You will never see
the woman I was supposed to
become.

You crushed her with your words
and drowned her in your alcohol.
You killed her.
You ruined her.
And she rose.
Again and
again
and again.

But she could have been special.
She could have been loved.
She could have been more
than the girl
who was shattered
and left ****** and
bruised
by you.

Just because I got
back up after being
pushed down
didn’t make me strong.

It made me afraid.
It made me a coward.
It made me selfish.

I am not forged from iron,
or steel.

I am not grateful for your torment.
The pain you crafted was not beautiful.
My trauma is not art.

I was a child
and I was scared.

You were my father
and you were
my worst nightmare.

i am a garden
blooming
budding
growing

but among the bubblegum peonies  
and golden lilies
are the weeds

a gloved hand yanks them from their roots
but time and time again
they grow back
they sliver through the dirt
and emerge into the sunlight

so i wait

i wait for the weeds to grow
i wait for them to overtake me
i wait for them to vanquish

and then i wait for my flowers to be planted

i am a garden
waiting
weeding
planting

I grew up believing that making myself small
was the key to fixing my broken family.

I broke my bones and cut off my limbs
So I could squeeze inside their box.
I made myself into something I never was,
Manageable, bite-sized pieces.
I made myself easy to digest.

If I was able to be less of myself,
I would make others whole.

I believe I was the key to a mangled, unfixable lock.
And all I had were bruised knuckles
And black eyes
And a butchered body lacking love.

We spend our nights
searching for perfection.

In places, in people, in things
we can never have.

Through the cityscapes
and sunsets
and the crashing waves
and the ache
of being alone.

We chase the feelings,
lost in our memories,
hoping to find wholeness
in places and people
that don't exist.

I am becoming me again.
With every breath I take,
I feel my body expand with joy.

I am learning
to take myself
just as I am.

Incomplete.
Shattered.
Imperfect.
Just as I am.

It was slow at first.

“We’ll still be a
family,”
is what they told us.

And for the first
few years
we were.

Our Christmases
we’re spent together.
We watched the same movies,
followed the same traditions.

And then one Christmas,
my stocking was empty.
For years my dad had given
me the same chocolate.

It wasn’t much,
but it was reliable.

I knew, despite
the broken family tree,
and years of fighting,
and countless holes
in our living room walls,
that every Christmas morning
i’d find the same bit of chocolate
that was always there.

Did he forget?
Did he not have time?
Or was I watching everything
knew, slip through
my finger tips?

And the next year
came along.
And there was no chocolate.

We still watched the movies,
and sang the songs.
but I saw the cracks
beginning to form.

At first, it was the chocolate.
And then it was the movies,
and then it was everything.

“We’re still
a family,” they said.

But I knew the truth.
I knew we weren’t.

They say,
if you throw a frog
in boiling water
it will hop right out.

But, if you turn
up the heat
slowly,
it will boil to death. 

I did not realize
that the heat
was inching
upwards
and upwards.

I was swimming
in burning water,
in blissful ignorance
of when
it would all come
crash down.

I did not know
that I was boiling.

I have learned to live
without you.

I'll watch  
a game of football
and say
school is fine
and talk about
the weather
and tell you
that I am doing well.

But you don’t care
and I tell you exactly
what you want to hear.

You never want to hear
about the hard things,
about the tough stuff.
You never want to hear
about the things dads
are supposed to care about.

So I keep it short
and I keep it clean
and I cut out all of the fat.

That way
you only know
the part of me
that you didn’t ruin.

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.

Don’t wear shoes
Wear lots of sunscreen
Remember to take the long way home
Go down the unbeaten path
Don’t beat around the bush
Live naturally

Smile more
Apologize less
Cook dinner with your mom
And help clean up after
Cover your friends’ coffee
Pay for gas money
Ask for forgiveness, not permission

The universe and I
Do not get along.
We are shards of glass from the same broken mirror,
Smashed beyond repair.

I am not made for shaking grounds
And harsh winds.  
I am made for green grass
And blue skies
And sunsets that melt into watercolor paintings.
I was made soft
But the universe is unrelenting.

The earth was born in battle.
Each day she prepares for war.
Each day she starts again

I was raised by whiskey,
Memories tainted by liquor
By no fault of my own.

I’d like to think that
I do not owe the universe a thing
For the pain it has caused me.
For the sleepless nights,
For my faulty brain,
For the family turned foes.

The universe does not owe me
A thing.
It is filled with billions of faces,
Each one begging,
Pleading
For solace.

The universe and I,
We are one and the same.
We are shards of glass,
From the same broken mirror.

The dreams i had
For myself
Are so diluted,
So clouded
By the mess inside my
Own brain.

I am not happy.
I am not whole.
And I look back
At everything I lost,
Begging for another change.
For one more do-over.

Maybe if I could do it again
I would be happy.