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.

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.

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.

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.

You called her beautiful, but that’s not what she was.

She was fire and flood. her words pounded against the sand like waves.

Her hands created art from pain, each stroke a painful stitch.

Her thoughts were flames from a wildfire, taking the world by smoke and ash.

She was not beautiful, and anyone who called her that felt her wrath.

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.

sometimes you have to say goodbye to be completely gone
and once those words leave your mouth
you will be free
you will be free
you will be free

you will soar over mountain tops
and look down from the crest of the horizon

say goodbye
go
and be free

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.

there will be nights where you chase stars
and follow them through galaxies and supernovas
waiting for them to slow down

and on those nights you need to land
let your feet rest in the craters of the moon
and learn that you
are the sun

There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. There are children, and then there are alcoholics. One will never harmonize with the other.

Because alcoholics are never parents. They are shells, empty casings of love mixed with a burning taste of whiskey.

They are echoes of slurred, “Goodnight, I love you.” and “See you in the morning.” Each word filled with love, but blinded by the haze of liquor, so strong it fills your eyes with tears.

But most importantly, a child of an alcoholic will never be a child. No matter their age, they have gained the experience of those five times their age. They have watched life end with each tip of the bottle, but begin again when the sun breaks through their window.

I read stories about children who spend their days without a care in the world. And as a child, I wanted nothing more than that for myself. I wanted the carelessness, not the impossible burden of responsibility and secrecy that I held, hand in hand with resentment and hatred for the people who raised me.

There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. It’s not that we don’t exist— we do. But a child will never be a child when their parents can never be a parent.

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

I'm surrounded by pieces of myself
Shards of glass so sharp it hurts
The memories that you ruined
The childhood you dictated
The love that was  lost

I cannot repair what you broke
I cannot mend what is already bent out of shape
I cannot forget the memories etched on my skin

When glass breaks
It cannot be put back together
No matter the amount of glue or tape
Or how many times you've begged for my forgiveness

I take out a broom
I sweep up the pieces
I throw them away
Not for you
But for myself

Why do you feel the need to apologize for taking up space in the world?

Stop saying you are sorry

For existing

For living

For being human

Don't call me pretty

I am not pretty

I am a warrior molded from hot iron

Beaten down to conform to a shape

To conform to a number

To conform to a scale

I forgave the people who ripped me apart

I crawled tooth and nail out of the ashes that trapped me

I get up every morning with a purpose to change

So don't call me pretty

Because I am so much more

Eight of us
A train
And the blinding light of stars
For that moment
As we laid together under the sky
Shoulder against shoulder
And watched as the blinding light inched towards us
Waiting for the onrush of wind
The split second of weightlessness
And a sign that this is where we needed to be

I fight for my sisters
The ones whose own voice was ripped away

I fight for my daughters
The little girls who risk their lives for knowledge

I fight for my mothers
The women who gave up everything

I fight for my grandmothers
The ones who fought for me

I forget about it most of the time
But then I hear a door slam
Or a glass break
And I'm thrown back into the tidal wave
Reaching
Grasping
Begging
To make it back to shore

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.

I grew up drowning in whiskey.

I grew up quickly.

I grew up alone in my thoughts.

And now when I look in the mirror and see myself,

I know that I hardly grew up at all.

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.

I never learned how to heal

I learned whiskey from *****, and love from fear

But I don't know how to pick myself up after I fall

Or fix all the pieces that someone else broke

Existing in a house with an alcoholic isn't quite existing. It's tiptoeing around corners and walking on broken glass. It's waiting for the bomb to drop with the closest shelter miles out of reach.

I try to shed my skin but it sticks like glue. It covers me in shame and pain and the irreversible smell of ***** and *****.

I don't exist. I just simply am.

I am the daughter of a drunkard.

I am covered in guilt.

I am.

I mold myself to fit into a box that's half my size. I rip my own words out of my own mouth so I don't hurt the feeling of the people who have mutilated mine.  

I haven't existed yet, but someday I will.

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

one
Be gentle, because they don’t know any better. I know that you’re the child, and I know that you’re scared, and I know that it isn’t your job to be gentile or kind but I also know that being gentile is easier than being angry.

two
Make sure to give up your heart and soul first. Take your feeling and put them into a box, and shove that box far away because God knows that they’ll only heart them anyways.

three
Read well and often. Send your mind into a new, completely different world for a little while. You need it. We all need it.

four
Learn how to be distant. Learn how to love from afar. Being close will only hurt more in the long run.

five
The most important part of loving an alcoholic is loving you first. You are not your parent’s mistakes. You are not what caused them to break so harshly that they turned to a bottle rather than a book, a drink rather than their daughter.

I learned how to love an alcoholic before I learned to love myself. And to this day, I’m still learning.

I am whole.

My worth
is not constructed
from the love he gave me,
or took away.

I am whole,
based off of
what I give
to the world.

I am whole,
with
or without
him.

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

My dad taught me
how to ride my bike.

And I rode
far, far away.

I peddled away from
the screaming,
away from the fists,
and the bruises,
and harsh words.

I learned from my father
that a house is not a home.

I learned from my father
that love is not
a given.

I learned from my father
that family
is not unbreakable.

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 think I love you
But not in the way a daughter should.
I don't love the thought of you
I love you because you raised me
I love you because it is my obligation

I think I love you
But then I hear someone yell or a door slam and I'm thrown back into the abyss of my childhood
When you put your fist through my bedroom wall
And called me a ***** before I knew what the word meant

I thought I loved you until I saw my friend's father
He went to her ballet concerts and watched her soccer games with delight
And when she missed a goal he gave her a hug anyway

I thought I loved you
But only because you say you love me

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.

My life has been a garden
For flowers than seeds
And more weeds that that

I grow
And I climb
And I begin to wither when the sunlight fades

You should know all of this
But maybe you don't
Maybe you were so blinded by the sun
That you forgot to water me

I pulled the weeds out myself
Thorns and burs and splinters
But I planted my own seeds

My hands may be filthy with dirt
But yours are covered in demons

And maybe that's okay
Because I will be able to wash mine off

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 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.

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.

We have a special dance
You ask a question
I give the answer you're waiting to hear
Like a play rehearsed again and again and again
Each line is memorized
The responses flow out of my mouth as easy as a breath of air
You ask about my day
I ask about yours
So the cycle continues
And when you step to the right, I follow your lead
Because tiptoeing around broken glass is easier than cleaning up the mess in front of us

Sometimes I wish you were never apart of my life.

But if it wasn't for you, what the hell would be left of me?

Would all of the cuts and scratches and scars disappear? All of these ugly, little things that tell my story would simply evaporate?

It's because of you that I can tell the good days from the bad.

And it's because of you I appreciate the small things.

I appreciate smooth roads because I've driven on rocky.

Some days I close my eyes so tight they hurt. I beg and I beg and I beg that when I wake up, all of the bad is gone.

The memories.

The hurt.

The ache.

But I open my eyes and I'm still just here. So I exist.

And some days, that's all I need to do,

Simply exist.

somedays i ache with such ferocity
i am ready to rip my skin off my bones
and scream until my lungs empty

I don't believe every person has one soulmate

I think they have hundreds

The best friends who care about you when you can't care for yourself

The woman working at the deli down the street who always gives you a dollar off your sandwich because she knows money is always tight  

The man working at the bookstore who sets books he knows you'll like in the back so no one else can buy them

The little girl at park who's face illuminated with joy when you played hide-and-go-seek with her

Soulmates are not one person out of seven billion

They are everyday people

Ones who take the time to make your day a little bit better

To the women who dismantled the world
with their bare hands
just to build it up again.

May we know them.
To the Eleanor Roosevelts,
to the Marilyn Monroes.
To our mothers
and our grandmothers

May we be them.
Women who speak with fire
and revel in the flame,
who shatter the glass ceiling
and dance around the broken shards.

May we raise them.
To our sisters
and our daughters.
To the women who came before me
and all of the girls who will come after.

Here’s to strong women.

I hope that when you looked at me and told me I was beautiful,

You didn't just look at my face.

I want you to look into me;

Into eyes that watch wildfires burn,

I want you to study the scars and stories that mark my skin.

At the wrinkles and creases from years of scrunched noses,

Furrowed brows,

And unceasable laughter.

But maybe all you did was look.

Look at the way my hips curve
And my hair curls,
The length of my legs,
The width of my chest.

But I hope that you know

That my body is not what makes me beautiful.

I hope that when you looked at me and told me I'm beautiful

You didn't just look at my face

I hope you looked not just at me, but in me

Into my eyes which saw wildfires burn

Or the marks on my skin which tell my story

Or the wrinkles by my mouth from endless laughs and smiles

Or maybe you really did just look at me

The way my hips curve and my hair curls, the length of my legs and width of my chest

And I hope that you know

That my body is not what makes me beautiful

The realization of being sick was like barreling into ice cold water
Lying in my bed from dawn till dusk was the norm
The deep feeling of utter despair was as typical as a stomach full of butterflies
The constant weight of heavy eyelids was just a bad night's sleep
Or a bad week
A bad month
A bad year
Sadness became my schedule, and I followed it to a tee
Depression became my comfort
It is the one constant in my life
If I were to get help, if I were to get better
Who would I be?
I learned to hate myself before I learned photosynthesis or geometry  
I am wrapped in a blanket of hate and grief that I so badly want to shed

But if I let that blanket slip

What part of me will possibly be left?

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.

There is nothing beautiful about wanting to die  
There is no peace
There is no calm

It is not like in the movies
Where someone comes and sweeps you off your feet
And suddenly
You're cured

Death is an unstoppable, untameable wave
It floods towards the shore and recedes back again
Ebbing gently at the back of your brain
Death is not beautiful
It is anything but

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.

When my friends think about drinking they see parties, and wild nights, and crazy hangovers

And when I tell them I never plan on letting a sip of alcohol touch my lips, they're scandalized

Because they don't understand

How could they ever?

When I think of drinking, I think of my mom passed out underneath our Christmas tree

Or my dad swerving down side streets with the smell of whiskey wafting off of him like smoke from a campfire

I see my childhood that came crashing down in front of my eyes

I see something that they will never understand

To the bright-eyed girl who didn't understand a thing
Not because she didn't care,
But because she didn't need to

Instead of perfume,
her mother covered herself in whiskey.
Instead of cologne,
her dad wore *****.

And it wasn't a tragedy,
it was simply normal.

Until she realized that ****** fists and slamming doors
had no place in a home.
And that maybe
just maybe
her house was never really a home.

Because ignorance is bliss.
And if you don't understand
that some things are right
and some are wrong
everything is still just okay

To the bright-eyed girl who didn't know
that her childhood was ripped away
until it was too late

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 have began to have so many good days that I forget the bad.
But when the bad days begin to ebb and flow back to shore,
I can feel the currents of a tsunami.

I stand on top of the tallest building
as I watch the wave rush in,
the force nature taking demolishing my sanctuary.
My progress.
My safety.
My recovery.
I watch as all of it fades away.

And then it recedes,
slowly,
painfully,
leaving a broken, ****** mess in it's wake .

It's a mess
that I will have to clean up.

I never understood how someone could drink

How someone could throw away their life for a single sip of whiskey

How they consumed what they knew could **** them

But then I'd lay in bed for hours on end

And those hours became days

Days became months

Months became years

A never-ending cycle of torment

And some way

Somehow  

I understood