My mom had me when she was nineteen years old, but I wasn't an accident.

My mom had surgery the day before yesterday and I wasn't there to kiss her before she went in. She called me before and she left me a voicemail when she got out. She said she loved me and she missed me. I miss her too.

My mom hates washing more dishes than she has to, but she refuses to use the dish washer. We eat on paper plates and we have three sets of salad tongs that we got for free from Dion's Pizza. My mom goes to Sam's Club to buy Charmin and generic paper towels, she likes the hot dogs at Target, and she gets her iced non-fat mochas at McDonalds.

My mom is tiny. She weighs a hundred and ten pounds and is 5 feet 3 inches. She has fake *****, and long black hair down to her waist. She makes me feel safe.

My mom works two jobs, on top of taking care of three kids plus me. She makes Mama Mia mac and cheese, and Mama Mia meatloaf and Mama Mia fajitas, basically she makes food and calls it Mama Mia because she made it.

My mom is beautiful.

Maybe if I were a
hummingbird. Wine-throated
in Guatemala, would that be
far enough away, or is it such
a romantic notion to want to
to be fast enough to escape but
beautiful enough to be noticed

I thank the universe each night for the stars
because I know you will always be under them
at the exact moment i find myself
laying awake beneath them
wishing you were here to share my blanket
but no
I would hate for you to see me crying

his blue eyes sparkled,
like the blue ice of the Alaskan northwest.
he seemed to not have scars,
none were on his arms,
yet i knew he had.
although his appearance,
no one could be that perfect.
eventually i found them,
for they were not visible.
but they were there all along;
they were on his heart.*
-l.c.g.