Everyone tells me
that growth is a process.

And I believe them.
I do.

But I have been waiting,
pleading with whatever god exists
to help me bloom.


I am growing.
but not upwards.
I am twisted and
wretched and ugly.

I am not growing.

I am rotting.

How far gone
do I have to be
if laughter
makes me stomach sink?

I sit alone,
yearning,
wishing,
praying
for silence.

At least then,
in quiet arms,
I find the only stillness
I can.

I struggle to find a place.
I have no place
in a home,
or room, or
city.

No person,
no feeling to call my own.

I am on the run
from what I need the most.

My father was a hateful man.

The words he spewed
were alcohol on open wounds.

Behind his eyes
raged the fire
that burned down a home.

Night and night again
he'd say he's sorry.
And he was.

Until it happened again.

My father was a hateful man.
And that made me kind.

It's perfect

He threw compliments at you
until they stung.

He kissed you
until there were violet bruises
blooming across your arms.

The fingers he traced
up and down your back
turned into thorns.

His words morphed into
bombs.

It's perfect.
Until it's not.

Whiskey drips from his lips
like an endless stream of lies.

It's bitter, you think.
Like black coffee,
like harsh asphalt,
like the bleach you use
to clean up the mess that
isn't yours.

Are you thinking about the drink
or his lies?

But it doesn't matter;
they both leave the same taste
on your tongue.

i'm clean, i tell them
they smile
they tell me they're proud
they tell me that i'm a fighter

but when i say i'm clean
it implies that the rest of me has always been
*****

that the girl with faded scars
and an empty heart
and a full head
was filthy