Toxicant

Forget that it's Sunday
that I am an impulsive naive girl
who isn't yet in the rush of becoming
part of a woman-
you told me if I go that far
to the exclusive lights of New York City
I'd just be much more disappointed
than I ever was here, destroying myself
in some staggered vapor.

But I don't think so, father,
I think I'd grow...
do you hear that? Grow! As someone
who isn't reliant on fumes
or blue, rhinestone dresses to make herself
look less than a hundred and fifty
pounds
of my own pettiness.

I ask you if you'll give it a chance,
a listen,
yet you say when did I ever tell you
I'd do that?
I'm not interested....

and you might as well say you're not
interested in me either
that I will be left without arms,
without hands to someday
blow a kiss from
faraway.

And I just want to tiptoe away in
jeans draping over my ankles,
ankles that never taught me anything
except how to run away with a heart
so still,
so hollow.

Because these thoughts I fill myself up with
are just substances causing harm,
for you and I will never be
daring in our conversations.....

there's just too much contumacy
between us, when we try (or rather I)
to silence away all else, crack the
television with nothing more than our fists,

and try to show each other
understanding can root out
the unconfidence we muffle
in fledgeless pillows,

without being dug 'tween
the graveyards of our words.

Written July 22, 2012.