There are two kinds of girls with daddy issues
Type one, who continues the cycle lightning fast,
Never figuring out she is more than what her father made her,
And ending up crashing into someone who reminds her of someone she can’t quite place
So she burns and ends up with a man who treats her no better and beats the kids just the same.

Type two, who decides to be stronger and smarter and better,
Takes what she wants to keep and gets the hell out,
Goes on to marry the kindest person she can find
And starts a family in a warm home where everyone is safe
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If I ever did need a man, it would be the one I’ve got
He is kind beyond my wildest dreams and unimaginably loving
He treats me far better than I knew humans were capable of treating one another
He doesn’t hit me, doesn’t threaten me, he doesn’t even yell. Not ever.
He doesn’t insult me, call me his personal *****, his little ******, his ***** or his maid
He doesn’t operate on the assumption that I’m a *****, the way so many others do
He doesn’t ignore me, lie to me, disappoint me, undercut me, steal from me, laugh at me
This strange but beautiful creature treats me well.
He thinks I’m worthy of his respect since I’ve won his love. Wow… astounding right?

My ex man on the other hand,
Is not half that man.
He was so very like my father,
Cruel and cold and calculating and charming.
Maliciously charming.
Doting on me before those public eyes
Ragging on me behind those closed doors
He kissed me, sure,
But not as often as he hit me
And he could make himself sweet
But only after ignoring me for a few days
He treated me like I was his sun.
He basked in all I had to offer and knew that was a lot
But he looked at me with frustration and disdain
And he didn’t understand, didn’t care until I had left him
When I wanted to be strong, he put on his shades to weaken me
He turned his back when I wanted flowers looking up at me
But he complained whenever I wasn’t above and beyond what he wanted
He could do whatever he wanted to me and everything below,
But I was to have no effect on his life, I was not to disobey him, and I was not to talk
I was not to talk.
We were just the most perfect couple, until I ran for no reason.
We were so perfect until we were nothing of the kind.
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There are two types of girls with Daddy Issues.
And then there's me
Figuring things out as I go along,
Just trying to build some semblance of a happy life
With my trademark Daddy Issues

A true lady of mid-twentieth century perfection,
Everything about her is prim and proper:
Her soft skirt, baby blue and fresh from tea,
Her pristine blouse, white lace and tickling the neck,
Hands folded in her lap and angled to heaven.
No one would know.
She isn’t fresh from tea with Mother and Grandmother
She’s fresh from playing fast and loose
With three dead men.
She is perfection for a young lady
And ideal for a murderer
Because you’d never know what lies beneath what you see.

“How have you been?”

I know you didn’t mean for that simple question

To kickstart a full conversation about how much I want to **** myself

But I trust you and I don’t want to lose that

So I want to be honest with my best friend.

The thing about grieving

Is that it gets a little easier every day

And so I’m managing

As if I can feel some of my pieces go back to normal

But they’re sort of just slipping down. Down.

And my pieces… they feel so fragile these days and so lonely

Because I’ve run out of glue to make them believe they can go back together again

So now I’m stuck with old and ***** tape that didn’t work the first three times I used it

Which leaves me slipping.

And I know my body is slipping too

But I can’t really help it.

It just ***** when Valentine’s Day and Mardi Gras

And bereavement all fall so close to one another

And it ***** when the funeral is so far from the death

Because it’s just a constant stream of carbs, sugar, and fat

That I shouldn’t be eating but I need to

Because I need a grasp on real life, on Earth

Because I need an immediate way to feel like a person again.

Tonight I almost went back to the suicide spot

And sat on the cold steps all alone in the dark clouds.

But I worked out instead.

So, you see, I’m slipping while trying to climb.

What I remember most would have to be
Her eyes
They were fashioned from ice
And their black depths were emptiness.
Ice, black ice.
She wore a gown
One that feather out to a full skirt
Of black iciness.
Her skin was glazed porcelain,
Her hair a platinum nest.
I knew when I first saw her
That coming near her
Would be a fatal mistake
But my sister found her enchanting
And that trance was a ****** weapon.
I only remember one other thing about her:
A dragonfly ring the size of a tumor
Soaked in blood, dominating three fingers.
That woman, I suppose,
Was completely built from ice.
Ice.

I don’t even want to know how she built it
But my new stepmother
Is wearing
Something made out of bones
It starts as a choker, thick and resting below her chin
It snakes down to cover her like a halter top would
Well, more like a scarf
Because it covers her ******* and leaves the heart exposed
Then it keeps going down, down
And drops off around her thighs
Long thin bones loop around her shoulder like strings, a tie
And is covered by a fur coat
Draped around her
As if it’s doing any good against November’s wrath.
My new stepmother
Never was afraid of intimidation.
Intimidation is afraid of her.
And, somehow, I’m not afraid of anything anymore.

A work of splendor,
God’s personal masterpiece.
As tall and as wide as a treetop song.
White as a winter morning
But only in the center
Gray goose down on the bottom
Blue-tinged on the top half.
Extravagant enough to drown out anything,
Breathtakingly miraculous
The woman it shelters, on the other hand…
A plain creature of no spectacles, average beauty
The cape this showwoman has donned
Doesn’t match who she is.
Which makes them both far more beautiful to me.

How sad, how tragic,
How tragically sad.
A girl with not fifteen summers of life
Holding a nation’s affairs on her ebony shoulders.
Such a pretty young thing,
Strongminded and headstrong.
So bright
And a truly sweet flower.
That head is far too young for that crown
But not a thing is to be done
To stop this flower from being crushed
Without crushing her petals in the process.