Take Me With You Page 2

  LAND OF THE PRISON BARS

  PASSING AS PIANO KEYS, GENOCIDE.

  MUSIC IN THE EARS OF WHITE FOLKS

  WHO BELIEVED THE BLUES

  WERE FOR THEM, RAISED THEIR CHILDREN TO TAKE WHAT WASN’T THEIRS,

  TO CALL IT POLITENESS

  WHEN THEY UNRAVELED THE NOOSE

  AND ASKED IF THEY COULD TOUCH

  THE DEAD’S HAIR.

  OUR INSANITY ISN’T THAT WE SEE PEOPLE WHO AREN’T REALLY THERE.

  IT’S THAT WE IGNORE THE ONES WHO ARE.

  SAFETY ISN’T ALWAYS SAFE.

  YOU CAN FIND ONE ON EVERY GUN.

  I AM AIMING TO DO BETTER.

  I TELL MY LOVER THERE IS A BIBLE ON MY BOOKSHELF I NEED HER TO SMACK ME WITH. THERE IS AN ANCHOR I AM STILL PULLING UP TO FREE ALL THE PARTS OF MYSELF FLOATING ON NOAH’S ARK. RIGHT BETWEEN THE ZEBRAS AND THE PENGUINS, MY KINK SIDE IS CURLED UP IN A BALL, BITING ITS CLAWS, BEGGING THE RAIN TO STOP. YOU SHOULD NEVER TRUST A SHIP THAT WON’T LET YOU GET OFF.

  I KNOW GOD’S NUMBER BY HEART.

  I KNOW IT ISN’T LISTED IN ANY BOOK.

  I WANT TO DEMAND THAT LUCK NOT BE THE THING THAT KEEPS US ALIVE. I WANT TO STOKE THE HOLY FIRE OF MY OWN IMPATIENCE AND BURN THE WORD “TOLERANCE.”

  TOLERANCE IS A MURDERER.

  TOLERANCE SHINES THE BULLET.

  NO TOLERANT PERSON OR SYSTEM OF GOVERNMENT IS AN ADVOCATE FOR LOVE OR LIFE OR PEACE.

  THE WOMAN BEHIND THE COUNTER LOOKS UP FROM HER NAIL FILE AND TELLS ME THAT I AM ONE “ADORABLE LITTLE BOY.” ON THE CAR RIDE HOME I THINK OF THE LITANY OF THINGS WE WILL DO TO FIX ME. THAT NIGHT AFTER DINNER I DIG TO THE BOTTOM OF MY FIRE-RED TOY BOX ’TIL I FIND THE DOLL WITH THE GOLDEN HAIR. I CRADLE HER IN MY ARMS AND WAIT TO BE SEEN. I DECIDE LOVE IS A SILENT AUCTION AND I AM WORTH MORE SOLD.

  BURY ME IN A BLUE BLANKET SO THEIR GOD DOESN’T KNOW I’M A GIRL.

  CUT OFF MY CURLS.

  I WANT PEACE WHEN I’M DEAD.

  I WORE A FLOWERED DRESS TO MY BIRTHDAY BOY PARTY.

  DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT.

  I’M NOT THE BOX THE GIFT CAME IN.

  WHAT IF THE WEATHER KEEPS CHANGING AND WE DON’T?

  WHEN A WAR ENDS, WHAT DOES THAT LOOK LIKE EXACTLY?

  DO THE CELLS IN THE BODY STOP DETONATING THEMSELVES?

  DOES THE ORPHANAGE STOP SCREAMING FOR ITS MOTHER?

  WE WERE ALL BORN ON DAYS WHEN TOO MANY PEOPLE DIED IN TERRIBLE WAYS, BUT YOU STILL HAVE TO CALL IT A BIRTHDAY.

  PROMISE THAT WHO WE WEEP AND FIGHT AND TEAR DOWN THE SUN FOR WILL NOT ONLY BE OUR OWN FACES IN THE MIRROR.

  I’D BE LYING IF I SAID I’M NOT TERRIFIED OF BEING SEEN WITHOUT MY WISDOM TEETH, WORRYING ABOUT MY HAIR EVERY TIME EMPATHY HAS BEEN OVER MY HEAD.

  THERE IS NO WEAPON MORE DANGEROUS THAN A WOUND.

  WAKE ME WHEN THE AMERICAN DREAM IS OVER.

  THAT I COMMIT TO A LIFE OF OPENING AND LEARNING, THAT I COMMIT TO LEARNING AT A SPEED THAT IS VIGILANT AND AWAKE, THAT I COMMIT TO KNOWING WHERE MY EMPATHIES LEAN AND WHY THEY LEAN THERE, THAT I BECOME INCREASINGLY FAMILIAR WITH THE WHY OF WHAT RAISES MY VOICE, THAT I BECOME INCREASINGLY FAMILIAR WITH THE WHY OF WHAT LULLS ME TO SILENCE, THAT I BE HAUNTED BY THE GHOSTS OF WHO MY SILENCES HAVE HARMED, THAT I ACKNOWLEDGE THAT HAUNTING IS NOT AN UNKINDNESS, THAT I ACKNOWLEDGE THAT HAUNTING IS LOVE, THAT I TRUST LOVE LIVES IN WHATEVER POINTS AT THE DARK, THAT I ACKNOWLEDGE THAT SHAME IS RARELY THE SEED OF COMPASSION, THAT I ACKNOWLEDGE SHAME WOULD LIKELY BE MY LAZIEST GESTURE, THAT I STOP DENYING I AM A WHOLE PERSON, AND MY WHOLENESS IS OFTEN UNLOVABLE, AND MY WHOLENESS IS OFTEN LOVABLE, THAT I OWN THE POSSIBILITY THAT THERE ISN’T A THING ONE COULD SAY ABOUT THE PERSON I AM THAT I COULD WHOLEHEARTEDLY DENY, ALL OF IT—YES, ALL OF THE UGLY—YES, ALL OF THE BEAUTY—YES, I HAVE FAILED AND WILL CONTINUE TO FAIL,

  I HAVE LOVED AND WILL CONTINUE TO LOVE, I AM COMMITTED TO LEARNING AND OPENING, I WANT PEOPLE AROUND ME WHO ARE COMMITTED TO LEARNING AND OPENING, PEOPLE WHO ARE FAILING AND LOVING, PEOPLE WHO ARE STALKING THEIR OWN VIGILANCE, THE SPEED OF THEIR OWN COMPASSION, SAYING,

  “FASTER FASTER FASTER.”

  WHO WITH A HEART CAN STOMACH HOW MUCH THEY CAN STOMACH?

  THROW

  BACK

  THE

  TEAR

  GAS.

  THEY WANT YOU THINKING YOU’RE BAD AT BEING A GIRL INSTEAD OF THINKING YOU’RE GOOD AT BEING YOURSELF. THEY WANT YOU TO BUY YOUR BLUSH FROM A STORE INSTEAD OF LETTING IT BLOOM FROM YOUR BUTTERFLIES. THEY’RE TELLING YOU TO BLEND IN, LIKE YOU’VE NEVER SEEN HOW A BLENDER WORKS, LIKE THEY THINK YOU’VE NEVER SEEN THE MESS FROM THE BLADE.

  I KNOW DAVID ARGUED WITH THE CHISEL. I KNOW HE SAID,

  “MAKE ME SOFTER.”

  SHE’S NOT ASKING WHAT YOU’RE GONNA TELL YOUR DAUGHTER. SHE’S ASKING WHAT YOU’RE GONNA TEACH YOUR SON.

  WOMAN, ARE YOU A CARBON COPY OF MYSELF? IS THERE A BOY INSIDE YOU PAINTING YOUR CELLS WITH THE CHARCOAL OF CINDERED FEATHERS SO YOU WILL NEVER AGAIN GLOW IN THE DARK THE WAY GIRLS DO?

  WE HAVE THE NERVE TO SUPPORT OUR TROOPS WITH PRETTY YELLOW RIBBONS WHILE GIVING NOTHING BUT DIRTY LOOKS TO THEIR OUTSTRETCHED HANDS.

  A SEA

  OF BLOOD,

  AMERICA,

  AND NOT

  EVEN A

  SHELL HELD

  TO YOUR EAR.

  I GREW UP IN THE TOWN THAT RECEIVED THE FIRST DISTRESS SIGNAL SAYING THE TITANIC WAS GOING DOWN. IT WAS THE ONLY THING WE WERE EVER RENOWNED FOR. IN FACT, WE PRIDED OURSELVES ON OUR FAILURE TO SAVE THE SINKING, WHICH IS MAYBE PART OF THE REASON I PRIDED MYSELF ON DRINKING MY FIRST FIFTH OF WHISKEY AT TWELVE YEARS OLD. IT’S COLD WHERE I COME FROM. I LEARNED TO DROWN YOUNG.

  PATRIARCHY TAUGHT ME HOW TO TAKE A PUNCH BETTER THAN I COULD TAKE A COMPLIMENT.

  I SHOVEL MY BLOOD FROM THE WHITE SNOW, I WIPE MY FRANTIC BREATH FROM THE WINDOW, AND BIND MY BREASTS SO THAT SOMETHING WILL HOLD MY BREATH SO TIGHT NOT EVEN THE AIR IN MY LUNGS COULD BE IDENTIFIED AS WOMAN.

  EVEN WHEN THE TRUTH ISN’T HOPEFUL,

  THE TELLING OF IT IS.

  I SMASHED MY MASON JAR AND THREW AWAY THE LID.

  I DIDN’T WANT TO TAKE A CHANCE THAT I’D GROW UP TO BE A WAR.

  I WONDER

  HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE DIED DRIVING WHILE CHECKING

  HOW MANY LIKES

  THEIR FACEBOOK STATUS GOT.

  I WONDER HOW MUCH LIFE HAS BEEN LOST IN THE BLOODY DITCH OF APPROVAL,

  HOW MANY SKULLS

  HAVE SWALLOWED WINDSHIELDS TRYING TO SEE IF THEY ARE WORTHY OF APPLAUSE, WORTHY OF THEIR OWN HEART’S HUNGRY BEAT.

  NOTHING

  HURTS MORE THAN LIVING SOMEONE ELSE’S LIFE.

  MY FIRST PSYCHOTHERAPIST TOLD ME TO SPEND THREE HOURS EACH DAY SITTING IN A DARK CLOSET WITH MY EYES CLOSED AND MY EARS PLUGGED. I TRIED IT ONCE BUT COULDN’T STOP THINKING HOW GAY IT WAS TO BE SITTING IN THE CLOSET.

  REMEMBER THE TIME WHEN WE SAW TWO BOYS KISSING ON THE STREET IN KANSAS AND WE BOTH BROKE DOWN CRYING, ’CAUSE IT WAS KANSAS, AND YOU SAID,

  “WHAT ARE THE CHANCES OF SEEING ANYTHING BUT CORN IN KANSAS?!”

  WE WERE BORN AGAIN THAT DAY. I CUT YOUR CORD AND YOU CUT MINE.

  OH, STOP HATING ON LOVE.

  WHY BE THE VACCINE FOR GOOSEBUMPS?

  I KNOW A THOUSAND THINGS LOUDER THAN A SOLDIER’S GUN.

  I KNOW THE HEARTBEAT OF HIS MOTHER.

  I KEEP REMEMBERING BEING FIFTEEN AT DISNEYLAND WEARING MY BEST FRIEND’S HOODIE LIKE IT WAS MY BOYFRIEND’S CLASS RING. HOW MANY YEARS IT TOOK ME JUST TO TOUCH HER FACE. HOW MANY YEARS I SPENT PRAYING MY HEART COULD PLAY DEAD ’TIL THE THREAT WAS GONE, ’TIL THE WORLD CHANGED, ’TIL HISTORY WAS HISTORY.

  IN GYM CLASS, A GIRL CALLED ME A DYKE AND I DIDN’T HAVE THE LANGUAGE TO TELL HER SHE WAS WRONG AND RIGHT. I JUST SHOWED UP AT HER HOUSE PROMISING TO PAINT MY FINGERNAILS RED WITH WHAT WOULD GUSH FROM HER BUSTED FACE IF SHE EVER SAID IT AGAIN.

  IT’S A MYTH THAT KIDS ARE CRUEL, BECAUSE WE DON’T GROW
OUT OF IT.

  I AM THE ONLY BOY I EVER WANTED TO TEAR MY DRESS OFF FOR.

  I KNOW EVERY BELT THAT HAS HIT SOMEONE’S BACK IS STILL A BELT THAT WAS BUILT TO HOLD SOMETHING UP.

  I EXPLAIN MY GENDER BY SAYING I AM HAPPIEST ON THE ROAD WHEN I’M NOT HERE OR THERE, BUT IN BETWEEN, THAT YELLOW LINE COMING DOWN THE CENTER OF IT ALL LIKE A GODDAMN SUNBEAM.

  WHEN THE FIRST RESPONDERS ENTERED THE PULSE NIGHTCLUB AFTER THE MASSACRE IN ORLANDO, THEY WALKED THROUGH THE HORRIFIC SCENE OF BODIES AND CALLED OUT,

  “IF YOU’RE ALIVE, RAISE YOUR HAND.” I WAS SLEEPING IN A HOTEL IN THE MIDWEST AT THE TIME BUT I IMAGINE IN THAT EXACT MOMENT MY HAND TWITCHED IN MY SLEEP—SOME UNCONSCIOUS PART OF ME AWARE THAT I HAD A PULSE,

  THAT I WAS ALIVE.

  IT’S TRUE WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT THE GAYS BEING SO FASHIONABLE, OUR GHOSTS NEVER GO OUT OF STYLE. EVEN LIFE IS LIKE FUNERAL PRACTICE, HALF OF US ALREADY DEAD TO OUR FAMILIES BEFORE WE DIE. HALF OF US STILL ON OUR KNEES TRYING TO CRAWL INTO THE FAMILY PHOTO.

  I BECAME A VEGETARIAN

  THE YEAR OF MY FATHER’S FIRST HEART ATTACK.

  I WANT TO LIVE A HUNDRED YEARS ON WHAT I REFUSE TO KILL.

  THIS IS FOR THE TIMES YOU WENT THROUGH HELL SO THAT SOMEONE ELSE WOULDN’T HAVE TO.

  COMING INTO OUR OWN HUMANITY OFTEN TAKES ENORMOUS EFFORT, COMMITMENT, AND BRAVERY. I BELIEVE WE SHOULD BE TAUGHT THAT AT AN EARLY AGE. I BELIEVE PART OF THE VIOLENCE OF OUR CULTURE STIRS FROM THE MYTH THAT KINDNESS IS NATURAL. I DON’T THINK KINDNESS IS NATURAL. I THINK KINDNESS WOULD ONLY BE NATURAL IN A WORLD WHERE NO ONE IS HURT, AND EVERYONE IS HURT. SO KINDNESS IS WORK. KINDNESS IS OUR KNEES IN THE GARDEN WEEDING OUR BITES, OUR APATHIES, OUR COLD SHOULDERS, OUR SILENCES, OUR CRUELTIES, WHATEVER TAUGHT US THE WORD “UGLY.”

  WHEN ASKED IF I BELIEVE IN “GOOD PEOPLE,” I SAY I BELIEVE IN PEOPLE WHO ARE COMMITTED TO KNOWING THEIR OWN WOUNDS INTIMATELY. PEOPLE WHO READ THEIR WOUNDS’ DIARIES, WHO FOLLOW THEIR WOUNDS OUT WINDOWS, DOWN LADDERS, ASKING, “WHERE ARE YOU GOING? WHAT DO YOU NEED? HOW CAN I INTERVENE BEFORE A CRUEL THING IS DONE OR SAID?”

  I AM SO GRATEFUL FOR HAVING A MIND THAT CAN BE CHANGED.

  AMERICA WAKES ME IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, TELLS ME SHE HAD A BAD DREAM, ONE WHERE THE BOOTSTRAPS HUNG FROM TREES, ONE WHERE THE MORGUE PINNED FLOWERS ON PROM SUITS, ONE WHERE THE CASKET WAS A FULL STOMACH GROWLING FOR MORE. IN THE DREAM, AMERICA FINALLY ELECTED A PRESIDENT WHO TOLD THE TRUTH, WHO DIDN’T BOTHER WEARING A SHEET, WHO KNEW HIS SHOES WOULD BE RECOGNIZED ON WALL STREET. IN THE DREAM, THE SCALES OF JUSTICE WERE BUSY DISCUSSING MISS AMERICA’S WEIGHT.

  AND ALL THEY KNOW OF HATE IS THAT IT COULDN’T BEAT THE LOVE OUT OF ME.

  I CRIED IN A CLOUD OF TEAR GAS AT A PEACEFUL PROTEST. I DECIDED I WAS TOO SOFT TO LAST, AND THEN I DECIDED TO BE SOFTER.

  III

  ON BECOMING

  A DOCTOR ONCE TOLD ME I FEEL TOO MUCH. I SAID, “SO DOES GOD. THAT’S WHY YOU CAN SEE THE GRAND CANYON FROM THE MOON.”

  FEELINGS

  ARE

  NOT

  THE

  ENEMY.

  BEATING YOURSELF UP IS NEVER A FAIR FIGHT.

  ALL LIVING IS STORM CHASING. EVERY GOOD HEART HAS LOST ITS ROOF. LET THE WALLS COLLAPSE AT YOUR FEET. SCREAM,“TIMBER” WHEN THEY ASK HOW YOU ARE. “FINE” IS THE SUCKIEST WORD. IT IS THE OPPOSITE OF “HERE.”

  FOR HALLOWEEN I’M GOING TO BE “EMOTIONALLY STABLE.” NO ONE IS GOING TO KNOW IT’S ME.

  EVEN AFTER ALL THIS THERAPY, I’M STILL NOT RIGHT IN THE HEAD. GUESS I’M ALWAYS GONNA BE A LEFTY.

  I ASK YOU ABOUT BEING HAPPY THE SAME WAY MY HIGH SCHOOL FRIENDS ASK ME ABOUT BEING GAY.

  “SO WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE DO EXACTLY?

  I MEAN, HOW DO YOU DO IT?”

  I KEEP WAITING TO GET

  HIGH ON LIFE.

  I KEEP WAITING TO WAKE

  UP IN A FIELD

  REMEMBERING I SPENT THE

  WHOLE NIGHT

  SNORTING THE LINES THE

  PLANES LEFT IN THE SKY,

  MY BLOODSTREAM FULL OF

  HONEYMOONS.

  THE FIRST TIME I CAME OUT, I CAME OUT TO MY ROOMMATE IN MY CATHOLIC DORM. I’D JUST COME FROM A SCIENCE CLASS THAT WAS TAUGHT BY A NUN WHO, NO JOKE, DIDN’T BELIEVE IN DINOSAURS. WE WERE SITTING ON MY BED. I DIDN’T SAY THE WORDS “GAY” OR “QUEER.” I LOOKED AT MY FRIEND AND SAID, “I GOTTA TELL YOU SOMETHING. I FINALLY UNDERSTAND GOD . . .”

  WHAT I KNOW ABOUT LIVING IS THAT THE PAIN IS NEVER JUST OURS. EVERY TIME I HURT I KNOW THE WOUND IS AN ECHO, SO I KEEP LISTENING FOR THE MOMENT THE GRIEF BECOMES A WINDOW, WHEN I CAN SEE WHAT I COULDN’T SEE BEFORE.

  I TOLD MYSELF I WAS BUILT LIKE A DRUM.

  I WOULDN’T MAKE A SONG IF I’D NEVER BEEN HIT.

  IT WAS A DESPERATE THEORY.

  TODAY AT THE GROCERY STORE A WOMAN STOPPED IN HER TRACKS AND REFUSED TO WALK BESIDE ME DOWN THE STAIRWAY, SAYING (AND I SWEAR THIS IS TRUE), “I DON’T WANT TO WALK NEXT TO YOU BECAUSE YOU’RE GAY.” I THINK IT WAS THE SIMPLE FACT OF IT THAT STUNNED ME MORE THAN SOME INTENDED INSULT SCREAMED OUT OF A CAR WINDOW MIGHT HAVE STUNNED ME. MY HEART HAS BEEN RATTLED ALL DAY BECAUSE OF IT, AND THEN I SAW THIS TREE, THIS BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL TREE, AND I WANT TO FIND A SHOVEL, AND FIND THAT WOMAN’S HOUSE, AND PLANT THIS TREE IN HER FRONT YARD WHILE SHE’S SLEEPING, AND I WANT HER TO WAKE TO THE BLOOM OF IT, SMILING, AND I WANT NO ONE BUT GOD TO TELL HER WHO IT’S FROM.

  BITTERNESS IS HELL.

  I’VE BEEN WORKING MY ASH OFF.

  YOU

  ARE

  NOT

  WEAK

  JUST

  BECAUSE

  YOUR

  HEART

  FEELS

  SO

  HEAVY.

  ONLY I KNOW HOW BROKE I GOT BUYING INTO THE THEORY THAT MY LIFE WAS SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED TO ME. AND THAT’S NOT TO SAY I GAVE EVERY HURT A PERMISSION SLIP. I DIDN’T. BUT I DID CAST MYSELF IN A LOT OF CRAPPY ROLES. I’VE BEEN TOLD ALMOST EVERY ARGUMENT IS A RACE FOR THE VICTIM POSITION. I’M TIRED OF WINNING THE GOLD.

  JUST ME AND MY SUITCASE,

  HANGING OUT WITH THE SUN,

  LEARNING HOW TO PACK LIGHT.

  MY MOTHER USED TO KNIT MY MITTENS TOO BIG SO THEY’D STILL FIT ME WHEN I GREW. I WORE THEM AND I’D LOOK LIKE WHAT I WASN’T YET. I FEEL THAT SOMETIMES WHEN I’M WRITING POEMS, THEY DON’T YET FIT. EVER FEEL LIKE THE BEST OF YOU IS SOMETHING YOU’RE STILL HOPING TO GROW INTO?

  IF YOU’VE NEVER HAD A PANIC ATTACK, THERE’S A GOOD CHANCE YOU’VE BEEN AN ASS TO SOMEONE WHO HAS. IT MAKES SENSE THAT “JUST RELAX” WOULD FEEL LIKE A HELPFUL THING TO SAY IF OXYGEN HAS NEVER BEEN OVER YOUR HEAD, IF YOUR BODY HAS NEVER BECOME ITS OWN CORSET CINCHING YOUR LUNGS INTO SOMETHING YOU IMAGINE LOOKS LIKE A USED CONDOM BENEATH THE PARK BENCH. I’M SCREWED EVEN WHEN I MEDITATE.

  I WONDER HOW MUCH OF MY TIME I SPEND BUILDING BOMB SHELTERS TO KEEP THIS LIFE FROM BLOWING MY MIND.

  I THINK MAYBE THE STARS I SAW THE FIRST TIME I WAS PUNCHED ARE THE SAME STARS I SAW THE FIRST TIME I WAS KISSED AND I CAN FIND MY WAY HOME BY ALL OF IT.

  I HOPE NEVER TO BE AN HONEST POET.

  I HOPE TO ALWAYS FORGIVE FASTER THAN I WRITE.

  I WONDER IF BEETHOVEN HELD HIS BREATH THE FIRST TIME HIS FINGERS TOUCHED THE KEYS, THE SAME WAY A SOLDIER HOLDS HIS BREATH THE FIRST TIME HIS FINGER CLICKS THE TRIGGER. WE ALL HAVE DIFFERENT REASONS FOR FORGETTING TO BREATHE.

  I WATCHED A DANDELION LOSE ITS MIND IN THE WIND AND WHEN IT DID IT SCATTERED A THOUSAND SEEDS, SO THE NEXT TIME I TELL YOU I’M COMING OUT OF MY SKIN, DON’T TRY TO PUT ME BACK IN.

  I SUPPOSE I LOVE THIS LIFE.

  IN SPITE OF MY CLENCHED FIST.

  WHEN I’M HAVING A PANIC ATTACK AND CAN’T BREATHE, I TELL MYSELF, “THAT ISN’T THE DEVIL CLUTCHING MY WINDPIPE WITH A PITCHFORK! THAT’S GOD REMEMBERING I’VE ALWAYS WANTED AN ADAM’S APPLE AND THERE GO THE ANGELS PLANTING THE ORCHARD IN MY THROAT!”

  I DO NOT NEED AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL TO TELL ME THERE
MAY NEVER BE ENOUGH FLIGHTS FOR ME TO LOSE ALL OF MY BAGGAGE.