Her eyes are dead and glassy
A bottle always seems to be glued to her hand
She rarely puts it down
Her house is as tipsy as she is
I'm always afraid of falling in
She always falls flat
Her voice is merely a croak
But she still manages to lie to my face
She sounds like a broken record
Her mind is like jello by now
The alcohol that flows through her is like poison
She is always forgetting but she never forgives
Her excuses are tired
"I'm sorry" is no longer a part of her vocabulary
She has forgotten my birthday for 6 years straight
Her skull is too thick for reason
Alcoholics are the masters of denial
She claims that she is ready to die
When she finally does,
I will not be sad.
I will not cry.
She has been a walking corpse for as long as I can remember.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:26 AM UTC
When I look at my father,
I see a man who was kicked so hard by life
that emotion became a sign of weakness.
I see a man who chokes on the word "love".
I see a man who has never heard a single "thank you"
even though he lives his life for others.
His hands are calloused from years of hard work.
I've never thanked him for sacrifice.
He is made of steel and the strongest of oak
and yet I, his daughter, am made from too much water and glass.
I break too easily. Give in too much.
And yet for a second,
I have broken him.
He becomes all puddle and sobs.
All teary-eyed and cracked voice.
For once, I am out of words.
There is only silence.
There is no "I'm sorry".
He does not look at me again.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
Someone asked me once why I had such good reflexes.
I said it was from experience.
From unwarranted fists.
From open-handed slaps.
From bites that drew blood.
From objects thrown to harm.
From getting kicked when I was down.
From trusting too much.
We all learn from experience.
You get kicked over and over and eventually,
you learn how to dodge.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
The other day, as I was walking past my dad in the hall, he grabbed my paint-splattered arm and with a raised eyebrow asked, "What is this?"
"These", I said, "are my battle scars from when I went to war with my canvas , so that my ideas would unravel upon it as I need them to."
My canvas is a warzone, a mess with paint splatters and imperfect, unfinished ideas. You see, my hand and my head aren't exactly on speaking terms. There's a rather unfortunate love triangle going on. My head is trying to connect with my hand, but it refuses to listen. My hand only follows the beat of my heart even though my heart just really wants to be on speaking terms with my head again. What results is a bipolar mess.
3-D clashes with 2-D while bright battles the dark. Even though my canvas never comes out the way I want it to, it only comes out the way it was meant to be. It reflects a girl who tries too hard to be perfect. A girl who has lost some pieces and will never be able to find them. If not for human kindness, her cracks would be visible.
These colorful battle scars that splatter against the paleness of my arm show what I have endured, but like everything, they will wash off eventually.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
I wonder when Jenga became a metaphor for my life
Piece by piece,
I am being stripped away
Just so I can keep playing this game
One by one,
They are taken
Leaving me off-balance and unfocused
I wonder how long I can keep going
Before I fall
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC