I think maybe
I loved you a
little bit. I knew
it then but never
told you. That's
okay, though,
because I think
you loved me a
little bit, too, and
never told me,
either.

In March of 2005, Dad packed his things
and left the house that he raised me in.
I didn’t notice anything missing, except for
a black and white photo album off the mantle
and the lounge chair he slept on for two years.

His new home, a renovated split-level,
was empty like an abandoned barn:
beautiful in its own tragic way, with
barely enough strength to keep it from
toppling over into a pile of rotted wood.

It was vacant, despite all the possessions
and bodies that lay lifeless inside the walls.

Years of silent dinners amplified by echoes
of awkward tiptoeing and closing doors
to hide the things nobody knew how to say.

We are the missing, the dead, the lost
Never found, and in the world
No monument exists for us
No flag has been unfurled

We lie in riverbeds and wood
Beneath stream beds and in fields
Were tears of woe ever wept for us?
Did a heart break, did it yield?

We wandered off in cases, some
In others, lured, abductions
Our bodies never found, but though
We caused a family some reduction

In others, we were found too late
Dead, mistreated in a hole
The one who did this thing to us
Until caught, ******* their soul

We lie here waiting for the day
For our remains to be found
We lie in woodlots, basements cold
Buried crudely in the ground

Some of us were lost before
We ever lost our lives
Roaming streets, with no real home
Dancing on a hundred knives

Some of us are living
Still at odds with where we are
We're prisoners inside our mind
And have gone and wandered far

But, those of us, the dead, the cold
Lie waiting for the day
When our bones will be discovered
And then at rest we'll lay

Are there people out there looking?
Many years for us have passed
Are we still an open case?
Or has the time for that just passed?

Do we still have family waiting?
Time goes slowly when you're lost
We lost our lives to violence
And I question at what cost?

Are we still considered missing?
With us the searching will not cease
We lie here, the dead, the missing
Until our souls can be at peace

The girl was scared of puddles
And she was scared of rain
Every time the thunder clapped
She raced back inside again

She was given beautiful umbrellas
And coats of waterproof silk
But still she sat inside
And read on the window sill

As she grew the rain poured harder
And the girl cowered away
She hid behind her mother’s back;
She never ran to play

She was afraid of what the droplets were
So she sat and watched them gather
She still refused to step outside
And so she grew ever sadder

People came along
And people quickly left
They found the girls odd cowardice;
The way she counted every breath

There came a day when it was too late
And the girl was forced outside
She was lost without her silken coats
And with no place that she could hide

The girl was chilled clean through to bone
And her shy life came to an end
In her silken coats she reached the gates
And the golden stairs she did ascend.

In God’s own home she lay down her fears
And she swore that she’d be brave.
For there there are no window sills
And no pouring rain or hate.

Saint Peter smiled and praised her,
The girl who’d been inside,
And Saint Peter whispered truthfully
As he watched the young girl cry:

“Now, girl who’s scared of puddles,
And girl who’s scared of rain,
Did you ever think that when the thunder claps
It doesn’t have to mean your pain?”

“There’s others out there, like you
Who have suffered just as much
Yet they stay strong and they pull through
And they do not lose touch.

“I’ve been here always to protect you,
And that will never change.
So when you’re scared next just think of that,
And stand to face the rain.”

You must learn to love the puddles
And embrace the freezing drops
Dance under the thunderclouds
Until the lightning stops

What if I told you I haven't shaved my legs, my hair is *****, and I'm only wearing a big sweatshirt, underwear, and a bra on a cold Sunday morning?
What if I told you that I'm full of contradictions, breaking without warning?
What if I told you I was huddled under covers crying about imaginary characters, scribbling out my feelings through the blood of a pen or the sweat of a keyboard?
What if I told you that I'm endlessly entertained, yet endlessly bored?
What if I told you that makeup makes me break out, trying to be pretty just makes me feel stupid, the only people I can talk to honestly are strangers, and to those I know I hide and put it all on the shelf?
What if I told you that I ask others who they think I am, because I can't put a label on myself?

I can scream too
I can shout
I can kick up the dust
And threaten to **** myself

I can raise my fist
And rage and scream at the world
Take the car and run
And splurge
Take no concern for my actions

No need for consequences
Because **** the world
I can go depressed too
I can sulk too

I worked to get what I wanted
And when I spend
Not with my money
I feel sorry
Because there is guilt

I did not have anyone
I was locked up
I was expected to stay home
Do the chores
As my mother expects me to

Wait for the weekend
Wait for my siblings
Only to see the beam on my mother's face
When her son comes home

It ebbed me to see that
When I felt like I couldn't bring joy to her
And I bite my tongue
Fight myself to think it's satan's lie

Home alone
Stuck in a small house
No privacy
Because I can't even have a decent conversation
With my best friend
Without having eavesdropped

I can't cry out loud too
Because they might hear
My room door is spoiled
It can't be locked
No privacy
No escape

Stay home
There is so much to do
Clean the windows
Cut the grass
Have you swept the floor?
What have you done the whole day?
That strain in her voice

Now I can't do that
Because I am miles away
But the anger is still in me
I didn't know it was

Until someone else throws a tantrum
That is just selfish
That is very selfish
I suffered too
And I did not have anyone to rely on

Though I did have my books
My old canine friend
The internet that sometimes harmed
And my dreams

This is my dream
Then why this,
Why this?

Growing up I discovered that it is innate
In human nature
To find, seek, or beg for affection.
I stayed silent in order to watch those around me:
Some were good at capturing attention
Like on a warm summer night
And children and running around with glass jars
Procuring fireflies that shine like precious gems.
These children had the talent of keeping the fireflies
Dazzling for days.
Some sought after the coveted attention,
With their baited fishing poles in hand,
They patiently waited in the middle of the lake
And held onto their prize when caught
Until it died when they would go and fish for a new one.
Perhaps a longer, bigger, heavier, more valuable catch.
Some are light, ethereal,
Like a subtle perfume you can only smell
When you are mere inches away from the wearer.
They are sweet and not too persistent in their ways.
I continued to watch
And place people in these categories.
What they all in common, though,
Was selling their precious:
The fireflies, the fish, the perfume.
I looked to myself,
What did I have to sell? To offer?
Anything at all?
Surely I wasn’t as skilled as the lightning bug trapper
Or as patient as the fisherman
Or as fragrant as the perfume-wearer.
Instead, I was the girl
Who would admire the stars for all they are,
But not try to keep one;
Who would live in the now
Rather than feebly attempting to move my watch
Back a few years.
It was then I realized,
My love is not for sale.

Let me start with a cliche: I love to write.
Let me edit it: I love writing
Lying on the floor
Truths in my head
Think
Of me
Baggy Pajama Pants

Half empty
Half full
Half dirt
Half blood
Clean shoes
No mud.

Dreaming of your demise
Your pitifully starved body.
You begging for your life,
How funny.

You took mine,
I take yours.
Eye for an eye.
Sores for sores.