your eyes
just like crystals
they shone with such beauty
that little glimmer in your eyes
when you smile
is magic
i miss being the magician
who brought that glimmer

your lips
were a shade of red
just like wine
and i was ready to get drunk
on them
after being sober ever since
you left

your dimples
are so deep
it was almost as if they had
a treasure buried beneath them
a treasure which is only known
when you're smiling
i miss being that treasure


who knew how all your imperfections
joined together can create something so beautiful
you were almost like a constellation
a bunch of stars lined together
messy but magnificent

Maybe you don't understand
The appreciation I have for drowning
But I really like the  way
The water loves my lungs

Maybe it's a good thing I have a broken heart.
I tend to attract broken people
and stray animals.
That crowd doesn't demand very much;
they just want to be loved.
And giving them a piece of me
is all I'm capable of.
Maybe I'd be happier if my heart was whole.
But I tend to attract broken people
and stray animals.
That crowd requires a lot of love
and needs me to be there.
And if my heart wasn't in pieces,
it'd be much harder to share.

when i found out you were going to be a father,
everything inside me went flat and grey and
i spent the next five minutes remembering how to breathe.
it shouldn't have surprised me,
but i guess something in me just hoped
that no one would ever choose to procreate with you.
lord knows i wouldn't even trust you with a cat.

when i found out you were going to be a father,
some dark heavy seed plunked into my chest
and sank straight to the bottom.
i saw the announcement and immediately
i could taste in the back of my throat
the way you called me baby,
acidic and cloying and sticky.
it burned hot and sharp through my lungs
like every word of every promise i remember you forgetting.
the news hit me with a power you yourself have not had in years.

you are going to be a father,
and since the moment i found out,
i have been whispering desperate prayers to the universe
that you never have a little girl.
i think about your greedy hands brushing curls
from some soft little angel face,
and i feel sick.
i think about you picking up her pretty little-girl things,
little socks and bows and shoes and toys,
and it takes everything in me just to sit here and breathe.
will you sing her the songs i used to sing you
in my own pretty little-girl voice?
will you hear me in her cheeky turns of phrase
or when she cries into her pillow
late at night when she thinks you're asleep?
what if she's precocious,
like me?
what if her prepubescent body starts to carve itself
into the shape of a woman's?
will it be easier to remember that a child is still a child
when you watched her grow yourself?
if she picks out tight shirts and short skirts
and paints her eyes dark and her lips red,
and she walks and talks and moves like a woman,
will you remember that she is not?
maybe if she is your daughter,
it will be different,
but then again i think being your anything
can never be anything but trouble for a little girl.
i should know.

i hope more than anything that you never have a daughter,
because i know if you do,
i will never stop wondering.
i know that the questions will keep me awake at night
for the rest of my life.
i will will never stop worrying that it is
at least a little bit
my fault.

when i found out you were going to be a father,
i remembered
everything.

Yesterday
I spent $45
on brand cosmetic makeup

Drove home after
debating with
myself in line,
shaky hands fumbling
with the plastic
casings enveloping
over-priced wax

Today
I woke up at 6 A.M.
applying my new
purchases with a
loving hand,
Confidence glowing
from my freshly done
face like sun beams

You and I
may have different
definitions of
a good day

The goals I set
for myself you
may scoff at,
a daily routine
for you has taken
me 4 weeks, 32
days and the writing
of this poem
to finally complete
(It would be 31 days
but I spent one extra
trying to convince
myself that I am
as worthy as
the first day
of the
month.)

Since Monday
I have accepted
the doctor’s advice,
paid my
car insurance and
my phone bill,
returned 11 missed
calls, hushed the
demons beneath
my bed so that I
could get one
good night’s sleep
(Their voices in
my head no
longer haunt
me.), remembered
to take all
of my
medicine

My dad
is proud
of me

This kind of
pride is
not the type
he flaunts
over toasts
at the bar,
he doesn’t
chime into
conversations
like, “My
daughter scored
a perfect 36 on
her ACT” with
“Did she? Well my
daughter can
finally take
all 5 pills
without
a reminder”
but
He is proud

To be so appreciative
of something so
small
is because
he remembers
the vortex
before this

The days I could
not remember
the function
of any part
of this
lifeless body,
the days I
would keep
as silent as
the intonation
of the ugliest
shade
of grey for
months; he
prayed each
weekly
phone call
from
the hospital
wasn’t
the “I’m
so sorry”
following my
suicide

These
were the
bad days

My life
was a gift
I wanted
to return

The thick
fog of darkness
settling inside
my head served
as mood lighting
for the loose
screws and
bent nails,
the crevices
of my brain
inviting each
drop of
mental illness
in to
drown me

Depression
loves me
so good

She has
this intrinsic
flaw of
locking the
spotlight
on you,
the betrayal
to parallel
your thoughts
with her
own, and
it becomes
more natural
to welcome
the abuse
than to find
a way to
escape

Today
I willingly
climbed
out of bed
before my
alarm,
washed my
bed sheets,
changed
my profile
picture on
Facebook,
opened
the windows

You and I
may have different
definitions of
progress

I didn’t get
the perfect 36
on my ACT
even after taking
it 4 times, I
didn’t get accepted
to my dream
school, but I
don’t punish
others
for the
absence of
my desires,
and my dad
is proud
of me

The brick wall
edifice of my
depression now
lie in ruins, and
I take full
credit,
the filter of
grey shading
over my life
has transformed
itself into
the color of
hope

My favorite pen
I’ve relied on
to rewrite
my life has
challenged me:
“This is not
the life you
want to
live.”

But
I
am
alive

I’m not
weak in the
knees
over the glistening
edge of a razor
blade, my nightly
prayers don’t
include
tomorrow’s death
wish of throwing
myself off
the Brooklyn bridge


I just
painted my nails,
folded all
of my laundry,
called my dad

And told him,
“I hope you’re proud
of me.”