you told me
yesterday
that you thought
stretch marks
were disgusting.
i immediately
looked down
and realized
you must
find me
utterly
r e p u l s i v e
because i have
stretch marks
on my heart.  
i have them
where there
was too much me
for my skin to
contain
leaving ugly
mocking lines.
but
i also have
s c a r s
from when
my head
wasn't enough
to keep the
thoughts in my
brain from
taking control
of my hands
so i'm wondering
what do you think
of those?

She told me she loved me, and I knew
this was a lie. But sometimes, in the time
between dusk and dawn, when I'm lonely
and tired of chain smoking by candle light,
I pretend
she was telling the truth. And she's not
going anywhere. She's stuck in the spaces
between worlds and words, lying naked at the ends
of galaxies and sentences. She's whispering words against
the back of my neck, where they remain
tattoo and brisk. More importantly, she's telling me
she loves me. But she isn't real, and moreover,
neither is her love. But still, when I'm lonely
I pretend.

I asked myself today, who am I.
“Who am I?”
“Who am I…”
A question that demands attention and continually forces a new, more thoughtful, more concise, more self-aware answer, over, and over, and over again.
The question we revisit so long as we continue to exist; so long as we continue to progress, and even digress.  
So I ask myself today as I am moving into new and uncharted waters,
“Who am I?”
Despite my best attempts, such a dynamic part of MY answer lies with YOU.
Today, as it stands, I am a woman who does not truly have her father.
I am a woman who faces the treacheries of this world, with very minimal help and love from her father.
A woman who rejoices in the beauty and awesomeness of this universe without being able to fully share that with her father.  
I am navigating this life with out your guidance, nor your wisdom.
But, I am healthy and growing and beautiful and passionate and smart, and most importantly, I am happy.
I am happy, despite you.
And that saddens me.
Today, as it stands, you are alive and well, so this should sadden you too.
Because when you face your question “who am I?”
Your answer should have me in it. Your answer should contain me so completely that you simply cannot separate our two identities.
You should be able to truthfully admit to yourself that a part of who you are,
A part of your answer to one of life’s most important and unavoidable questions is that you are MY father… MY dad.
As long as you are not able to truly admit this to yourself,
It should sadden you too.

I have a question, love: Did you, when learning of my absence,
search for me? Did you look right there, in the air,
between the clouds and the sky - find me floating, filling your lungs?
Did you feel me pulsing through your veins, warming your bones

and caressing your spine? Did you look in the dusty corners of rooms
and cracks in trampled sidewalks? Did you ****** the covers and sheets
from your cold, stiff mattress, finding the pea that bothered your pretty
little head? Did you, for a second search for me?*

“Oh, but dear, I didn’t have to take a moment to question the taste
of the air or the warmth of my blood. I did not peak behind corners, nor
over any walls. I did not wonder what restricted me from sleep. For I knew-
you were there; I knew it was you. Tell me, lovely: what’s the point

in asking a question, when the answer I already knew? That all this pain,
and all this great sorrow was merely caused by you."

when you left
it felt as if my heart
crawled out of my throat
just to recklessly
roam for your love
but it was
when i realized
i was
n
o
t
h
i
n
g
special
to you
and easily
r e p l a c e d
that is when
i swear to
******* god
my heart
stopped beating
and now
there's this
giant hole
in my chest
that i can't
seem to fill
with cigarettes
or faceless men

These rain drops won't leave me alone. It's not
the clouds that torment me, it's the ******* rain.
The rain drops like to see me miserable, and
the clouds are just their chauffer

I still love the rain, though.
I still love you, though.

Please, don’t be shy- join us for the baptism and the requiem of both destruction
and creation. Bring flowers to both their graves; bring flowers to both their births.

Teeth corroded with a lust for madness, you smile, though tears
stream down your *****, thin cheeks. Trees, burdened with ripening
despair surround you, their tenants long gone and their leaves long shed.
All searching for life; all fearing their deaths.

There is an immense amount of beauty in the burning of an old
house, of old pictures and blurred memories. As this occurs, a paradox is formed, from the striking of a match,
to the collapse of a foundation, to the blackened snowfall of ash.
The creation of destruction, the destruction of creation. A flaming catalyst fluttering

downward through the muggy autumn air, a blazing, kamikaze
butterfly plummeting down toward earth. Drop one into a pool of regret,
which, unbeknownst to the world, is flammable. Let it lick and devour its prey;
let it paint the land red. And as you allow flakes of tarnished life to blanket

the ground, and the shoulders of your shirt, the divine intervention that is
creation is underway, and in the midst of destroying, you have created. Space!
What entity is responsible for such indescribable beauty. How wonderful it is
to look out and see nothing, all the while seeing everything. What a magic

it is, to see life growing within that very nothingness.
But, do not fear the fraying of man’s existence. Marvel at your creation.

Liberation of death! Confinement of life!
Insanity can be one sad, beautiful thing.