The Fam




I had a dream that the sun couldn’t touch me,

so I carried a cardboard cut out

just to look real enough to cast a shadow.

I must have looked funny,

because people kept laughing

and between those smiles

I caught myself,

eyes glued to the pavement,

emotionally dense

and defending myself

in a flat,

empty voice.


We do so many things collectively

and have too much in common

to always get along.

Only testing the temperature of the water

with the parts of ourselves

that are the furthest away,

the end bits,

toes and fingers,

the most commonly lost

in work-week accidents

and engine repair holidays.

So we drink to finish ourselves off,

claiming the day is done,

the lights are almost out

and the spark that once lived like a flame

is now ready

to become darkness.

Trinet poem prompt

Mirrors reverse,
scars flip,
the attic in my mind locked
me out years ago, forcing me
to run,
to hide,
forever restless.

Welcomed it
at first,
but as luck would have it
the only part of me to
survive it
was meat
and lungs.

You don’t
miss home,
you’ve given the road a taste
and the anger inside now sleeps
waiting to
strike like
a match


I remember when you left your raincoat at my apartment.
It hung there for a month and a half of sunny days,
draping down and giving the coat rack a quiet personality
and at night it would give me the chills.
For that month and a half I couldn’t hear your voice,
you kept it in other places,
filling the ears of stranger with better bar credit than me
and even when I called you
there was only my signal ringing out,
like a flashlight
into the dead of night
where it would fade into nothing
without something solid to reflect it back.

You remembered that you left your raincoat at my apartment,
because the skies have hidden the sun today,
the shadows are less pronounced
and your eagerness to stay warm and dry
brought your knuckles to my front door.
Now the coat rack reveals its stained oak,
but we sit together like old friends
beneath the protective cover of my front porch.
You jokingly tell what you think I want to hear
and we avoid all the topics that deserve to be addressed.


I must subconsciously believe
that my fingertips are delicious,
now every day is a waiting game
while I eat myself alive.
The only known cure for this
rests somewhere calm,
secure from what splinters me
and if I ever find that place
I will be cured by changing the taste
of the things I touch.
My hands will grow back to normal,
no longer hiding in the pockets
where I pretend to look for change.