Fists fly faster than birds,

but belts fly the fastest—
the hummingbird of easy
             weapons—
quick and loud,
             out of sight.

I wonder if you weren’t
a memory—
           would I be as afraid
of harmlessly approaching hands
or would I be too dead to care?

Either way, someone would have
                             died.
I’m glad it was you.

***

She expresses herself best when writing. With the open heart of a puppy and the soft skin of a peach, she paints poetry to harden her shell. I don’t want to be like this anymore. This shouldn’t define me. I’m more than a dead father and shaking hands. She scribbles incessantly, from pen to paper, hoping one day she’ll run out of words. Her hand keeps moving. The table rattles to the beat of her stories. Make it stop. 

***

I didn’t even know you well—
          six years in a coma.
What made you any more important
to me than a stranger?

You only left behind grape juice colored bruises,
                    a fortune,
compressed lungs with hardly any room to breathe.
No place for me to store the words
I’m forced to share today.

 
***

She tells her friends daily that she wants to die. Then she laughs. She’s usually joking. It’s hard to know when she speaks the truth.

***

Funny how the moment your hands came in contact with my body I started writing a poem. While you were screaming I was thinking composing creating anything to capture what I felt the moment you couldn’t keep your fists to yourself.

Snap my glasses in half stomp on them push me against the nearest wall ram your fist into my arm pull my hair kick my shins spit words in my face kill me before I kill myself you think I won’t do it but trust me I’ve learned from the best and the things people least expect have the greatest impact when they happen. You think you know me, after all the times you made a tie dye canvas out of my skin, but I know you better. I watched you sleep for six years. 

***

Words are slower than fists,
but quick to get out—
a different kind of permanence—
one that can be shared.

All I have are shaking hands,
hands that bleed words, thick and black.
Prick me with a needle and ink will spill,
tattooing tales on any surface
                        willing to take my touch.

Your presence brought blood
to the surface of my skin, but
it has aged like a fine wine
following your death—
                        a winding, sharp calligraphy.

People drink me up—
I burn their throats,
but they love me.
     They love me.