We all slowly grew up.

Stopped sewing patches of fabric
Into our shirts
To hide our *******,
Replaced the Christian music on our shelves and playlists
With pop, and emo songs,
Or old rock and roll.
Toby Mac was slowly retired to the thrift store,
And some of us stopped going to church.
In some small way,
I’m sure it felt to our parents
As if Jesus had died all over again.

Our vocabularies changed,
The lists of things we wouldn’t do before marriage became shorter
And shorter,
Until to some,
They were non existent.

Alcohol became as regular
As morning coffee,
And ****
A little extra seasoning.

Self destruction
Instead of
Preserving
The purity
Our parents forced on us
From day one.

The door opened,
It flew open.
There’s something about a door being opened
That was closed your entire
Life
That makes you want to go in.

Easter outfits
And gold cross necklaces
Turned into tattoos
And nose rings.
We got out into the world
And discovered
That people who don’t throw
Bible verses around
Like confetti
Aren’t bad,
And the cautionary tales of our youth
Were something we wanted to try.

Red nail polish
Was considered promiscuous,
And now it’s a tame
Contribution to our wardrobes.
Our first tattoos
Made some of our parents cry.

No more
Sending us back to our rooms
To change out of
An outfit
Unfit
For church,
No more warning
About wearing colors
That are too bright.

I study verses
And wonder
What God thinks
Of his people dressing up
His dying son
Like a trick poodle at a circus.
Displaying him proudly
When he does what they want,
Hoping the crowd won’t notice
When he ignores
Their orders.

We all slowly grew up,
And I found my own faith.
A kinder one,
With a loving just God.

That summer
you were jealous
That I had found a yellow sun dress
with tiny blue and white flowers.
Yellow,
your favorite color.
They didn't have one left
in your size,
and you were angry.
Like,
actually angry,
and mostly at me.

I'm folding my laundry,
and a shirt I bought
a few months ago,
back when I still
cared
about your opinion
landed in my hands like a gold finch.
A gold finch
with bright white polka dots.

"I saw her a few weeks ago,
she said she thinks about reaching out
to you
sometimes,
and that you don't seem as if
you're in a good place..."
My old roommate shifted uncomfortably
in his chair across from me
as he said it.

"I'm good."

I am good.

And thinking about it
isn't good enough.
Doing it wouldn't be good enough either.
Because I like myself without you.

The color yellow
used to make me think
of your bubblegum pink hair,
and your taste in music
when you were having a good day.

Now it makes me think
of how seldom
the good days were.
How you picked yourself a part,
as well as anyone who got close to you.

Yellow once made me think
of sunsets and evening dog walks.
Of converse sneakers
and paper cranes.
Yellow made me think of the
best parts
of you.

Now my face falls
as I remember
how angry with me you were
because I had a pretty dress.
The poor girl
who never got anything
she didn't pay for
got a pretty new dress,
and you were angry.

You've lost the privilege
of knowing me enough
to talk about me,
but I know you're still doing it.

Eventually I'll stop writing
brokenhearted poetry,
and maybe you'll stop talking,
but I doubt it.

All talk and no action,
it was one of your worst qualities.
But now I'm grateful for it.

If you think
of sending a glowing text
my way,
remind yourself
of when I told you
I tried to **** myself,
and you hid from my face
behind your phone.
Why change now?

I like myself better
without you.

Something wicked this way waltzes,
Through the clouds of dust
And lazy warm sunlight.
Twisted with your breath
On my cheek,
Tangled up between your whispered
Words
In my ear.

Something wicked in your fingers
Holding mine,
Something dangerous in our closeness,
Something intensely painful
In your "love".

Something wicked in you comes,
So something strong in me
Helps me leave.

The conversation
was a long walk off a short pier
But I was just happy to be falling for you again
.
.
.

I sit, listening to you talk about
our hair brained scheme
to make me a writer.
All you do is support.

Every phase meets your unwavering love.
No fear in my latest poison being forever.
No scolding me
because you worry
I'll never get better.

Instead you proof read,
plan,
love,
and support.

Never do I feel as if my failure
would cause you to be
disappointed
in me.
Never do I worry
any success
would make jealousy burn
between your ears.

Instead you listen,
you love,
you cultivate.

I am not a thing to you,
I am a small sapling
you water,
and trim the dead parts off of.
I am an investment,
you already accept
an unknown ending to.

Whiskey kisses my lips,
and tickles the back of my throat
in friendly warmth.

My fingers are cold in the rented room I live in,
typing all feeling left in them into my laptop.

I am writing.
Writing hard about the things
that deprive me of sleep.

I am drinking,
just a nip here
and
there,
To trick my brain
into letting the truth escape.