when i was a little girl -
i believed my daddy was the smartest man in the world.
he knew everything. everything.
if i had a question, daddy had an answer, and a good one.
always.

his degree was in biology,
but he preached from a pulpit every sunday.
his friends, colleagues, congregation, all knew him as Pastor Brett.
to me he was just daddy -
and he was the smartest man in the world.

on days when i couldn't understand my own head,
(which were, and still are, very often)
and got frustrated with myself to the point of tears,
he would kiss my cheeks and promise me i wasn't stupid.
and coming from him, the smartest man i knew, that meant the world.

as years passed and i grew, my naivety remained with me,
and so i thought i was too smart to fall into life's traps.
i fell. i fell fast. i fell hard. i fell often. and i shattered.
each time, the smartest man in the world picked up my pieces
and reassured me i was still welcome in his home.

he never loved me any less, much to my bewilderment.
however, as my faults increased in frequency and severity,
he picked up my pieces now with weathered hands and weary eyes.
his smile was weaker, and a deep pain stirred in the chocolate irises behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

my deception morphed into vines that constricted and twisted and choked out the truth.
he poured out his love onto an underserving me, and said that God would still forgive.
but i, daughter of the smartest man in the world, am a fool.
and by my own two hands, i continued to sink.

he leaves me to pick up my own pieces now, not loving me any less,
but too weak, too exasperated, too heartbroken to do it himself as he always had.
he is done. he loves me and i know it. he shows it. but he is done.
my tears bore him. my half-true stories and pitiful excuses move in one ear and out the other.
he is stone-faced, no longer shocked by my confessions so i leave them unspoken.

his kisses, sear my flesh. his love burns because i know i don't deserve a single shred of it.
i wish he hated me. i wish we could fight. that would make things easier, right?
but he won't. he just won't. he loves me so much and i can't stand it.
but he is done. i broke my father, and his heart, for nothing.

he asked me why i do the things i do,
why i don't just stop it. why i keep on hurting him and my mother.
i didn't have an answer. all i had to offer the smartest man in the world,
was a dry mouth and empty hands.

m.f.

i am sitting in a cold and very much crowded room.
a sea of nameless faces, attached to 10,000 bodies, filling 10,000 seats.
a cacophony of voices and footsteps and shuffling figures, "pardon me."
small pieces of silence peeking through the static of hums and murmurs.
out of 10,000 - i catch myself looking for one face in particular: yours.
but all i can manage to pick out are not-quite's and hard-to-tell's.
in a room filled with 10,000 faces i'm looking for yours
(because it is all that i see when i close my eyes)
in a room filled with 10,000 faces your name is echoing in my chest.
each letter, ringing in my ears, crawling up the walls of my throat, desperate to escape my lips
and scream with every decibel i posses the power to create, "where are you?"
in a room filled with ten-*******-thousand faces - the only one that matters isn't there.

m.f.

i tried in vain
to capture
your heart
in a mason jar
like lightning bugs
in mid-july

but every time
i got close
to possessing you
away from me
you'd suddenly fly
proving unattainable

- b.

if you take time to think about it -
water has many different personalities.
it will burn you, unapologetically, if it's boiled
but it can be so cold that it chills you to the bone.
water can flow freely, or be stagnant.
water can be clear, completely transparent -
or clouded & dark, all depending on where you find it.
water is life-giving; it will save you if you're dying of thirst,
but it can also be a poison - if not properly treated, before taking a drink.
it's powerful enough to destroy entire cities,
but gentle enough to bring life to flowers.
water can hold up a ship- but it will still slip through your fingers.

(water - was the color of your eyes,
  and ever since the day you left -
it's all that seems to come from mine.)

something i noticed about myself
is that, for as long as i can remember,
i've always slept on only one side of my bed

i can't help but wonder - maybe it's my subconscious,
leaving room for all the lovers i dream up in my head -
awaiting a second body to occupy the extra space beside me

i sleep on my side, too. often times resembling the shape of a crescent moon.
arms outstretched, reaching to touch imaginary stars, like my nonexistent lover.

and so as the moon, cold, always longing for the safety and cover of the clouds,
the same way i long for holding arms - but instead, alone, in the vastness of the sky.

recovery is not pretty.
it is not painless or simple or instant.
it is a road littered with backsliding and obstacles and doubt.
a path marred with reopened scars and sleepless nights and feigned smiles.

recovery is rubberbands and ice cubes and pacing and cigarettes.
it is phone calls at 3am when you can barely breathe and all the walls are closing in.
it is screaming at the ones you love because they love you too much to let you break your skin.

it is long sleeves and overly-cautious internet browsing and lots of movies.
it is eating way too much ice cream and taking walks in the middle of the night.
it is hard. recovery is hard. it is messy. it is painful and chaotic. but it is not impossible.

ill
    at
        the
             thought
of
   her
        head
                 in
                     the
                          spot
where
           mine
                    ought
                               to
                                   be
but
      is
         not
                 -