The sewer stink of street trash
marries the scent of desire
veiled in crimson shadows
reflected on the damp pavement

Thoughts silenced by the gasp
of nylons being shredded by possibility
Teeth grip then slip
on the sweat of a humid night

Fireball burns sweet
as night lands on the flesh in city soot
a grit that makes every movement
a sanguinary promise
forged on the edge of pain

Owned. Taken. Willed.
Filled with primal intoxication
that turns warm city nights
into shameless memories
wrapped in the stink of street trash

Have you considered the way Jill felt for Jack
Every time Jack fell down; Jill took up the slack
Her tumble was actually caused by fears of being abandoned
Jack hit rock bottom long ago, Jill still hasn't landed
...
Illuminating these words of the wise
That expose such issues that we'd rather hide
Words like enabler, codependency, resentments and denial
All of which place our addictive tendencies on trial

The addict strives to fill the void of a disease ever pending
The therapist with all their degrees are far from comprehending
Powerlessness, a self-prophecy of what you can't control
Higher Power, an interpretation of the superstitions we hold

The religious may disagree but the only power is in our mind
Believing in something strong enough work on these same lines
If a higher power fails you, you only have yourself to blame
We feed these demons inside of us or we keep them on a chain
It's simple!

...
Don't you get it.
Don't you see...
This is the part where nothing is going to be okay.

This is part where flowers die before their expiration date,
this is the part where every verbal and physical beating dealt to me manifests itself into a fishing hook;

into a fishing hook that wants all the fish in the river.
and my eyes
dead grey ponds~
map the rivers on my cheeks
because the river is nothing without her children
and these young eyes

**** the river,
in a couple heartbeats...
that's it all takes, love

This is part where the doctors look you in the eyes and
make a joke about how
you must hate fishing,
to look that ****** up afterwards;
because they think it's you,
they think you're hurting yourself.

they don't know the symptoms for domestic violence,
and for my case
there is no cure

they laugh...
at me.

they don't know
who drugged all the blue from this river.

Your father does though.
so it's okay.

And the saddest part is knowing
there's nothing more they can do for you.

Because today I learned how to be wreckage
all over again
and I wept so many angry rivers
and my father went fishing again
and again...

and oh he wanted fish for dinner
and threw the fish against the walls
beat eyelids
with fists
beat me
with rusty fishing hooks
until the rivers mixed with my blood
it's nothing personal
it's the way
he says
he loved me

he---

caught so many trophies and he says

"I want to **** yourself so I can go fishing"
"I think anyone who calls you beautiful just lies to you
to make you feel better about yourself"
"you're not my daughter you're a filthy ******* animal,
you don't even deserve
a name,
kira,
my disappointing *******---"

"that boy that loves you?
doesn't know how to make you feel anything other than stupid."

"that boy that loves you?
will never know how to make you feel special."

He wanted the fish that held my name,
so he could hang it on a wall
and remind himself

that you can beat a girl into a ghost if you tried hard enough.

And so I wept,
like I was the definition of bitterness and butterflies
and I ******* wept as if
god asked me to make his floods this time around,
but there's no ark,
no need for that.

I took my father fishing in the vastest ocean
and he kept throwing in fishing hooks
and dragging out fish made of quicksilver,
fish out of water
that were bones of the happiness
fish dying
that was my heart with a fever
fish flailing
I think that's my lungs caving in, that's me---
fish that cannot find a breath...

and every breath we take we give back

it took my father's abuse to see that--
how ****** is that?
he ripped that wisdom tooth from the back
of my poetic mouth
so I could see it.

I don't try to keep my head above the water anymore.


I have wanted nothing more than to stop
for everything to ******* stop
please,
I want to press pause on these turbid waters
please
don't talk so loud
please
hold these currents
I can't hear you
I can't hear them
god help me I--
I can't--

I cry
and let my father harvest
all of the life from waters that are not his to begin with
because I am worthless...

I know,
I am worthless.

this is not poetry;
this is
the heartbreaking into words this is
the dissolve of a human being
of a girl
of a body
of blood and water
this is tragedy and the gravity of cold intentions

this is my self decay

this is the most painful way
to die,
scratch that, to survive
with my father.

my father knows that this is the
most painful way to ask for a river in the first place.

Because every time my father beats me
with his fishing pole;
makes a puppet out of the decay;

death is leading me
like a horse to water and he's
waiting,
watching with smiles
that promise a warm hug.

Death knows that all I want
is a hug and some kind words.

He is the only one,
willing to give it to me,
how ****** up is that?

tonight...
all at once
the river runs out,
and I write suicide notes to my friends
and to that boy,
that boy...tell him I'm sorry


"My father's demons came for me
they came for all of us."

Do not be afraid;
go ahead, like my page,
because oftentimes sad is
the only thing I am,
and if it is in sadness
that I am solely literate,
I shall be sad,
and when you happen
to give it a like,
*I will be unspeakably glad.