Let Me Try Again

 

I could tell you about the sunset, 

the way it streaked across the sinking sky 

burrowed in between mountains, 

or the way the annoying cicadas 

sang their songs at dusk and my 

American nights became too quiet, 

or the breed of horses my father kept 

in the yard for shows, their huffing 

and elegance betraying their animalistic 

indignation, where equestrian sports 

became ridiculous on TV, 

or the way the beach stretched out 

across the sand close to the tent, 

murmurs of mermaids and castles as I lay

under the stars, so bright I could reach up 

and touch them, until they’d burn 

the tips of my fingers with longing, or

the way the roads weren’t paved 

but I still felt civilized,

or the way I lived for the salt of the sea, 

the shells I collected,

the sun I coveted as it grazed my skin 

with congratulatory back-pats 

that made me laugh and dance in the rain, 

or 

I could tell you about the screaming, 

his voice a loud shriek that echoed 

in the two-story house even after he was gone,

or 

her hollowed eyes when he left her 

alone with aching homesickness, 

three kids with saucers for eyes 

and silence heavy on their tongues, 

or 

the violent nights when the smell of car grease 

under his fingernails transferred 

onto my exposed thighs, 

leaving dark streaks of pain that baking soda 

couldn’t remove even with scrubbing, 

or even 

how slippery fingers found 

their way into my childhood 

and stripped it away from innocence, 

ugly secrets no one wanted to hear 

but I needed to scream in these words.

 

But I’d rather tell you of sunsets and beaches, 

of rainstorms and horses that carefully conceal 

the rot beneath the paradise 

revealing the scarred underbelly of my youth,

leaving me exposed to the vultures.