I think what they forget to tell you when your parents decide they don't love each other anymore is that no matter how many times they swear they aren't broken the vacancy in their eyes will send a different tale and
"we'll pick up the pieces of this broken home" will ring with the consistency of metronomes.
When the dark shadow walks into your mothers room at night and she swears that it will brush up the shambles of ripped up hearts and dollar bills from rotting wood floors and perhaps "help get my head back where it belongs, and we won't have to go weeks with no hot water anymore!"
When they felt the clanking in their chest halt and waves of past due after past due after empty canisters used to drown past due lay about in my nursery after past due after the simultaneous flinch as hands brushed reaching for dishes in cold water after past due.
They never told me.
That when at a cross roads leading into oblivion came about my wonder of carnivals would turn into split homes, split cars, new moms, new dads, never speaking out when it happens within the strike of a lightening bolt that came down and electrocuted my world before I had any concept of what to do with it.
I was never informed that balloon animals would become "you're a spoiled ******* brat" and that fifteen years later the spoiled brat in me was just a little girl reaching out for her mothers hand to ask her for a second "what happened to dad?"
Just to ask her to take one moment to forget about evenings we spent lighting candles in place of light bulbs and keeping warm by the oven and to address
What they never told me.
Why they were moving in new bed sets while my so deemed "alternate life" sat on his couch drinking the same empty vessels from the long fights and the past dues and the empty cavities where hearts once lie.
Why I went from child to Cinderella and next thing you know I had two kids by eleven and you were out building his fortress while I rest my head on dungeon floors night after night after night.
When past due became brand new and next thing you know we're in a new world with a new life and I watched you lose sight of past due, of you.
And for a second did you ever stop and tell me that you'd end up with your will trapped within a tornado of "I'm speaking" and "You're clueless anyways" and that maybe you escaped the clutches of sleeping in back seats at the expense of yourself?
That maybe your only sacrifice would be my only sense of solace?
They. Did. Not. Tell. Me.
That I would be screaming into a void inches away from leaping out of my own skin at one final attempt to bare my still shattered, unknowing, uninformed heart stuck in the first fight of the last night that I saw my parents kiss.
That mister brand new would take the old you and throw it in this dumpster that held baby dolls and sundresses for not even long enough to rid them of their tags.
That maybe the ship has sailed.
They didn't tell me my own heart would be shredded on the floor of a divorce court.

I'll never forgive the spring time and the hope it would bring me,
Everything rising from the ashes of barren months that killed off all salvation and somehow, some way, finding its way to the surface once more.
I'll never forgive the spring time and how it felt like coming home,
How after months of anguish and clenched fists smashing on tile floors I felt the warmth of the sun radiating among my skin, among my scars, among my skin, among your touch.
I'll never forgive the spring time and how hearing branches crack on off-beaten trails covered in remains of broken limbs and harsh winds continues to make me wince,
Because leaping atop egg shells has the same ring to it as the rubble we dance upon.
I'll never forgive the spring time, and the way it came again, and again, like clockwork it came crawling out of snow drifts and found its way into my hair with bony fingers of skeletal promise. Touched my heart with verses sang through wind chimes, beautiful for a moment and forgotten again until the sun dial came round once more.
I'll never forgive the spring time and how it made its way out too soon. How comfortable always became unbearable and you couldn't stand the summer heat the same way you could an April afternoon. How flora only holds attention captive at first glance then never paid mind to again. How you only had to blow dandelions once to get your fix.
I'll never forgive the spring time, how its hope became my home. The routine of its essence, how your love is the most familiar spring I've known.
How I had always stopped to admire spring, but spring never admired me.
How I saw it rise and fall again, but now spring shall no longer be.

I guess I take after my mother. The way she walks, talks, screams and disintegrates.
It's not fair, I didn't ask for the comforting feeling of falling off a 300 foot building just to land face first at my dinner table.
And my hand writing looks like an etch a sketch trying to paint a picture of how we're still holding this family together. But it all falls apart so quickly if I give it a shake.

If you cut me in half you could count my scars like a tree stump. And they branch out with my misfortunes hanging on like leaves.
I'd do anything to cut down my family tree
Or for my mother to even hear me speak.
If I could I'd take my fist through my her voice box and wash her brain cells with rubber gloves and dish soap.
If I could just cleanse her ears with my screams.
How could I take after her when I'm the only one that's listening?

You ever wonder what it would be like for your own mother to find you in your room with dangling from your ceiling fan?
I know it's selfish but I can't go one ******* night without thinking about what would happen if I blew a red light
I am already two feet planted at the edge of the roof of a 17 story building shaped like the home I grew up in. Each floor is a year of my life I never got back.
The voices in my head saying "don't do it! don't jump" But I've already reached the ground before I even stepped off the ledge. Nothing's different.
I'd ask to stay home sick but they don't have a thermometer to measure the amount of love you're deficient of.
And they don't have a cure for neglect.
I didn't ask to be born with self destruction
Or to have to make friends with all of my grudges.
They're shaped like the ones that have raised me.
But they never left me less than empty.

My father and I joke about ending it all, we laugh in unison but I know that we both know neither one of us is joking.
If he died he would die in my closet, with the skeletons that kept me alive.
They'll bury him with my secrets that didn't **** me but kept me dead inside.
And in his eulogy I will concoct up a swarm of lies to commemorate his broken promises.
But he can rest with an clear conscious knowing my I'll live the rest of my life pretending to not be haunted.

If this family was a time capsule I would put in a letter to my father every single time he wasn't there to tell me to believe.
So I can open it 10 years later and remember that the fault here wasn't mine to keep
I hope your mistakes sing you to sleep every night you never did for me.
And every nightmare causes your eyes to bleed because every single time that I needed you, you were too blind to see.

If the apple doesn't fall far from the tree why do I feel like I'm so close to bouncing back.

Had there been a time where idealizations were accepted among the walk of reality that lie before us it may all prove to be a bit more comforting.
Where the daunting banter of voices that sat atop my conscience were able to soothe the pain of grieving without true loss.
Heartache failed to be coupled with death.
A place where we could walk hand in hand with dark, empty vessels sent to sail with a destination that is but a passing fog and direction pinpointed out by wanderlust souls.
We lie with a marker of selfishness that runs so close to the bone- etching its edges into our flesh with such vigor that one could hardly ignore, yet it sits on the back burner.

Come with me, my love, dance in my graveyard of pasts.
Take in the sights of freshly filled earth that mold itself beneath our feet as we take a gander at what was.
Here lies the spring evening under the sycamore, young hearts screaming with excitement, the way the wind intertwined among-
The nearly bare branches of autumn rest peacefully with the skin coat worn as a declaration of verses that died between clenched teeth and sealed lips.
This is the laughter worms now feed on.
Here are the fingertips and silk braced locks buried alongside one another but never to touch again.
Pay mind to the faces piling up adjacent to the stone wall, laugh lines rotting by the rise and fall of moonlight.

What a spectacle of self, is it not, dear?
We can witness blue fade to black, closing the light on this scene.
Sit here and rot beneath the sycamore tree.
Clench our hearts between our teeth and swallow messenger bottles along with them.
Never to walk in unison but let one dissipate aside the other.
Let our memories of memorized bone structure fall before our very eyes- wouldn't it be grand?

Induct this into the cemetery of past and do away with the make up of oneself.
We will let this idealization fall cold,
Watch rigor mortis seep in with such mesmeric fashion.
Tuck it away before pre-thought memories taint themselves with reality.
Lower it down under into the ever so charming embrace of wood and soil, mites and fungus.
Clean our hands of touch ever so sacred.
Let it bleed out, darling. Let it decay.
Anyway- how will we remember this when its done away with today?

Let the grieving sink in, just to coddle remembrance of nothingness.
Embrace the black holes swallowing pieces of us.
Dance among the treetops and feel the wind, when our memory dies we can truly begin.
And again,
And again.

forward forward forward
going somewhere moving forward
whether progressing or regressing
growing or unlearning
coming or going
living, dying
everyone believes they are moving towards something
and as everything happens all at once
each perceptive reality is entirely different than any other
and each consciousness travels, and does, and is.
each consciousness believes it has a purpose or a path.
the purpose is not to see into nor plan the future.

from the civilian to the hero tv shows and movies
have consistently glorified the ability to see visions of the future
generally this is followed by someone trying to prevent
the happenings in said vision from becoming reality
and distinctly failing because they "saw into" the future
that their own energy influenced

but the true super power is to be able to look into the past.
to prevent the omitting of details and data
to avoid a rewrite of our conscious interaction with this planet
not to white out the chapters that bear the truth in the textbooks
to recall history so it does not repeat itself

my question is then
do people disguise the wrongdoings of those hidden by the passing of time?
because they are ashamed of the mistakes of their ancestors pasts?
because they are ashamed of their participation in past consciousness's?
because they are ashamed of the atrocities humans have inflicted upon each other and themselves as well as their home planet since the beginning of recorded time here?

or do those who have the power to omit and hide history
purposely rewrite it?
do they mask the pains of the past so the rest of us will forget?
so that even they can forget?
so their next consciousness can unknowingly, while predestined,
have hand in crimes against the world all the same as committed in the lost past?

how many times has someone written these words
or a similar combination
only to delete the post?
burn the pages?
backspace the message?
stop themselves from speaking them aloud?
cover the symbols?
pass out of conscious living mid sentence?
lose them to a past lifetime?

how many times has this cycled through the same way?
how many times have I been me?
how many times have you been me?
how many times have I been anyone?
how many times have I been?

is there a rhythm or is it all as scattered and random
as the thoughts that bring you
to this kind of an understanding of the habit of misunderstanding?
the kind of thoughts that bring you back to the birds nest because you were too early for even the worm?

they will all catch up eventually
after all they all think theyre moving forward
and they don't even know where they've been.
they don't even know that they've been.

You lay next to me as a ghost did their lover in the darkest of nights
Yet you were but a ghost
I heard you breathing,
But breathing does not necessarily mean you're alive.
I felt you move,
But that didn't mean you were necessarily there.
What was once electric had now become stale,
Cold,
Stagnant,
Static.



You were in my presence without being present.
That's when loving you became but a chore.
I sat feeling alone, with you by my side, wondering "where's the one that I adore?"
Those nights are when I began to realize you were never really there,
Yet I continued to wear my heart as if a cross to bare.
And in those nights I realized, you were never really mine.
Just a constant lingering absence, set to waste my time.
You were so cold and unassuming, yet charming as can be,
However when nightfall upon us and the moon shine bright, the one left empty was me.
That's when the curtain began to close on us, our hearts taking out final bow.
For the same emptiness I felt deeply then, is the nothingness I feel towards you now.