None of Your Nails Match the Drapes

the ballerina doesn’t cry

until the run in her tights catches

up to her.

you wrote everything well

but the point didn’t come across

the way you intended.

everyone is crying and no,

they aren’t disappointed

they just won’t look you in the eye

and your feet are

going without you.

you stay in place and all the

copper in your body isn’t worth

much.

she taps the cigarette against her hand

and lights the wrong end.

her feet are stuck in first position

but her back isn’t straight

and she still isn’t crying.

you’ve told her all the stories but she keeps

asking for the one about the

boy in the denim jacket

with the hotel sheets

who keeps telling you he isn’t a boy.

she runs away and

chokes on the smell, like oil

and grease and burning.

all the hashbrowns in the world

don’t taste like guilt

but these do.

the jacket falls apart in your

hands

and the Christmas lights look

prettiest in the spring.

she’s crying now

and everyone is looking at your

hands,

fingers in your mouth

trying too hard.

you’ve writing the story of your birth.

you’re rewriting genesis with all the

right names.

in this story you forgive your mother

and nobody indents paragraphs.

x equals 1, y 2, z doesn’t exist in this version.

somehow your heart is a circle.

she hasn’t stopped crying and you’re

trying to tie your shoes but

your fingers are green.

#HS