you look just like her
your body, your face, your hair.
you look most like her
when you’re defiant,
an attitude that rivals her.
you’re stubborn and you’re wrong
but father forgot to mention
that i look just like her.
my body, my face, my hair.
i look most like her
when i’m yelling my face red,
an anger that rivals hers.
i’m tenacious and confident,
i have faith in myself.
yes, father forgot to mention
that i wear my mother well.
Feb 17, 2022
Feb 17, 2022 at 5:55 PM UTC
your greedy hands are no greedier than mine,
as your fingers travel past my waistline,
thinking that i’m about to waste my time
on a man like you,
“too good to be true,”
kinda borrowed, about to be blue.
my greedy hands will clench,
as i lean closer on that bench,
ignoring your disgusting cigarette stench.
“i’ll break your ******* jawline
if your hands don’t leave my waistline,”
and you didn’t waste time
running away.
Jul 10, 2021
Jul 10, 2021 at 3:40 AM UTC
i take what i love about myself and wear it as a badge of honor, but at night i stare at the ceiling
and list all the things i hate. i stamp it in a
journal and time-date it, bookmark the
page i left off on and i put the leather
bound away. once a year i visit
what i hate about myself and
find that as long as the
feelings are inked
on a page and
not weighing
heavy on my
chest, there
isn’t much
to hate
at all.
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 10:29 PM UTC
jesus ******* christ.
the days were numbered and i
forgot to start a tally of
lines carved into the cement walls.
these walls are the only thing
keeping me sane, my sanity
isn’t what it use to be but thank
god i’m not surrounded by
people infected with
ignorance.
rampant, raving, and rioting because they’ve all lost their ******* minds
and ******* lives
people are dying, dropping dead like flies.
and we start to realize,
wake up and smell the artificial roses
planted in front of the white house.
a white house burned
a white house on fire
a white house and it’s lawn turned to ash.
there’s nothing left but the smoke that rises
straight to the sky.
and it’s okay, the family inside took their time,
made sure the door was shut and locked as they left,
never left their lamp on inside so someone came in,
said the skeleton of a home is worth rebuilding,
refurnishing.
matching the curtains with the drapes
and the sofas with the carpet.
the rug was a gift, they say.
for helping and fixing and replenishing
and making the home welcoming to guests.
guests that never received invitations,
never allowed in.
guests who are not guests,
guests who own that ******* house.
guests who own you.
rampant, raving, and rioting because they’ve all lost their ******* minds
and ******* lives
people are dying, dropping dead like flies.
and we start to realize,
wake up and smell the artificial roses
planted in front of the white house.
a white house burned
a white house on fire
a white house and it’s lawn turned to ash.
there’s nothing left but the smoke that rises
straight to the sky.
follow the flame.
follow the footsteps.
find where it starts and let
no one forget it.
you’ve a duty to uphold,
and people to protect,
this was only the beginning
of the very end.
rampant, raving, and rioting because they’ve all lost their ******* minds
and ******* lives
people are dying, dropping dead like flies.
and we start to realize,
wake up and smell the artificial roses
planted in front of the white house.
a white house burned
a white house on fire
a white house and it’s lawn turned to ash.
there’s nothing left but the smoke that rises
straight to the sky.
rampant, raving, and rioting because they’ve all lost their ******* minds
and ******* lives
people are dying, dropping dead like flies.
and we start to realize,
wake up and smell the artificial roses
planted in front of the white house.
a white house burned
a white house on fire
a white house and it’s lawn turned to ash.
there’s nothing left but the smoke that rises
straight to the sky.
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 9:07 PM UTC
dear mother, this is my letter to you.
i would like to start this letter off by saying that i didn’t know who to address it to.
“mother” is a term that i hold dearly,
a term many use simply and with abandon.
thoughtlessly throwing the term around,
bestowing the title upon their friends’ mothers,
like they’re their second family.
for years the term has encumbered me,
chained me to a wall where the shackles have rusted into my wrists.
my arms have gone limp from pulling at them from either trying to get away or trying to get back to you.
my mother.
but lately,
i’ve found that mother is a term of endearment.
a complete bond of trust and love that i’m suppose to feel but haven’t for years.
and lately,
mother,
it’s because you haven’t been a mother.
and maybe...
maybe that sounds dramatic and cold and cruel and just downright unfair.
because you gave birth to me right?
because your idea of love is different but it’s still love, faith and ********* you can’t do this to your sisters do you know what my mother did to me you can take it
but i can’t mother.
mom.
i can’t take it mom.
you’ve taken so much from me.
you’ve stolen my health.
my ability to trust.
my ability to love.
you’ve stolen the compassion from my bones and you’ve robbed me of my childhood and i never got to recklessly throw myself into something that doesn’t matter because it doesn’t matter and i never got to live,
mama
i never got to live.
you’ve already given me guilt,
guilt that i already had.
guilt upon guilt upon guilt upon guilt
and you never stopped to think that this hurts me too?
not even once?
you think i slide through life, laughing because i have another mother who was better than you?
the funny thing is,
mama
is that she is better than you.
and it hurts me even more that she’s better than you.
because you gave birth to me.
you gave me life.
the breath in my lungs.
the heart in my chest and the brain in my head.
yet she’s the one that made it beat and she’s the one that gave me thought and she’s the one that breathes for me when i can’t.
because janda,
janda,
you should’ve done that for me.
not her.
you should’ve done that.
but you didn’t.
so i’m letting you go,
because you didn’t fight to stay.
you didn’t fight to change.
because i’m just like everyone else.
because how can you be my mother when you never treated me like your daughter.
i love you.
and i’ll always love you,
but i can’t love you like this.
not anymore.
sincerely, faith marino.
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 5:17 AM UTC
“i am a god!”
he yelled
with shaking fists
and a beat-red face.
his knees scabbed
and his blood flowing freely
onto the cemented ground.
she stared down at him,
eyebrow quirked
and a hint of a smile.
sword pointed
and ready for battle.
“you may be a god,
but i am hades.
and i bow to no one.”
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 6:58 PM UTC
i didn’t want to write this.
not when you’re no longer laying next to me.
the warmth from your skin no longer seeping into mine.
i didn’t want to write this.
not without your hand intertwined with mine.
fingers wrapped so delicately around each other.
i didn’t want to write this.
not because it doesn’t hurt anymore.
i’m reminded of you every single day.
i really didn’t want to write this.
but i did.
because it still hurts that i wasn’t good enough for you.
it kills me that it seemed easy for you to leave so suddenly.
it pains me that you probably never looked back once.
but that pain is still there.
i promise you that.
so i guess i wrote this to remind you.*
*(or remind myself of you)
i wrote this to remind you that even 3 months, numerous attempts to say your name without the bitter aftertaste, and several poems later, it’s still hard to pretend that i was never close with you.
laying next to you.
my body warmth seeping into yours.
fingers wrapped delicately.
you feel that?
it’s the pain,
still there.
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 11:17 PM UTC
she holds you like it’s the first and the last time.
her arms are wrapped around you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go for even a second.
you feel her heartbeat thump, your head pressed against her chest as her pulse races.
a sigh escapes as you push closer, imbedding your body into hers like it’s the first and the last time.
“i’ll never let you go,” you say.
she breathes deeply, as if she knew you were going to say that.
she cups your face and her fingers glide along your jaw.
her hands are shaking as the tips of her fingers dance across your cheek, like it’s the first and the last time.
she looks so solemn, her eyes filled with a gentle sadness.
but still, her hands caress your face and she whispers quietly.
so quietly.
like it’s the first and the last time.
“you already have.”
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 3:33 AM UTC
what was it like when you left me behind?
with a bottle of jack clasped in your greedy palm,
did you ever look over your shoulder?
did you ever turn back?
independency never looked more like a cage
when you realize it came with
losing a childhood to a parent
dependent on *****
and lost in her liquor.
maturity is a sculpture that people
chip and mold to fit their own reality
when they forget that the
broken pieces surrounding the perfect sculpture
are really what maturity is made of.
when you left me behind
i reveled in my independency
and clutched my broken pieces in my hands,
glued them back together
and called it armor.
but i still wonder from time to time,
if you ever looked down to see your own
broken jack bottle
glass pieces by your feet,
because you finally remembered
that you left your daughter behind.
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 2:59 AM UTC
as the rain pelted my face i felt an odd sensation of satisfaction.
the water had cleansed my body like it was the holy water used at morning mass.
the catholics’ silence could be heard as i bathed in God’s tears.
the deafening echo of a wordless cathedral spinning into chaos.
as peace consumes me and
my body is laid to rest
i realize why God had flooded the earth the first time.
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 4:08 AM UTC