I.

A young man at the bus stop
turns to me and softly asks
"Why aren't you wearing shoes?"
He taps the faded leather
of his suedo-skin
and his eyes smile in a gentle lilt
before his mouth does.

I tell him that I like
to feel the earth breathe.
That textures keep my mind alive
and ticking like a clock.
I tell him that I'm trying to grow roots
so my pale limbs can twist into a tree
(the way L and I talked about it in therapy).
I tell him that my soul is lonely
and the ground is the only thing that's always there.
I tell him that bare skin is sensitive
and stroking it with every (twelfth) step
is a soothing form of self-care.
I tell him that I walk on water
and if I had shoes; I'd drown.
I tell him that my soles bruise
until they match my soul.
I tell him that my bones are soft
and the soil sews them back into reality
when I'm losing grip on sanity.
I tell him that I'm praying
one day I'll step on a syringe.

I shrug my shoulders,
open my mouth and say
"I just didn't feel like wearing them today."

But we both know I rarely wear shoes.


II.

The man at the bus stop
looks at my arms.
His eyes run quietly over the scars
(softly, as though he'll scare me away).
He looks at me and asks
"What happened to you?"

I tell him that I was mourning the loss of me
and torturing the child.
I tell him that it's a side effect of my disease.
I tell him that I was trying to heal
from the outside-in
because it's easier that way.
I tell him that it's the only way
for me to fall asleep.
I say that each one is a bright red scream
of scarlet memory.
I tell him I was performing open-heart surgery
but I messed up my anatomy
and made the same mistake a hundred times.
I tell him each one was for the horror I've faced,
but I'd be lying if that was all.
I say every line is another note in my symphony;
that I was underlining passages in my mind.
I tell him that the seven inch, thick stripe
was half of my suicide attempt.
I tell him that every strike
was a primitive tattoo.

I open my mouth and say
"I'm still beautiful."
But we both know that isn't true.


III.

The man at the bus stop
asks where I was born.

I tell him that with every step
I'm scribbling my thoughts all over the world.
I tell him that it's wherever my feet go.
I tell him I'm an orphan
and I've never had a home.
I tell him I'm my sister's twin
and none of us know who was born first.
I say I'm a child of the summer seas
who was born in sea foam.
I tell him I'm a soloist
who's forgotten how to return.
I tell him I was born
in a fragile body of somatoform.  
I say I'm still attached to the umbilical chord,
and I'm a stillborn in the womb.
I tell him I'm not human;
(I'm a watermelon).

I open my mouth and say
"Earth."


IV.

The man at the bus stop
turns away from the light.
At first I think
he isn't speaking to
me.
"Where are you going?"

I tell him that this is the last train to heaven,
and I haven't got a ticket,
but I'm still hoping.
I tell him I'm taking the first train off the earth.
I tell him that the train's in my head,
but there's no light on,
and all the passengers are gone.
I tell him I'm hitchhiking to the milky way
to sleep in zero gravity.
I tell him I'm not waiting for the train;
I'm waiting to walk onto the tracks.
I tell him it's the first train into death,
and I'm going express.
I say I'm tripping away to somewhere off the map
(I tell him otherwise, I'm going to prison
for accessory after the fact).
I say I'm going crazy
and the medications didn't work.
I tell him I'm going back to hospital
to go on life support.
I tell him I'm going to hang myself out to dry.

I open my mouth and try to say
"Nowhere."
but I end up whispering
"Goodbye."