i tell myself a bedtime story 

you are a girl in the heart of a wooden fire.
the trees are curling like bent nails. 
soon, you will count to one-hundred 
& hear the thunder make chickens of each roof.
with a pillow in the sink to stop the bleeding,
you pluck through the brambles towards
the metal city. as a child, you would
go downstairs when you couldn't sleep.
you would lay on the dirty speckled carpet
& watch a new man make sense of the darkness.
eventually, sleep would wrap you in grease.
waking up in a folded world where the sun
was a possible crease. now, there are 
wolves to take into account. a walmart 
to sing to. parking lot after parking lot.
if you fall in love the love will turn 
sweet as rotten clementines. seeping down
into the crawl-space. the cool cool basement. 
all the flowers, losing their skulls 
in your wake. it is a terrible thing to be
so alive. you talk to the cement & ask
for tips on how to stay still. the rocks,
all once humming birds, say it is just
part of the process. you could kill the stars
in the graveyard or even cut the legs 
off a moon. destruction thrums in you 
like water. cross-legged, you sit in the tall grass
& pluck handfuls of blue from the green. 
smeared on your hands. leaving prints
on every ounce of breath you breathe. 
it is time to tuck knees into chest. it is time
to stop talking to god & put yourself away.