As the twilight starts its dance with the shadows,
My limbs silently break from their tin man sentencing.
Hanging from the ceiling in ornamentation,

Only to be ignored. That is,
Until everyone goes to bed.
I'm in the child's room overlooking the balcony.

Just before he goes to sleep
He lays there staring. Paralyzed.
For he knows I am alive.

As the shadows creep further
Through the windows my body
Becomes the more freer.

He thinks I can't leave my perch..
I wait until his eyes are closed.
It never takes long.

Just wait for that little pulse of his to stop galloping.

There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. There are children, and then there are alcoholics. One will never harmonize with the other.

Because alcoholics are never parents. They are shells, empty casings of love mixed with a burning taste of whiskey.

They are echoes of slurred, “Goodnight, I love you.” and “See you in the morning.” Each word filled with love, but blinded by the haze of liquor, so strong it fills your eyes with tears.

But most importantly, a child of an alcoholic will never be a child. No matter their age, they have gained the experience of those five times their age. They have watched life end with each tip of the bottle, but begin again when the sun breaks through their window.

I read stories about children who spend their days without a care in the world. And as a child, I wanted nothing more than that for myself. I wanted the carelessness, not the impossible burden of responsibility and secrecy that I held, hand in hand with resentment and hatred for the people who raised me.

There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. It’s not that we don’t exist— we do. But a child will never be a child when their parents can never be a parent.

I swam in your ocean, Anna.
I drank the salt of your skin
until it gave me hallowed sickness.

I told you,
I was never good at staying anyone's friend.
I spent three weeks convincing you I'd try.
When I didn't succeed, why did you act surprised?

You keep shifting shape.
And that isn't fair.

I got tangled in your weeds, Anna.
I struggled and howled,
you talked with warmth, ran fingers in my hair.

I told you,
I wouldn't live past thirty-five,
you said,
I wouldn't make it to twenty-five,
I told you,
I was evil,
you told me,
you were eviler.
I told you,
I was evilest,
you said,
**** superlatives.

I saw you drown yourself in yourself, Anna.
Wallowing in the cold wind
of one demented abecedarian.

You keep shifting shape.
And that isn't fair.

I told you,
to keep your feet moving,
you said,
I needed to stop talking,
I told you,
I was ready to marry you,
you said,
I would never escape my
ex-girl collection,
I told you,
Anna, if I can't have you
you're going to destroy you,
you said,
you'd like to see you try.

Let your waves crash against me,
let your wind carve,
I will say I love you,
until one of us dies.

Entry ~
*I wonder what people see when they look at me. A girl with hazy eyes too tired to see? With ***** blonde hair, skinny legs, wearing an over sized black tee. A girl that smokes a lot of ****, and drinks way too much tea. Maybe they see the written travesty of me. Heard the stories of my early identity. How I used to be so easy and naive. Got down on my knees for the simplest "please" from boys who never gave a **** about me. It's no surprise I swore off boys when I was seventeen. Of course it didn't last. Girls never did it emotionally for me. And I wonder how much of this is perceived when people look at me. I can usually see it in their eyes. When buzzing questions of my puzzling past arise. I can read between the lines. I know everyone wants to know why. But there are no simple answers I can give to ease anyone's mind. My past isn't something I care to hide. I'm only human, and we all have a darkness inside. It took a long time to repair my pride. Something that shines bright through the haze in my eyes. I'm not ashamed. I know that I'm kind, and I've heard stories way worse than mine. I'm grateful and healed with a wonderful life. I've made mistakes, but shame is only relevant for a certain amount of time. I want people to see that when they look in my eyes. See that I'm living proof in the complexity of life. I'm the girl with hazy hazel eyes. With tight black leggings and a gap between my thighs. I have a tarnished reputation, and a silent observant eye. Even when I'm silent I'm fully present in mind. If you see me on the streets feel free to say hi, and don't worry I won't bite if you dare ask me why.

I've been off the road about 8 years now, but I still find a need to sit by rivers.
Maybe it's a hobo thing.
Rivers provide water for drinking and washing.
They provide fish for eating and white noise for sleeping.
They take care of all those who take the time to stop and acknowledge them.
And yet, a river never stops for you.
She doesn't even slow down.
Trains and people and love affairs all slow down.
Rivers just keep moving downstream, and they don't look back.

"Will you write a poem about me?"
She actually asked me... "will you write a poem about me?"
I told her that this conversation had entered very dangerous territory.
How many nice poems have I really written about people?
"I know of three" she said.
(Staring). Yep.  Three.  In fifteen years of writing!

And yet...this poem is about her.  
Not just about her.
It's about asking for something about you.
it's about asking for yourself.
It's about asking for hugs and attention and monogamy and a bunch of other things that you know I don't give.
You have to take them.
If you want anything more than a gesunsheit from me after you sneeze you have to rip it out of my ******* talons.
I want predators around me.
I want poets around me.
I want wolves around me.
I want beautiful women and caskets full of money.
I want fast cars, large scars, illegal substances and dancers of the pole.
I want truth, and honesty, and confidence.  
I don't want someone who "achieves their goals".
I want someone who rips a hole in the space time continuum with their teeth and spits it back out to create new dimensions for those ******* sliders to show up in.
I want a relationship of promises that were never made and words that didn't need to be spoken.
No half truths or small talk.
It's better to ask forgiveness than permission.  This has always been my motto.

And I love you.
I do.
But you should never ask me to write about you.

Entry ~
You were the first man that ever broke my heart. It was the day I was born. You held me in your arms and made me a promise that would rip us both apart. You promised to love me unconditionally from the start. But time passed and over the years those words faded from your heart. In the presence of a war when you had one foot out the door. There are vacancies in my memories where a father should have played a part. Like teaching me to drive a car, or telling me don't believe boys that say I love you from the start. Instead, I looked at every boy with tears in my eyes and willingly accepted every single lie, thinking maybe if I part my thighs they'll learn to love how broken I am inside, but they never do. Just like you they leave without a single clue and I'm left alone, used, wishing my daddy would have loved me too. And I'm not writing this to blame you, or break you, or tell you I hate you. I've made mistakes too. Ones deeply rooted in my relationship with you. And I get that maybe you didn't have a clue that your daughter was struggling in the world without you. But I relied on you to set the standard for boys I would let into my heart. By the time I was sixteen, I felt like a tortured piece of art. I learned to love myself of course. Over the years of ripping myself apart I learned to chart the darkness in my own heart. I don't blame you anymore for my broken parts. I'm healed from being angry at you. I'm writing this to tell you I'm sorry for failing you, and I'm sorry you failed me too.