to the first boy I ever loved.
you had tan skin and black hair,
and the hum of your voice
was a tight life jacket
as I struggled
to float in the current,
two years ago.
you were in love from the start.
I gave you my heart,
and you made me believe
that Forever was still real.
I almost died with your hands
around my throat.
and your name is written on my heart, fading.
you left, and things are not the same as you've come back.

to the second boy I ever loved.
you had tan skin and black hair,
and the slur in your speech
made me question my tone
as I whispered
in the dead of night,
one year ago.
we were in love from the start.
I gave you my hands,
and you made me believe
that Hope was still real.
I almost died with your lips
on my pale thighs.
and your name is written on my insides, burning.
you left, and things are just the same as you've come back.

to the third boy I ever loved.
you had tan skin and black hair,
and the beauty in your words
made my mind spin even harder
as I washed down
wine and whiskey,
one month ago.
I was in love from the start.
I gave you my mind,
and you made me believe
that Love was still real.
I almost died with your love
just out of reach.
and your name is written in my skull, screaming.
you left, and things will never be the same. you won't come back.

When my friend tells me he fell in love with a *******
he is crying. He tells me he should be happy,
that he gets to have *** with him whenever he can pay
but he knows the hands that hold him
are tight for grip instead of love.
It strikes me that sometimes
getting everything you want hurts more
than having nothing.

In my family, we don't
handle emotions well.
We all use coping
mechanisms. And then
we mock each other for
it, they look down on
everyone for being so
weak as they indulge in
their addictions behind
their backs. My aunt
used to rub her skin raw,
my sister burns herself,
my parents got into as
many fights as they could
(with themselves, but
mostly with strangers.
They liked getting ******.
Making other people bleed.)
So what if I wash my hands
more than normal, or
******* a certain number
of times, or thrum my
fingers to beats of three when
I'm nervous, or try to bleed
out my problems, or bruise
myself, or starve myself.
It's just another way to live.

A blue whale's heart is so big a small child
could swim around in its veins.
I was trying to be the whale,
now I'm choking on my
******* heart.

You hear it all the time. It's cliche, it's played out.
God it's so boring. Get over it.
You get over it.
Then one night you look at your life
and you hate her for it.
Why did she make you if
she didn't want you?
If she was going to walk out on you
and leave you with a father who
didn't mind getting violent.
If she was going to marry again
and have two perfect little girls
who are going to get the childhood
that should have been yours.
If she wasn't going to save you.
If she wasn't going to come back for you,
even though she promised she would.
If she was going to look the other way
after you told her you were eating an
apple for dinner for the fourth night
in a row because dad forgot to feed you again.
When she knew that her and dad both came
from a long line of mental instability,
why did she decide to pass that on?
Why would she make you,
if she wasn't going to love you?

I haven't spoken a word in almost a month.
I don't use notes or ASL or charades
to get my message across instead,
because I have nothing to say.
What bothers me the most is,
when I finally open my mouth,
they still won't be ready to listen.

My best friend tells me that she was born in the wrong time.
That her viking ancestors would be ashamed of how much
she can't handle. How she's no warrior.
So I take her to a powwow that my sister's dancing at
and let her feel the vibrations of the drums
pound through her feet.
I tell her maybe our war drums are our heartbeats.
She's fighting herself and using razors as her soldiers.
I say, if you need sharp things let's use arrows to figure
out where east is so we can run towards the rising sun
like my ancestors did.
We can use words as our shield walls in battle
and I can be the dragon head on your ship
to scare off the enemy in dark and foggy times.
If you want to get a little pagan I'll burn all my sage for you
and we can pray to all the gods we've heard stories of.
I'll teach you all the tricks my shima’ sani taught me.
We are warriors. But is it selfish of me to hope that you
never go to Valhalla? I want you to live long after
the fighting ends.