My handwriting looks exactly like his,
Down to the way I do my D’s.
Every time I write my name, I am reminded.
The letters laugh at me and sneer sweetly,
They call me names and raise their calloused hands;
Other touches are much too soft, and linger far too often.

D for ‘do you want some coke?’.
D for drunkard.
D for dad.

His rage lives inside me—
A thousand tiny splinters
That throb and ache.
They lie dormant, slowly festering,
Gnawing at my insides like a termite.
I fear that one day I will be nothing but a mosaic of wood.

I’ve never really been a religious person
My childhood was steeped in catholicism
Far too much,
But I’d liken finding you
To finding god.

My lungs are on fire,
But mother says I mustn’t keep still.
My lungs are on fire,
But mother says I am perfectly fine,
so I must be okay.

Did you take your vitamins? Drink enough water? Have you gone outside? How did you sleep? Get out of the house. Go for a walk. Stay off your phone. Stop complaining.

My lungs are on fire,
But it must be my fault.
My lungs are on fire,
But are they really?

Perhaps I am possessed
By this fire in my lungs
Perhaps I am made less
By this fire in my lungs

But one thing is for certain
Beyond a shadow of a doubt,
Is that mother knows best
In all matters of the chest

Trust my body;
But what if my body is lying to me.

How do I tell the difference.

I prayed to God for appendicitis
Every time my father and I fought.

The warm concrete against my feet
As I sat begging
To be anywhere but here.

The air was thick and hard to breathe
But the sun was shining
And the birds were chirping
So what excuse did I have to leave.

‘I love you’, you say.
‘I know’, I say—
Because sometimes
It is not enough

I will always want to give
And give—
Until my heart is bleeding and raw.

And your apathy
Weighs in the air
As much as my mud-filled lungs.

And even when I know
You’re no good for me,
Still—I am smothered by your tyranny.

With a belt around her neck
She doesn’t stop to check
Who her choices affect
But what did I expect.

With a heavy hollow heart and a soft somber smile,
I ask her if she really cares.

She says that she does,
But it feels like she doesn’t.



-------------------------------------------------------------­-------
I want to believe you,
I really do,
But there's not much more
I can endure.

As I listen to the soft stomping of feet
and
The distant sounds of people murmuring,
I think to myself
this feels
familiar;
this feels
like home.

The cold air smelled like fabric softener
the same way
The house felt when my mother cooked.

And it feels like I can breathe again.

I knew she didn’t care
When she said
Sorry to him
And not to me
For hanging herself

Sometimes I still think I can hear his breathing,
Deep heavy breaths that whistled out his nose from years of smoking,
Even though I know he’s long gone.  

And when he was eating ice cream, the smacking always followed, just barely loud enough so that I strained to hear the TV. His grey eyebrows raised high with his eyes wide and mouth gaping open, completely and utterly entranced while he gulped and slurped down his midnight snack with a spoon that was too big for my mouth.