by Brenda Snyder
like a murder or a bad paint job
I am cracked tiles and loud neighbors
I am the reason you stand empty,
no one looking to call you home.
I am a fixer-upper,
a project
you’ll want to fix my broken parts
but you won’t have the funds
I’m that car you take to get inspected
knowing I won’t pass
but you can drive on a rejection sticker for 60 days
and you’ve got places to be
I am four years of college
and $30,000 of debt to show for it
I am that part-time, entry-level job
you’re overqualified for
I’ll help pay the rent,
but not much else
being with me means
“just getting by”
I am also the sound of cars passing on a freeway
when you look at me and ask what I want
I will stare back at you with an empty mouth
because I’m made out of the words and wants of others
I only exist because of the roar of someone else’s engine
and I don’t know if these breaths are mine
or yours
or his
or the just exhaust from a broken muffler
and more than anything else
I am sorry
I am so sorry
because I am all of these things,
I am every scraped knee and broken heart
etched elaborately into my armor
there is a reason I inked
the chambers from my chest
into the skin of my forearm
I feel everything
all at once
and it never stops
but, I’ve gotten good at hiding it
I bury this heart on my sleeve
in work,
in words,
in boys,
and beaches
I saddle on more than I can carry
and call myself strong
I’ve learned from experience
that if you lift the same weight every day
it teaches your muscles tolerance
and I grew biceps and a backbone
under the weight of all of this
I am a lighthouse
built strong to resist storms
but placed on crumbling cliff sides
I live on the edge of oceans
falling in love with battering ram waves
sending my light out into the darkness
as if to say
“stay away
I will sink you”
there is no home inside this harbor
I’ve been without a keeper for far too long
and my lamplight will burn out soon
ships will come crashing at my sides
splintering upon impact
don’t say I didn’t warn you
all I’ve ever done is warn you
but you still tell me I’m a cherry tree
growing out of the sidewalk
my roots grow deep into the concrete
soaking up nutrients from the soil far beneath the city
and in springtime
my fingertips will bloom blossoms
and you’ll think I’m the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen
but my beauty only lasts a week or two at a time
only to be brought down by a strong gust or heavy rain
and even when I form pink puddles in the streets
you’ll think that’s beautiful
but a streetsweeper will come by soon
and I’ll be left bare for the rest of the seasons
but if you can count on anything
it’s the consistency of a calendar year
and if you’re willing to wait through the winter
I promise you
my thaw will be just as beautiful
as last year