People don’t want
to hear how
fucked up your
childhood was,
how fucked up
your life is

how
you’re
fucked
up

they want pretty
sentences
and consoling vowels
they want glided
pages and
leather bound books

they want safety
they want to be
able to afford
the comfort
of lies

give them volumes
of blank pages
because that’s
easier to deal with
than looking
at the pain
in someone else’s
eyes

The only memories
I have of my father
are of spaghettiO dinners,
dark closets,
a cigarette burn
on my knee,
I tell myself
that wasn’t to prove
that he loved me
there’s Air Force planes
we saw when I was seven,
the last time I saw him
when I was nine
but other than those
there’s not much
that I remember
about having a father
to call mine

Here’s a bullet hole
from when
I got shot
by that hooker
in Toledo Ohio

This one is from
a botched attempt
at finding God
in the back seat
of a Dodge Lebaron

Then there’s this,
these stitches
still not healed
but I don’t want to
remember where
I earned them from

Let’s leave it,
it’s not that interesting
and I’ve run out if stories
to make up
about false origins,
and an even falser
hope that they
will heal