It will be alright, my friend

Sometimes your world lights on fire,

Because it needs to burn down.

It hurts a version of me that doesn't exist anymore, a version that is a ghost

because she burned in that fire.

She surrendered herself to the flames,

and sometimes in her memory I shoot fire

into my arms, I don't know why it's done

In her memory, silly scared little girl

She would like that,

But she's dead now. She' s dead,

and I lived, and I don't know if that's good.

I don't know if its better to cry crocodile tears

Or fly with dragons, because as nice as the sky is,

The water is safer, and sometimes in the waves,

I see her there, that old ghost, but she can't see me.

I wish I could hold her hand, palm sweaty,

And tell her she will be alright.

I hate finding skeletons in closets

He told me,

"I like my women like I like my heroin, in bags."

Especially when they have skin, it's such a process to clean them.

Remove. All the filth.

To reveal perfect ivory. Beautiful, in its lack of uniqueness.

So calming.

So calming.

No more dirty, red mouths.

No more sticky dirty napkins.

I hate stickiness.

I hate dirty hands.

They call me random bag check

They also call me a patriot, because I act that way, because they listen to me,

While I call my mother on Sundays to talk about my life,

They hear me, when I tell her I am afraid, 'Because even though my last name is only light brown, its brown enough for them to search my car,

And find nothing but DVDs I rented from the library about cowboys because I want so bad to be American, but still they call me Random, untrustworthy, needing to be checked.

I am afraid because I can feel the browness of my skin every time I go to the airport.

Every time I get asked where I am from.

The funny thing about police lights,

Is I never knew how much red, white, blue tasted like iron until I got locked in a room,

Strangled in white anxiety because I had a friend who was the wrong religion,

and lived in the wrong country,

So he surrounded his beautiful horse farm with bars and armed gaurds so they retain protection,

From men I used to think were brave, but really are just heroin addicts,

trying to pay for dreams they can no longer sleep enough to have,

who hate my brown guts more than they hate the poison they inject

when they can lose themselves.

I am so random.

My daughter checks my pockets for bags now. So random. Not really.

Just brown. Too brown. White or brown bags of continuous talking, or sleep. colored like invisibility or dirt,

Where she sits, with her broken winged brother, wingless, silly moth

Not the right color.