My handwriting looks exactly like his,
Down to the way I do my D’s.
Every time I write my name, I am reminded.
The letters laugh at me and sneer sweetly,
They call me names and raise their calloused hands;
Other touches are much too soft, and linger far too often.

D for ‘do you want some coke?’.
D for drunkard.
D for dad.

His rage lives inside me—
A thousand tiny splinters
That throb and ache.
They lie dormant, slowly festering,
Gnawing at my insides like a termite.
I fear that one day I will be nothing but a mosaic of wood.

I’ve never really been a religious person
My childhood was steeped in catholicism
Far too much,
But I’d liken finding you
To finding god.

My lungs are on fire,
But mother says I mustn’t keep still.
My lungs are on fire,
But mother says I am perfectly fine,
so I must be okay.

Did you take your vitamins? Drink enough water? Have you gone outside? How did you sleep? Get out of the house. Go for a walk. Stay off your phone. Stop complaining.

My lungs are on fire,
But it must be my fault.
My lungs are on fire,
But are they really?

Perhaps I am possessed
By this fire in my lungs
Perhaps I am made less
By this fire in my lungs

But one thing is for certain
Beyond a shadow of a doubt,
Is that mother knows best
In all matters of the chest

Trust my body;
But what if my body is lying to me.

How do I tell the difference.

I prayed to God for appendicitis
Every time my father and I fought.

The warm concrete against my feet
As I sat begging
To be anywhere but here.

The air was thick and hard to breathe
But the sun was shining
And the birds were chirping
So what excuse did I have to leave.

‘I love you’, you say.
‘I know’, I say—
Because sometimes
It is not enough

I will always want to give
And give—
Until my heart is bleeding and raw.

And your apathy
Weighs in the air
As much as my mud-filled lungs.

And even when I know
You’re no good for me,
Still—I am smothered by your tyranny.