Bleach

From mine (Emma's) perspective. Closes the family saga: 1969>Carpenter>Hawk>Bleach.

2006:

Roaches on crayon scribbles,
feasting on the paper—
ruining my little joy.

Sigh.

I dust them off, haughty.
I’m being dramatic.
Really, it’s only annoying.

The room piss-white.
Walls peeling down.
Cobweb decoration.

My little sanctuary,
my room—for now.
Teddybears sleeping.

Shoved out: at school.

Drawing in class is fun.
Ring-around-the-rosie.
Chocolate milk, cookies.

A good student—
I turn my sheets on time,
I tattle on others easily.

Shove.
Someone shoves me:
Hard. Bully, Schoolyard.

“Ugly. Pig-nose.”

I know. I’ve heard it.
Every day, every grade.
baby-eyes, broken glasses.

At eight, I start to wonder:
why can’t girls be ugly?
Boys are weird.

What’s even weirder:
flashes, that pretty boy.
He touched me, gentle.

Shudder. I bury it.
Down, down, the well—
drowning the little girl.

Much better. But then…

---

2008:

A recession? Huh.
Guess we’re out of a house.
The cooking show mocks me.

Even before the homelessness
the ravenous hunger ate me—
begging, begging for scraps.

Childhood, the rest of it:
swirling in hellfire,
see-saw black,
trash bags, pack.

Dad, the Carpenter.
I thought he died—
a while ago.

He’s still a cadaver.
I poke him with my stick;
he pokes himself with the needle.

Mom, the Cashier.
She’s far too alive.
I wish she would die tonight.

She’s still my bringer.
I make her ham sandwiches;
she cuts herself on the beer bottle.

My sisters, we mostly fight.
Crybaby tears, all mine.
So sensitive: moon-blue.

Swing, swing. I know.
The curse, sing, sing.
I’m getting the fuck out.

---

2016:

Freedom.
Laced with my own edge:
glass-shard collarbones,
wobbly chicken legs.

Freedom—
doesn’t mean I’m lovely.
My hair, grunge-bleach.
I try to be a boy, a man.

I’d rather be a Carpenter
than a beat-down Cashier.
That’s no choice, is it?

The Drain-O, the Bleach—
it sings to me.

Swallow,
swallow,
swallow.
Tears.

Cod-coward: like him.
Mouth open: but safe.

To the asylum I go.
The name—God, the name.
The see-saw black, the star-black:

Bipolar disorder.
Mania.
Depression.

I cry bleach.

Free,
free,
free.

I think. Therefore: I am.
Painter-poet-beatnik.
My hawk-fragile hands.