Elevator Knife Fights

The time I lost myself

soul-searching in bathroom mirrors,

I discovered what it means to be alive.

You wrote me the Bible when you said,

”Baby, we’re all sorts of fucked-up.”

Your words hit me the way the cigarette bite

burned my lungs.

The ghost smoke,

spilled from my mouth

as the coffee house foreplay led to

dark alley salvation.

My words are Power Ranger Band-Aids.

No matter what Dad said,

I’m positive they heal you faster,

and they look way more badass.

So blanket your wounds in my words,

and peel them off quick if

you think you’re ready.

Because it’s a shotgun double suicide

written on the backs of church pamphlets

while sitting in pews that felt like

elevator knife fights.

But you have got to believe there’s a way

Out of this place.

Like the other guy’s blade

is a butter knife

and I’m made of margarine.

But really,

I’m the only one in here.

Waging a predictable war with myself.

Floor after floor,

I aim to cut some sense

into my hands

So I can feel what its like to

shake hands with the devil.

The cameras catch me

in an epileptic two-step,

stabbing with the business ends

of safety scissors, just to

get my point across.

I didn’t want to be a Gentile.

I fought it because

my parents said so.

18 yrs.

I am but a whisper,

the way my body floats through life.

My soul is stuck in Ohio, Indiana, and Ireland.

Forgiveness is there.

I didn’t want to be a Gentile.

I tried to be a follower,

but the hurt in my eyes burned

the bibles I grew up with.

And the hate in my blood

runs out in steel strings and ink pens.

Now, the night skyline traces the trees with a

soft gray blanket of atmosphere.

What’s left of visible clouds

sporadically indent the dark air.

Reminding me that

this may one day pass.

The moon hides behind houses lit by neighbors

living separate lives.

Looking up for fleeting glimpses of falling stars or bombs

I’m stuck convincing myself that I’m invincible

But I still drive with my low beams on

as if I’m afraid of what lies ahead of me.

Clutching whatever humanity lies dormant inside.

Eyes wide open.

Not to give them the satisfaction of

hydrating themselves in the event that

people will see me for who I really am.

That was the day my father had better things to do,

and the day I realized

I have his eyes.

And on the 54th floor

those eyes looked back at me

and smiled as they pushed the blade

deeper into the empty spot where his place was.

I didn’t want to be a Gentile.

But I am.