to have survived the incident
with only the slightest hint
of a bruise on either cheek.
Then Conner had the nerve
to go sit with Tony,
who was stewing alone
at the back of the room.
He even joked him into smiling,
something I couldn’t do.
Now, as we get ready
to go back to our rooms,
close ourselves in, fall
into our lonely vigils,
he comes to me, touches
the small of my back.
Then he whispers, I just
want you to know you light
up this dingy room.
Yeah, I know it’s a line.
But it makes my face heat
up—and something else, too—
in a very good way.
I Play It Cool
As if boys say stuff like that to me
all the time—no big deal, right?
I whisper back a plain-
Jane, “Thank you”
but don’t dare turn around,
show him how red
my face has grown, a clear
indication that I am not used
to such compliments.
I think the best thing Trevor
ever said to me was,
You’re pretty cute,
with your clothes off.
Clothes off is actually
the worst view of me,
a few too many pounds
of flab, in all the wrong
places (i.e., my thighs,
but not my breasts).
Of course, Grandma says
I’m just right, a perfect
size seven. Size three
would be preferable.
Still, I feel almost desirable,
with Conner’s breath
against my neck, his voice
like a warm wind in my ear.
At the very least, he’s pulled
me way up out of the blue,
into a new bloom of white.
Two swings in one day.
Something is majorly
going on.
In the Refuge of My Room
I almost decide sleeplessness
is better than the monster,
come knocking at the little
door smack in the middle
of my forehead, begging
for a teaspoon of Prozac.
I know what I have to do
but don’t quite know how to do it.
They check my stitches,
make sure they’re not infected.
Or messed with.
Wouldn’t want to come in
and find your hand hanging
by threads again, the nurse
told me once.
I don’t want that either.
But I do need release.
I’ve saved my “secret weapon”
for a night like tonight,
when nothing else will suffice.
I borrowed it from Dr. Bellows’s
desk one day, when his attention
turned to a ring of his cell phone,
stashed in his briefcase on the floor.
The paper clip sat in plain sight,
almost an invitation.
I retrieve it from my hiding
place, beneath the leg of my bed.
It’s cool and comforting in my hand
as I slowly unfold it, test
its semisharp point with one finger.
Careful not to probe
too deeply, draw too much attention,
I insert it just below the skin
of my right wrist, down
into a single blue vein.
Oh God! Not enough!
Easy now, right to left,
vein to vein, connect
the dots.
Conner
Walled in Again
I walk to the window, sit
in the chair, try to dissect
the darkness with my eyes.
How black it is out there!
And how green it is in here.
Still, I can almost stomach
it tonight, just a few hours
until I can escape it again.
My head is light, cluttered
with emotion, a jumble
of lust, love, pride, hate,
jealousy, devotion.
I still want to protect
Emily, the secrets
we shared. But I’m not sure
why—she turned on me,
broke down and confessed
every detail of our love
affair. Dr. Boston says
she won’t go to jail
because I’m past the age
of consent. But her days
of teaching high school
went out with the recycling.
Weird, because they wouldn’t
have suspended me. The same
sex that was okay for me
ended Emily’s career.
I wonder if what I did
made her hurt as much as
she hurt me. Only fair, to
trade hurt. But life isn’t fair.
Life Isn’t Fair
My dad has told me that
at least a hundred times.
Life isn’t fair, and luck?
That is something you create.
He’s spent forty-five years,
creating a monster stash
of luck, working twelve-hour
days, hating every minute
he had to devote to problems
at home. Mom isn’t much
better, but at least she can
remain calm when everything
turns ugly—like the day
I spurted blood on her new
Berber carpeting. Amazing,
how she skirted the puddle,
staunched the flow with a towel,
and barely touched me at all—
didn’t dare stain the Versace.
Mom rarely touched Cara
or me, though, not even when
we were spotless. Diaper
changing and bubble baths she
left in the hands of our nanny.
Leona pulled “Mommy” duty
until Cara and I turned
fourteen. She was plump, pretty,
and I will always remember
her with a love far beyond
what a child might feel for his
substitute mother. When Leona
smiled, all was right in my world.
The Memory Stirs Sadness
It scatters around me like dust.
My heart beats against
the dent in my chest and I
feel far apart from the things
in my life that brought me
to this place. My evening
meds have yet to kick in.
I get out of the chair, pace.
One, two, three, four, half
way to the piss green wall.
Five, six, seven, eight. Pivot,
hit replay. One, two, three …
It occurs to me that just
hours ago, all I wanted
was to get out of here,
to crawl back to Emily.
I planned on trumping her
with the guilt card, showing
her how a .22 bullet had
scarred both body and psyche.
But now I don’t think she’ll
see me. Won’t open the door
or answer the phone, which
leaves only my family
to go home to. I know
I’m not ready for that.
Suddenly I find myself
caught by a wave of nausea.
Was it the chicken? I fall
on the bed, close my eyes,
hope the churning wake
will vacate my head, let me
sl
eep.
Tony
Sunday Morning
I slide into a clean
pair of black jeans,
a button-up blue
work shirt. Comb
my hair, brush my
teeth, ready for God.
But is He ready
for me? Funny, but
the person who gave
me my first real taste
of the Good Lord
was dear, gay Phillip.
“Do you really believe
in an all-powerful Creator?”
I asked him, one Sunday
morning, a year or so
ago. “And in some place
we go after we die?”
I do, indeed. I can’t
say exactly what
He is, or where
Heaven might be.
But I believe there’s
a place there for me.
It made no sense at all
to me, but I followed
Phillip to church that
morning, and something
(Someone?) there
spoke to my heart.
You’re safe here, it
(He?) said. No judgments,
no worries, you’re
one of My children,
and a special part
of the Grand Plan.
Okay, It Sounds
Like some weird
soap opera. But that’s
what I heard, or maybe
I felt it. I don’t know.
Don’t care. And hey,
if I’m wrong, nothing lost.
It does comfort me
to think there might
be something after
we close our eyes
for the final time—
a light to walk toward.
I hope Phillip took
that walk. According
to the Book, all that’s
required is faith. He
believed, so he should
be There, waiting for me.
“But what about being
gay?” I asked Phillip once.
“Some say that dooms you.”
I think God cares more
about how you treat others
than who you sleep with.
Which worries me some.
I did once mistreat
a man about as bad
as you could do someone.
Though I asked Him
for forgiveness, maybe
I don’t deserve it,
because I don’t feel
even a little bit bad
about what I did.
I know He knows why.
I only hope it matters.
I Also Hope
He understands why I
tried to kill myself
and that He doesn’t
turn His back if I one
day succeed. Surely
that’s better than taking
up room on this dying
planet, when so little
room is left. The hardest
part about this religion
thing is that every “believer”
believes something different.
Anyway, I don’t really
believe like this visiting
chaplain does. He’s pure
hellfire and brimstone—
too Baptist for my taste.
Oh yeah, I know Baptists,
Catholics, too. I sampled
both along the way, in
deference to the two
sides of my family.
Ma wasn’t a churchgoer,
obviously, but her ma
was a Texas Southern
Baptist who took me to
a revival or two when
we went to visit once.
Holy rollers! Who could
qualify for their Heaven?
Pa’s people were Pope
lovers, and the Vatican
view of right or wrong
leaves me reeling too.
I bet Pa’s at mass right
now, spouting Hail Marys
for me.
Vanessa
I’m Told Level One
Means Sunday services,
an hour or more being scared
silly by some volunteer preacher.
They even make the little kids go.
Church didn’t used to scare me.
But that was before
Mama introduced
me to her angel. He was so real
to her, I used to wonder
why I couldn’t see or hear him,
when Mama could.
Plain as day.
And if you can’t hear
him, little girl, it means
you haven’t qualified
to enter the pearly gates.
You’d better ask for forgiveness.
She never said what for,
but she sat me at the table
with a dog-eared King James,
made me read for hours. Out loud.
There’s that other thing, too.
Most women in that situation
move on with their lives.
No second thoughts. No guilt.
Most other women aren’t me.
I did ask for forgiveness then.
don’t know His answer.
My bad wrist throbs,
and my good one pulses
pleasant memories of a paper clip.
One more little poke couldn’t hurt.
I tiptoe to the door, listen
No footsteps.
Out comes my little friend.
This time I insert it just behind
my knee, where a long skirt
will cover it so no one
but God can see.
A Long Flowing Skirt
And a long-sleeved blouse
disguise all signs of SI—no,
not Sports Illustrated.
SI stands for self-injury,
another term I learned
surfing the Web. The best
thing about those boards
and blogs is knowing
I’m not alone.
I cut to focus when my
brain is racing.
I cut to make physical
what I feel inside.
I cut to see blood
because I like it.
I don’t like to cut,
but I can’t give it up.
I have felt all those things,
cut for all those reasons.
But now I cut for another,
much more substantial reason.
I cut when I think I hear
a baby crying. When I think
I hear Mama calling.
Knowing those things
are impossible but hearing
them just the same.
And that’s something
I’ll never break down
and admit to anyone
but myself.
Bipolar crazy is one thing.
Schizophrenic is another.
Could I have inherited both?
I Sit at the Back
Of the dining-room-turned-
chapel. It’s the only room
big enough to accommodate
all of us. And attendance
is mandatory. Do they really
think they’re saving souls?
If so, my suggestion
would be not to bother.
In my admittedly
limited knowledge of religion,
desire to change is a requirement.
Glancing around the room,
I can find only a few
who might qualify.
Justin, of course.
A couple of girls whose
names I don’t know,
with beatific grins
lighting their plain faces.
And—this is weird—Tony,
who’s sitting two rows up.
It seems to me that “gay”
and “God” make strange
bedfellows, in the most
figurative sense, of course.
But Tony seems caught up
in the drama
of the morning—
singing hymns, praying
the Our Father, listening
raptly to the sermon, a ramble
straight out of Revelations.
There’s a lot more to Tony
than what’s on the surface,
that’s for sure.
Wonder how deep I’d
have to dig to find
it all.
Conner
Mandrtandatory Church Services
What other surprises does
Level One have in store?
I don’t believe in God,
don’t believe in the devil.
Unless you want to count
my mother. She might be
Satan’s sister, I suppose.
What other explanation
could there be for someone
sizzling hot on the outside,
yet frozen solid beneath
the skin. Not quite human.
Anyway, I get to wear
my wrinkled Ralph Lauren.
It’s worse than I thought,
having stayed crinkled against
the back of the drawer
going on a dozen days now.
At least my Dockers aren’t
showing signs of mistreatment.
Whatever. It’s good to be
out of sweats, feeling half
human again. I arrive just
as the minister says, Let’s
get started. Turn your eyes
to the Lord, fill your hearts
with gladness, reach out for
your heavenly reward.
He’s a poster board preacher
and I hate him already.
I spy an empty chair in