he is
Mr. Perfect
and i’m a perfect
*** to have ever, for
even a moment, believed
we could even resemble a
real couple, in real love,
like such a thing exists
beyond media-fed
fantasies.

he says
he loves me
and he’d never lie
to me, not on purpose.
but would he love me if
he knew my secrets? i go
from Chopin giggles to
a Chopin breakdown,
steeped in Chopin
teardrops

parents anyway. they’re cardboard
cutouts. i mean, aren’t
parents supposed to care about their
kids? care for their
kids? not abuse them or use them or
lose track of them.
and aren’t they supposed to care for
each other? not use
each other or lose the love that was
once central to each
others existence. not toss each other
aside because life
three a curveball their way, even if it
was a major curveball.
no wonder i’m a little paranoid
about giving away my
love. what if i go ahead, give it, and he
decides to re-gift it?

It always comes by night, that scratching, punctuating a string of silent hours
My skin crawls with cold anticipation.
You're always then same.
Some night you moan
Some nights you beg
Sometimes you bite
Guilt sits like a hot stone in my stomach
Misery wears your skin
What weight you've cast
On me,on you, on us
This sin.

to think about an addiction
like it’s a sentient being,
but that’s how it feels.

like it’s something living
inside you. something
you can’t get rid of because
killing it means killing you.

i can’t really understand
addictions to drugs or alcohol.
things that control you.

but an eating disorder
is an addiction you control.
wait, is that paradoxical?
i prefer to believe not.

either way, i kick off my shoes,
slide along the tile and into
the kitchen, calming my genie

with promises. twinkies. ice
cream bars. Halloween candy.
***** the trick-or-treaters.

who comes
home every
day, dives
straight into
a tall amber
bottle, falls
into a stonewalled
well of silence,
a place where he can tread
the suffocating loneliness.
on the surface, he’s a proud
man. but just beneath his not-
so- thick skin, is a broken soul.
in his courtroom, he’s a tough
but evenheaded jurist, respected
if not particularly well liked. at
home, he doesn’t try to disguise his
bad habits, has no friends, a tattered
family. a part of me despised him,
what he’s done. what he continues
to do. another part pities him and
will always be his little girl, his
devoted, copper-haired daughter.
his unfolding flower.