"I should be used to this by now."
Yes
I should.
I should be used to being a prisoner in my very skin.
I should be used to my body telling lies
That he'll take for truth.
I should be used to my ****** past ruling my life.

When I tell him I want him,
But I'm not "in the mood."
When I tell him I'm turned on
But he says he can't tell.
When we have to stop having *** because I've become painful for him
Or I disassociated
Or I just needed to stop
Yeah, guess I should be used to that by now.

I should be used to letting my partner down.
Be used to seeing the disappointment in his eyebrows.
Used to his palpable frustration with trying to understand.
I should be used to apologizing, over and over,
Knowing it is all my fault
Though he keeps telling me I shouldn't be sorry.

I want to ****** the man who did this to me.
I want to take something back from the world that stole *** from me.
If I can't have that,
I want to ***** up my sickness,
Like it's the virus it feels like.
I want to be literally ******* normal.

Is this what it means when they say,
"The courage to heal?"

My grasp on the English language
Is far too insufficient
To explain what is happening inside my head.
It is even more futile,
When I attempt to explain what transpires
In my body.
There are no words
For what causes the disconnect between the two.

These are the only words I could find:
I'm sorry.

There are no words
None that I could find
And I've been searching for a while
To describe the relief
Of being loved,  maybe even adored,
Despite how sticky with tar my soul is.

I'm not sure why
But everyone keeps talking about their mothers, lately.
Maybe it's because springtime reminds us of birth
Or perhaps it's because Mother's Day is next month.

I don't know.

But it's got me thinking of you, Mom.
It reminds me of when I barely reached your belly button
When you'd take me in the garden
And show me your green thumb miracles.
I think back on nights when the stars would sing for us
And you would point out which constellations were ours.
So many secrets and stories to be told.

I wonder which state you're burning through
Which highway you're on
And what flowers have captured your attention today.
It's springtime, after all.

Do the redbud trees remind you of me?
Of the long drives to town
When I would drone on like a honeybee
About those delicately beautiful petals.
Me, I smile despite myself when I see the forsythia unpack their trumpets,
And when the irises grow their beards.
You always had a way with flowers.


Even when your words would slur,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you would pass out and burn dinner,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you stopped coming home at night,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you packed your things and left,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you didn't get better,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when I stopped answering your calls,
You always had a way with flowers.

You always did.
I guess you always will.

You smell like pizza
luckily im a fan of Italian

Heavy breathing
Cocked furry ear
Sound - alert, then sleep again

In college, going home was always a reprieve
Well, until it wasn't.
Those awkward moments when you'd walk in on an argument,
Or when you had chores again
Like slipping back into your childhood skin
But it was a little tight, constricting.

But home made my chest hum,
No matter how tight the skins I wore became.
Home was a historic ranch with a view of the skyline
It was washing dishes with a view
And spending more time on the porch than in the living room
Home was the first place that actually felt like more than just a house.

Home had a yard, and friendly *** who mowed it
Home was walking outside to the smell of fried dough
Mouth watering for a fresh doughnut down the street.
Home was a garage turned art studio,
Bugs and all
Home was fighting over a single, small bathroom.
And it was just a couple minutes walk into the city.

Cityscapes, always changing.
Now, home is a green field, awaiting development
Home was ripped from beneath us like the run down houses two summers before.
Home is gentrification,
Only a few steps from the balcony of wealthy young professionals
Cozied up in their overpriced studio apartments.
Home still smells of doughnuts
And the driveway in the sidewalk is still there
Home still brings back our perennials,
White, purple, and pink.
Home cannot be taken from us,
She is woven into our very fibers,
But she can never be touched again.

Home was sold, beaten, bulldozed, and cleared away.
Home is just a memory.
But I will still drive by,
Smell that sickly sweet air,
And pick some of her flowers.

Here's to you, my love.

I will keep being your hero
Gliding on nothing but cables and daring
Catching you to a cadence of pithy one-liners

I will keep being your hero
Beaten and bloodied by owls and doubt
Always with cocky grin backflips and in four colors

I will keep being your hero
With You beside me
Masks not covering flushed cheek smiles and kisses

Your hero
Will protect you
Help you swing a little higher
Fly a little farther

And when I can't be your blue and black gymnastics god anymore
You will still be my hero

I cannot escape you.
Though I run until my thighs quiver,
Fatigue sinking in like a sickness,
I cannot outrun the breeze of your breath
Nor the snapping of your teeth at my heels.
Slick with sweat that smells of iron
Like blood
But still I run.

And I will keep running until you pounce
Baring my throat to the night
Singing to the moon of your triumph
And claim my heart with your teeth.

I cannot escape you.