expect that you won't know what to do with yourself for a while.

expect that you'll be timid and untrusting and reluctant.
expect that people will want an explanation
and that you won't want to give them one.

expect that weekends will make you gnash your teeth and rip your clothes
expect that maybe you'll feel sorry
that maybe you'll want to break the sacred silence that fell like a blanket over your heads
comforting to you
stifling to him...

expect to be afraid of the future.
expect to miss the good parts of him...


expect to someday feel alright again
and realize that this is the first step.

i remember being scared that my father would discover i cut myself.
i remember the day that he did.
trying to cram the screaming baby into his highchair dad saw the mark on my arm and i told him
it was from a marker
he demanded to see it again
and so dad found out that sometimes praying isn't enough.

i don't remember being afraid that dad would find out about the things moose did to me
...i guess i can't say that
i guess i have to say the things we did together
(but i will always lay the blame at his feet
for beginning things
that first night.)
even now, i am not afraid
even now when i truly believe that dad knows what happened
even now when dad gently pats me before he goes up to bed
and says don't forget
to
repent
i am not afraid.
i am ashamed.

empty carcass christmas
green in every way
(green around
the gills)
christmas tree is just something we killed and stuffed and hung up
just like the love
my mother claimed she had for me

just a photo on a ***** refrigerator that i never look at

merry christmas.

having trouble sleeping lately.

the crater in my wrist i made with the hot point of a lighter
wants me to crawl in
sleep among the blood vessels
thinking maybe they'll heal my empty chest

lost everything in one year.

it's alright, im used to it.
lost everything before,
will lose everything again,
most likely.

not a sacred bone
left in me
a desecrated temple
a ravaged flower
a broken urn.
nothing left to fill
nothing left to taste
sawdust,
luke warm water
in his mouth
he will spit me
out.

i can't remember the last time i felt alright...
like things were working out.

because after mom it was ryan
and after ryan it was skyler,
and after skyler it was moose
and after moose
there was no God.

now my stomach cannot even bear me
it threatens to crawl up my throat
my insides contort and scream
i will not let the pain out.

bones, oh
bones.
how i wish you would hurt instead
like you did
when i was pure.
instead of an ache,
now i rot.