having lunch


But chewed some candle wax instead



She gazed into the mirror


And painted up her skin


Threw on her shortest mini skirt,


And said, "Let the games begin."

(I wrote this when I was 16. Woohoo teenage angst!)

whipped cream

start by taking off

the leather silver-studded

collar, cut it into bite-sized

chunks and eat it atop vanilla

ice cream, adding whipped

topping to taste, next unlace

the corset, which,

if she’s a good girl,

is currently cutting off

eighty-percent of her air supply,

then pull back,

it is essential to

let her breathe before you

let even a drop of her

touch your tongue,

last peal the boots

slowly from her sweating

thighs, allowing your mouth

to water appropriately

before finally allowing

yourself to feast

Pink Cloud

You do not want to know

the ways in which I am not

your Daisy Buchanan

You do not want to hear

how I permanent pressed

this emotional affair

instead of letting it drift

in swathes of technicolor

silk and cotton to the

hardwood of your floors

as I giggled to myself

You do not want to hear

how I wanted you to

wreck my marriage like

I wrecked your convertible

how my canary-colored vows

would have sounded

as they crumpled

beneath the weight of

your cool white hands

You do not want to hear

how I found you face down

floating in the pool and

put a knife to my throat

hoping to slit myself a set

of gills and let myself sink

beneath your unfeeling body

just to feel the weight

of you one final time

Les bons temps rouler

a torn tutu stuffed

into a trashcan

which has tipped over

and sent garbage sailing

across the sidewalk

my boot gets caught

in the cigarette burn

of the tulle causing

the abandoned skirt

to drag from my heel

trailing behind me

like a drunken tourist

in search of a mate
and my life moves
like a poem in action

The Fifth

You ask me if I can claim responsibility

For the fifth of fermented chocolate milk

Found rotting in the bottom of his closet

You ask me if it was I who took scissors

To every scrap of red fabric I could get my hands on

And sewed scarlet A’s to each outfit he owned

You ask me if I have an alibi for the fifth of October

When his mattress was found frying on the fire escape

Charred black and speckled with animal excrement

You ask me if it’s true the I was the one to blame

For the strands of pink hair stuck to his sheets

Left for his poor wife to pluck from her pillowcase

You ask me if I am the type who likes it rough

The kind who carries a pair of handcuffs in her purse

Should she happen to meet the right kind of guy

You ask me if it is true that I was begging for

The rug-burned back and blue-tinged bruises and broken nose

That he so generously bestowed upon me

You ask me if I’m a flirty sort of drunk and wasn’t I

On my fifth vodka tonic the night I first agreed

To slip into the passenger seat of his Prius

You ask me what I was thinking heading over

To his place in a dress like that at night all alone

If I wasn’t on birth control and wasn’t looking for trouble

Well, Officer, in my defense, all I can do is plead the fifth

Questions for the Girl in the Fur Coat

Is your blood still liquid Valium putting the local vampires to sleep?
Is your heart still made of candy canes and baby shark teeth?
Are you still creating new cuts just to pick off the scabs?
Are you still flooding hotel bathrooms and napping in cabs?
How do your matches and your snowballs and your Vivance go?
How are your handgun and your fake blood and your one-girl stage shows?
Are you still stealing silverware from the restaurants downtown?
Are you still tearing out your hair in expensive ball gowns?
Is your skin still for sale at all the local thrift stores?
Is your tongue still two parts electric eel one part crack whore?
What color is your hair and which mask do you wear tonight?