Don't you think I want to be able to
have a drink with him
without the panic setting in.

Don't you see that when I say
my ex was an abusive alcoholic,
I mean that I'm still recovering.

Don't you feel my panic rising
with every sip of liquor
that flows down past his lips.

Don't you realize that when you
downplay my worry
your words are a vicious slap.

Don't you think that I do want
to get over it, but that I just
can't help but remember.

Don't you see the impact
I still feel from the squeezing
of his fingers around my neck.

Don't you feel any sympathy,
or are they just words to you,
"abusive ex."

Don't you realize that to me,
that was years of expecting death
at the hands of the one I loved.

So please, just. Don't.

The first was a neighbor
I fell fast into friendship with
Until he betrayed my innocent trust.

The second was a cousin,
Someone admired and adored
Until he twisted my adoration
Into something I didn't recognize
Or ask for.

The third was an uncle,
A partner in crime
Kept close to my heart
Until he bent the rules
And my will.

My view of the world
Was shaped
Changed
Shattered
By these three men.

Men I knew. Cared for.
Looked up to in awe.
And they used that
Toddler fascination
To their sick advantage.

Until I learned that
Love is shown in funny ways.
A secret meeting
Shh, don't tell your parents
Threats only barely veiled
Or something bad might happen
To your little sister.
And bruises left as reminders
You asked for it.

They showed me the love I was worth.

All
            my old scars have faded away, requiring a prolonged glance
            to distinguish the results of my past anguishes.
            My weapon of choice unavailable, I sidle into the kitchen
            and looked for a suitable substitute.
I
            sit on the floor, tracing over the places I
know
            they hide with the tip of a knife held gently in my hands.
            My mind sputters along slowly, trying to engage my heart.
            But once I’ve reached the point of seeking
pain
            directed outward, my emotions have dissipated,
            and my personality flat-lines.

I           won’t be long, just have a couple things to get done.
             Resigned, I sigh as quietly as possible and put on a smile we both know
             is contrived. Sure, not a problem. I’ve seen you for maybe an hour, but
             there’s no way I’m going to let you see what I’m holding back. Why
Can’t   I be your most imperative commitment?
             *Everything I do is for you, and our future.
             How am I supposed to argue with that? I’ve tried telling you before
             that I’d much rather get time with you than trivial items. I try to
Trust   my mind, telling me that I’d rather have someone who works a lot
             Than someone who never works at all.
             But that argument is little comfort when I’m alone in bed again.
             I’ll be home at 4. Promise me. I promise. We both know it’s
A          lie, yet you let it slide easily through your mouth. It’s left hanging
             there between us right on top of I’ll take care of that for you,
             your other most common phrase. Something I used to believe,
             but now no longer waste energy on. See, that’s the
Thing, a promise is nothing without a follow through. And I’ve learned
             that your promises are without any actual value,
             counterfeit currency you try to slip past me. But after too many times
             waiting on you to prove the worth of your words, I’m defeated.
You      glance at me, leading you to momentarily postpone your departure,
             There’s something different in your eyes tonight. Is everything ok?
             Yea, I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong. And with my promise,
             the crossing of our pinkies deftly disguises everything I need to
Say.

A sentence most innocent,
     yet the undercurrent
     is deep and swift.
                                                          ­  I love you, too.
A snap-reflex response
     to a heartfelt exhibition
     of true emotion.
                                                        ­    I love you, too.
To an outsider,
     nothing would be amiss
     but I read the lack of words.
                                                          ­  I love you, too.
This throwaway text
     hides something much more
     than you care to show.
                                                           ­ I love you, too.
And simple as those
     four little words, I know
     something is wrong.

One day, you'll awaken,
with blood shot eyes,
scratching at a five o'clock shadow,
even though it's seven o'clock
in the morning, and
wonder where it all went wrong. Where she all went wrong.

When the arches of her feet stopped
tiptoeing across the room
to kiss you good morning.
When the parallels of her calves
started making diagonals
when laying on the bed.
When the crook of her elbows
no longer wrapped around you
like the beautiful ribbon on the present you gave to her last Christmas.

Do you even know where that present is?
It's there,
up there on the shelf collecting dust
along with all the "I love yous"
and other promises that you stash away for cold winters nights,
when you crave her warmth,
and long to feel the chill of her sapphire-painted fingernails.

But somewhere between the cicadas of summer and the apples of autumn, you lost her along the way.
You lost the way her hair finds its way onto every surface of your house.
You can't find the way her nose wrinkles when she laughs,
even if you turn over all the couch cushions,
and look under the rug.

You check your file cabinets for the way her chest heaves when she sleeps,
and check in the pantry for the memories of her propped up on her elbows,
looking out the window sill at the rain,

But all that's left are phantoms of her amber scent,
and ghost-smiles that have all but gone stale.

She looks at me and I know in that
                                     quickest
                               of
                           seconds
             something is wrong.
                                 "Mom?
                                        Mom?!"
And she
              crumples
       against my sister.
I saw the
                            confusion
       in my mom's eyes
and now I see the
                            panic
       in my sister's.
My mom, limp on the ground,
       isn't responding
       to my repeated pleas.
"She's having a stroke!
            She's having a stroke!"
Panic makes my sister's voice
                            frantic.
                   We've been here before.

All around people are crowding
       waytooclose,
but the shouts for EMS can't
              drown out the
                                          burst
of silence suddenly in my head.
My sister and I lock eyes,
                                   transported
to when this happened before,
              wondering...
                            wo­rrying...