Grief comes in waves,
lingering at the shore of my mind
before ebbing back out to sea.

There are hours before the tide
rises again.
and for those brief moments,
I am free.

I am free of loss.
I am free of pain.
I am free of the emptiness.

And then i hear something,
or see something,
or do something,
and the memories of you
come rushing back.

When I was a child

I thought
all my pain
would fade away
with age.

They say,
“you once dreamed
of being where you are now.”

And I did. I prayed
for time that
would take away my hurt.
I ached for identity
in the form of adulthood.

I once dreamed
of being where I am now,
but my dreams
were nothing like
this.

I’ve only yelled at you once
In the pouring rain
Under the light of the moon

I remember screaming so loud I thou
But you don’t even remember
How could you?

You were blinded by a bottle
That you cared about more than me

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.