So quickly we judge.
So little we know.

Maybe she had a baby at home
that had no food to eat
or clothes to wear
or honor to uphold.

Maybe she was all that baby had
and this was the only thing
that kept her alive.

Maybe she needed this
to ensure that baby would have
a mommy to hold her
and tell her she is loved
at the end of that day.

Would you betray someone strong
to save someone weak?

Who knows.
Maybe she is smarter than all of us.
Kinder, braver indeed.

Maybe we see the wrong hero.

So quickly we judge.
So quickly we ****.

I'm going to hell for this one.
Not quickly though, since
I think Satan
wants to see me squirm
(And God, poor God,
He still has hope).

No, smiling eyes
And midnight hair
And caramel skin
(Sweet tasting, smooth)
Will carry me there
And drop me off
On their way to heaven.

I'm going to hell for this one.
Yes, surely.

The problem is
You can't share a lover.
Not when your heart
is captivated.

I'm going to hell for this one.
Watch out for my falling heart.

can't get warm in the summertime
but still too hot to move.

goosebumps everywhere.

it's a secret
a ***** beautiful secret

with a rushing kind of happiness
strangled by fear
and the guilt, oh, the guilt.

the happy is frantic
it bites, it burns
it's chilling and thrilling and terrifying

turn on the AC
cold, cold, cold.

frozen in the summertime.

goosebumps.

She smiled because she could see the
bottom.
The concrete looked calm from high above,
like a broken wave coating the damp, warm sand.
Crickets sang out through the darkness
but the roaring of the ocean
drowned them out.

It was darker than dark
and quiet enough to breathe.

Perfection.

Her final breath sent her over,
gliding toward the waves
floating on a cloud.

Finally, freedom.
Silence.
Darkness.

As she neared the ground, she reveled in
her weightlessness.
It was joyful, for the first time
since him.
It was riveting, inspiring, unique, unimaginable.

Ending.
It was ending.

The ocean was not giving.
It did not wash her away.
It did not wash away the hurt.

She heard a scream, and footsteps.
Her smile, her joy, her revelation
disappeared.

Why could she still hear the screams?

She folded the letter into tiny, intricate squares
before sealing it with a kiss.

His kisses were her solace.

Solace is often mistaken for
teenage preoccupation,
you see.

The faint smell of mulled spice lingers.
Soft sounds:
     a television on somewhere
     dishes clinking in the kitchen
     footsteps, small and large.
Scattered pillows on the den floor
The occasional pine needle makes an appearance.
Textbooks, pens, paper, notebooks.
               Everywhere.
Little white hairs stick to anything.
Carpet, usually stained, but soft.
Doors and cabinets that don't quite close.
Chipped paint.
Ribbons, ponytail holders in odd places.
Rustling, running, rattling. More running.
Music, and very loud singing.
An air of silliness, slight stress, hurry.
     Sometimes sadness, but not too often.
Laughing, since we laugh at our strangeness.
An odd happiness occupies the space.

My mother is a bluebird.
She flies sweetly about the sky
seemingly carefree, but clear minded.
She is beautiful
bringing light to anything she passes.
Sometimes, I think she has flown over me,
but she keeps me in her mind
and under her wing.
My mother is a bluebird.