and i guess i'm just asking,
if all the things you said to yourself, appeared on your body,
would you still be beautiful?

In my house
Opposite Day meant
breakfast for dinner.
Food anarchy
in the form of
scrambled eggs bleeding ketchup
and melting the opposition in cheese
while the toast was a golden brown
and the win was spread easy over top of it.
My mother defended our tummies
with sizzling bacon lining our stomach
not allowing any gross vegetables to stake their claim.
I never tell my mom
but I secretly wait to eat until dinner on Opposite Day.
I know I should eat breakfast and lunch
but it’s just one day.
Plus sometimes
it doesn’t feel too bad.

The emptiness of my stomach
allows more room for comfort,
more room for the entrance of someone else.
I’ve always been so full of love
that I can barely eat
and I never really figured out
how to fill myself back up
once they’re gone.
I count those calories
like the table-for-two
that’s only seating one,
like half-empty beds
where I find myself
curled up darkness
to its waning moon,
only to roll over and uncover
its everything light
and I am trying my hardest
not to feel so heavy.

When your parents start to notice
you remind yourself that it’s Opposite Day
and you’re really telling the truth
when the lie comes out as
“I already ate before you got home”
and “no, I promise I’m not hungry”
because you can feel your stomach
devouring itself from the inside-out
and I guess that can count as a meal
when other people’s stares have made you feel
roasted-pig stuffed full with an apple in mouth.
But doesn’t that mean
that even food should eat too?
This is when you become vegetarian;
smaller menu to choose from
and more of an opportunity to say
you can’t eat what mom made for dinner.

When the weight starts slipping
so does your relationship
and he tells you that he blames himself
because at first
he didn’t notice you were shrinking
he just thought you needed some space.
Your skin, molding to your skeleton,
allows him to count each fragment of bone in your hand
as he takes his heart back from you
and all you’re left with
is the sinking feeling in your chest
that started the starving in the first place.

I know this constant, raging war
does not seem like it will ever end in happiness,
only in uncomfortable settling;
but you should remind yourself
that you should not feel guilty
for nourishing your working body,
that these sturdy pillars
cannot remain standing if you keep chipping at the cement
that one day
you will wish to be soft and warm,
not just for a lover
but for a beautiful crying child
who points at the dimensions of a Barbie Doll
and then at her own wonderful body
so you can envelope her in the love
you wish you had back then, too.
you will tell her
that skeletons are meant for the grave
and not for her hands to play with,
she should not find comfort
in the spaces between her ribs
only in the space between your arms.
you will tell her
the soft edges of your hips
are what love feels like,
so if there comes a night
where she has been empty for too long
and all of her battles seem lost,
you should turn on that frying pan
and melt her opposition in cheese,
and spread this first win
over her golden brown toast
and hopefully this will stop the emptiness
from staking its claim anymore.

Today, I am sick.
My mental illness is shaped like a prison
and I am in the waiting room
wanting to ask
"What are you in here for"
like
what kind of crime has your head committed
that you are trying to lock it up
with prescriptions
and weekly meetings filled
with uncomfortable confessions
and numb palms from sitting on your hands for too long.
They say it's like playing in traffic,
a red-light-green-light game
where we beg for help
but don't know how to move
when we're asked to explain how we got here.
Do you even remember
what you're running from anymore?
Tell us about the days
where you can't tell if waking up
is a trench or a hill.
What has your head told you to do
and have you done it?
How did it feel when it was over?
Did your head congratulate you
when you were done?
Did you get a prize
like new scars?
Or three more handles of liquor?
The last time you prayed
did you have trouble unlocking your fingers?
Did the weight of God
keep your hands closed tight
in hopes that you wouldn't forget him
like the last time you saw Him
in the bottom of the pill bottle
and you smiled back?
Everyone here says the word Friday
like it hurts
because we know that the weekend is here
but we just can't seem to feel it.

Today we are sick
and nobody notices because our noses aren't running
we aren't openly bleeding in front of the one's we love
we do it in secret
just in case they ever catch us.
Today, we wanted them to catch us.
Stick out their hands
like a safety net
but it doesn't matter what height we fall from
because bones hitting bones
like a head on car collision
will never feel like warm sheets
blanketing our bodies
but we can't help but wonder
if the sheet they will cover us with
after they find us
will be warm too.

Today we are tired of being sick
tired of waking up looking like police chalk lines
tired of walking into the therapy rooms
like they are our parish
but we're too afraid God might smite us on the way in.
We shouldn't have to flinch
when certain words are said
that pull us back loading gun
but are too weak to pull the trigger.

Today WE are the triggered,
the empty promise of tomorrow being filled
with another prescription
another drink
another list of second hand hope
coming from someone who is probably
still trying to remember what it says.
We would rather tiptoe between eggshells
and take our time
than let you know we are struggling.
We are STRUGGLING.
And it makes us so very tired.

So today I am tired
and I will tell you that
instead of reminding you
that every day I am sick.

thought of something
And as I thought of that something I thought of that someone
That someone that I haven't seen yet
I haven't heard
Touched
Tasted
breathed or
Felt....  yet
That someone that I know I will find
That someone who makes me hold onto the hope of love
It's actually kinda sad how this person
This fictional character that I have created
Fictional yet 'undeniably' real
How this person has so much control over my life
My thoughts
My actions
And most people call me a hopeless romantic when they hear this
Yes that morbidly clichéd term that deceives all
Yet I have come to one final conclusion And that is
That this
person
is merely a manifestation of the human condition

"When the sins of my father,
weigh down in my soul,
and the pain of my mother,
will not let me go"


you told me when i'd grow up i'd understand some day,
but ever since we went our seperate ways I could never grip why it had to be this way,
back and forth until you slammed the door and went away,
To come back for more and slap your "*****" across the face,

But somethin brought you back to your senses like it always did,
hate your life and blamed your wife but loved your kids,
you staind her mind and made her cry and punched and kicked until she layed to die with bloodshot eyes you ****** *****,

All the alcohol and drugs you did just made me sick,
only ******* hit their women,
I shoulda sprayed a clip,

Sometimes I wished you'd never come back to me cuz I saw my mama truly happy,
and I know that deep inside she loved you once,
but one punch was enough and the rest that came was just too much,
every day you showed up drunk,
it was the same old same and still she showed her love,
I guess you never could appreciate her for what she truly was,

The image of a beautiful lady bruised up is tatted in my brain,
its guys like you that give guys like me a bad name,
cuz "we're all the same" and that could never change,
but one **** up's enough,
who'd walk back to pain?

Bruises fade and scars are covered,
but emotional damage sticks with you,
I love my mother and I know you loved her too,
and what you did wasn't right to you,
but what happened, happened,
I shoulda stuck a knife in you,

She tried for you but won for us,
me and my sisters,
I love em so much and I tell you what,
if they meet a punk like you i'll rip out his tongue,

I won't forgive you for what you done,
but you're still my dad and i'm still your son-

Then I look at you as a person,
I saw through your eyes and heard you cry,
you were always hurtin,
and I don't why but i'm like that too,
I guess we're the same in a way,
maybe that's why I don't like you,

Well i'm older now and I kinda get it,
I had some time to think and I wish you didn't leave,
we left the house but you left for good,
now it hurts every time I drink,
every drug I do reminds me of you,
maybe i'm just tryna hide the pain every time I fly away,
20 year old alcoholic,
i'm in your shoes every step I take,
I even look like you for christ's sake,
its like we got the same brain,

The day you left it hit me,
and ever since it felt like somethin's missing,
but for reasons unexplained I don't wana see your face,
its not because I hate but maybe I just changed,
all that I can say is I hope that you're okay,
my bad for bein cold but my feelings complicate,
but the fact that you're only human is clouded,
all the times that you shouted and pounded your fists in her again and again,
****** me off to no end,
i'm chokin on regret of not jumpin in to bust your head,
i'd give up everything to know you're dead,
nothin's left but painful memories-


"when the sins of my father,
Weigh down in my soul,
and the pain of my mother,
will not let me go,"
i'm consumed in regret,
I shoulda stepped in,
but please forgive me mother,
I was too young-