Girl or Just Violence from Here: Poem Eighteen
One day I’ll get a forty-five and blow my brains out. But not today. I really want to blow out yours though. And when I roll over in sweat soaked cotton and sit holding layers of white, I can look out the window. The mountains are too pretty— strange oils in smoky shades of spruce, pine, and granite. I want to touch. I stand and grab my bra off the floor My hands shake. They always shake now. I want to reach into breathing creeks carrying black pink white grey pebbles, my fingers digging into slow water and granite sand. But I can’t. It’s too hard to even breathe as I put my shirt on, my coat on, get my purse from your russet recliner next to the bedroom door. It was a mistake. You were a mistake. And I’m sorry, but I need to go. I should have the first time you hit me, inhaling like a hammer pulled back— echoes of rippling water and draughts over ridges, peaks hiding under windfall and yellow aspen leaves. I used to swear that I would kill the man who hit me. But somehow I can’t draw back the hammer. I still love you somewhere. So I am ending this here, now. It’s cause for crying I guess. All I want is to grab the grey monoliths outside the window and carve them with whirlpools of frost, little pinpricks of white oil over ivory canvas, memories of antique lives. I will say goodbye after exhaling cracks of thunder and bright white. I know it can’t always be so black and red, so I walk down stairs, away, and shut the door behind me.