I just wanted to say thank you.
I wanted to thank you for helping make me who I am.
I wanted to thank you for pushing me forward when I was satisfied.
I wanted to thank you for being upset when I let you down.
and for lifting me up when I wanted to frown.
I wanted to tell you--How grateful I am.
Not only for writing me a letter of rec.
but for writing to me when I felt wrecked,
and for keeping your room open after work was “done”
Because I know, secretly, that room was your heart
even though your sarcasm made that fact hard to tease apart.
I wanted to let you know I am happy.
Not terribly happy, not without problems.
But happy enough where I can get up every morning
and complain about growing into a better person.
I wanted  to let you know I totally identified with
what I imagined your fears where when you first left for college.
And that I hope my fears will also help others when they leave as well.
I wanted to tell you I liked watching you cry.
Which probably makes you roll your eyes,
but it let me know, I could maybe, one day, be as strong as you.
I wanted to wish you prosperity, and hope, and love.
Because my aunt just had a baby too,
Whom I met this past winter
And I swear,
when I looked in her little her eyes
I saw the Universe.
It kinda funny that they named her Jasmine.
I wanted to tell you, that sometimes I re-read the letter you wrote me for graduation.
Especially when I feel the world is only filled with desperation,
When I need motivation,
When I wonder what in tarnation I’m doing with my life.
Sometimes, It's hard to miss home--even to miss friends.
I know we all are probably too busy to miss each other all the time.
But I wanted to say,
**Thank you.

I wish I could write my love to you.
I want my words to touch you like sunshine.
I want you to feel them surround you like the wind.
Embrace you like the sea.
I want to be like time--taking hold of you and not letting go until the end.

I left before I met you.
I had to prove myself to the world.  
When you first saw me, you were still legally blind
but that didn't stop the universe from revealing itself in your eyes;
glistening as you nibbled on your little fingers.  
I still haven’t claimed a name yet
but you keep growing,
no matter how much I wish you would slow down.

I’m terrified. I feel I've already failed you
and you’re not even a year old.
Mostly because I’ll be back when you've probably developed kneecaps.
You’ll be able to stand on your own.
By then I won’t be part of those special memories--
those little pieces we cherish even as adults.

I won’t be able to right this wrong--
I guess the only thing I can write right now
...is a thank you text for the new pictures of you.
I wish I could write my love to you--
but you can’t read it yet and I can’t teach you to read.

Sometimes I feel caught,
in a thunder storm of self hate,
Or a Monsoon of sadness.
A lightning storm of self pity.
And the storm never passes, I have built my world in the eye of the tornado.
It’s like being bit by mosquitoes who **** out your joy,
and when you scratch the bites for sweet relief,
you get punished with red welts to remind you of your guilt.
There is nothing more satisfying than self absorption,
nothing more frightening than mental distortion,
nothing quite so lonesome than the company of your mortality,
because there is no barricade to protect you from
the bombarding thoughts of your self worth.

You see...
I’ve been reminded how cold I am, after being abandoned by a warm hug.
And I’ve been forced to swallow lies,
picking them up like crumbs, off the floor,
because I’m starving for affection.
And I’ve been put my soul in solitary confinement,
so long,
the light coming from the outline of the door,
makes it want to cry.
Wondernig, “How could light want to mingle with the darkness in my mind.”

But, to the contrary,  none of these things have made me want to give up.
None of these things have actually broken me .
No.

The simple idea, that I think I can’t handle life, is what scares me.
Because I’ve got an infant looking up to me,
and she’s following my footsteps, tripping on the same ******* roots that I stumbled upon,
It makes me wonder if stumbling was even worth it, when I can't tell her to watch her step.

I only want to protect others. I think it's what I'm here for.
Because Maybe my brokenness can heal the world.
and I can’t do that,
when I’m busy digging my own grave
How can I shake off the shackles embedded into my heart.

There’s still so much hope left.
I’m dying to live.
I’m trying to give.

But, still,  nothing stops me from lying, when I tell you I’m fine.
It’s been raining for two decades now,
and I haven’t learned to dance.
I hope I remember,
tomorrow Always comes.
Because your tomorrow makes my today.

I wish I could write sunshine poems.

Sugar-cube words that slip out of our mouth effortlessly

caressing the soul on their way out

Poems that show you how to love the world

but more importantly how to love yourself.

I wish I could write love.

And Hope.

And words that make my heart burst.

But I write bitter.

Rotten, sore words

that call negativity like **** calls flies.

That make me want to hide.

Myself and my mind,

away. Afraid no one would understand.

But at least I write honesty.

And that's a start.

I don't know  if I will ever be able to hate you more than I hate myself.

I hate having to come home every summer.
I hate living under the same roof.
I hate having my voice taken.

Stolen.
I feel like a child, angry yet unable to illustrate the emotion I feel swallows me whole.
It bubbles up, blinding me and I throw tantrums
And Break plates, and flip over dinner tables
In my head.
Always unable to hurt you
Because my vernacular is limited
All that is left is those
caveman-animal like grunts and groans that point to dissatisfaction

I keep trying to remind myself,
We are similar.
Fighting the same fight.

But when I can't run from the malicious thoughts
That gather in my brain,
That hunt me down like an angry mob,
I am forced to remember.

Remember that time,
Your fingers stuffed those seeds in my ears,  
I couldn't have been more than four.
Those seeds took root.
Deep in the crevices of my brain.
Hungry weeds watered for twenty years.

Remember that time,
you got me down on my knees
and tried to get me to eat that serving of guilt I had let slide off my plate.

Now.
I hunger for escape.
And you keep bringing up your death.
And I wish I could tell you,
I have wanted to die for the sole purpose of harming you
Of finally having the last word
In the only way I know how.

But I can't.
We can't.
Nothing can.
So I'll try to love us.
To Fix myself.

Maybe someday I'll succeed.
On one or the other.

6 days.
Just under six days. **I now know that’s how long I can be home without any troubles.
Then the madness begins again, and the poison gets stirred up,
like those granules of sugar at the bottom of your coffee cup.
That perfect cup that ends with the too-sweet, syrupy sip.
Only at home, its never sugar. It’s comments that slice and words that sting.

I know I’m not the only one.
I see ****-loads of holiday mayday.
Family reunions that have never felt any good.    
Every family must have one--*******.
But how the **** do you deal with them?

Doing what any rational person would do.
We turn to Google.
---there is some really stupid advice out there.
For example: You’re better than them.
“Walk away and they will know that they are not worth your time”.

Well that’s nice, but you can’t just walk away from the woman who birthed you.
Toleration keeps the household turning.
I am capable of treating the “Sick”
Yes--I can ******* vent.
But how is it okay, I live a wonderful life away from home,
and have come back every six months to be poisoned by those I love.

Sorry, I probably forgot to pack patience in my travel-on.
There are only so many times I can remind myself I love you.
There is no getting past your ardor or your diligence at being difficult.
There is no meditation here. There is no silence. There is no peace-
I know--you aren’t willing to change.
But I don’t know how much more I can take...
That’s something I don’t think I want to know, just yet.

Only Your existence
could make 'nothing'
a verb.

In the works/Still editing*
Sometimes I feel caught,
in a tornado of self hate,
Or a Monsoon of sadness.
A lightning storm of self pity.
But the storm never passes, I am only saved in the eye of the tornado.
It’s like being bit by mosquitoes who **** out your joy,
and when you scratch the bites for sweet relief,
you get punished with red welts to remind you of your guilt.
There is nothing more satisfying than self absorption,
nothing more frightening than mental distortion,
nothing quite so lonesome than the company of a razorblade,
because there is no barricade to protect you from
the bombarding thoughts of your self worth.

You see...
I’ve been reminded how cold I am, after being abandoned by a warm hug.
And I’ve been forced to swallow lies,
picking them up like crumbs, off the floor,
when I’m starving for affection.
And I’ve been put my soul in solitary confinement,
so long,
the light coming from the outline of the door,
makes her want to cry.
How could light want to mingle with the darkness in my mind.

But none of these things have made me want to give up.
None of these things have left me broken.
No.

The simple idea, that I think I can’t handle life, is what scares me.
Because I’ve got an infant looking up to me,
and she’s following my footsteps, tripping on the same ******* roots that I stumbled upon,
And I wonder if my stumbling was even worth it.
Because I've only want to protect others.
Because Maybe my brokenness can heal the world.
But how can I do that,
when I’m getting buried during a blizzard.
How can I shake off the shackles that have embedded into my heart.

There’s still so much hope left.
I’m dying to live.
I’m trying to give.

But I keep lying, when I tell you I’m fine.
It’s been raining for two decades now,
and I haven’t learned to dance.
I hope I remember,
tomorrow Always comes.

I want to tell you a little about my ex-girlfriend.
Her name is Acculturation,
I was first attracted to her because she smiled like hope was her middle name.
the first words I heard outta her mouth were
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free"
And I lost my breath for a second.
My heart skipped a beat,
she had this way, to make things sound really pretty,
but when I finally reached out for her hand, so we could share the weight of our struggles together,
I noticed for the first time,
her hands were full.

She told me, to hold on a minute,
she would open the golden door behind her,
as soon as I looked just like everyone inside,
this gathering had a dress code, and I wasn't allowed to partake if i didn't put in an effort to please the hostess.

I told her I liked the way I looked,
and walked past her,
Only to receive the look a snooty customer clerks give you,
when you walk into an expensive store that "knows" you can't afford a single thing in there

I should've known then,
this thing wasn't going to work out...

Every Sunday.
Every Sunday--I sit down in the pews.
And look down at my shoes,
and stare.
Stare at my hands, wrung together.
White with tension,
ready for prayer.
Stare at this great big cross, looking down at me.
Then I begin to cry.
Thinking, “Forgive me Jesus,
but I’m not gonna lie.”
You’re not gonna save me, and I’m too ******* tired.

Jesus Christ! Here we go again.
This spiral into abysmal self-loathing.
And all because
I can’t open my mouth when we sing Christmas carols.
All because I find more Light in belly laughter,
than in the fervent begging that comes after confession.
Excuse me--for not believing my humanity lies in a little white wafer.
Your religion is a drug and your Faith, an ecstasy I cannot swallow.
Unlike the *******, who washed the feet of Jesus with her tears,
My tears are too muddied with doubt to save anything.
All because “Peace be with you” can never really mend--My fears.
All because
I see more hope when I see two men holding hands,
than in tense fists with wedding bands.
All because
I find *** a holy act--two awkward, laughing, comfortable bodies.
Making a pilgrimage, of the holiest kind.

I know, What will save me.
It’s those kind pats on the back, on a bad day.
It’s the feeling of exhaustion
after offering your heart to someone,
It’s the hope that sprouts from your tummy,
when you breathe in the Earth’s energy.
It’s the naked human body,
with its fragile human soul.
It’s the dancing we do, when we sit in silent meditation.
It’s the freedom to speak and think,
And the freedom to decide:
**What saves me.