I am from family.
Mom, Dad, sister, dogs.
And a sister God forgot to add
To my blood family.
I am from words.
My own, scribbled on a loose-leaf page.
Others’, neatly bound together.
Some written and recited,
Some belonging to a friend, and me
Secrets and fights stored in a forgotten back drawer.
I am from a cul-de-sac.
A place where we fell and bruised ourselves.
A place where we did stupid things.
A place where childhood lived.
I am from silver and gold.
A cross that hangs around my neck-
If I remember.
Sometimes I forget,
And it takes a hand over a house to remind me.
I am from fire.
I am from the fear,
That only those who’ve sat in a Wal-Mart parking lot,
And heard the words
“Don’t go home,. It’s not going to be there.”
Can understand.
I am from what was supposed to be,
From what never happened.
From what wasn’t meant to be.
I am from warm quilts,
Bedtime hugs
And ‘I love you’s.
I am from a second family.
A family that does not share last names,
Homes,
Or DNA.
But we are a family nonetheless.
I am from workdays with Daddy.
I am from afternoons with Mom.
I am from words filled with venom,
Meant to annoy,
That we never even meant.
I am from good times.
I am from bad times.

I am from me.

Life is a rope.
It begins with a knot,
That holds you together.
Twists and braids appear,
Every time you make a choice.
More yarn entwines, for every friend,
Some are yellow, bright and happy.
But every rope has its dark spots,
Plum and black.
They represent unfaithful friends.
Back stabbers.
And through our teenage years,
We fall in love.
We think that those threads,
must be a deep, passionate red.
If only we knew, those threads have nothing more,
Than a pink tint.
If we only knew what color love really is,
A bright, but deep all the same, red.
For some, those threads turn grey.
That love is disposed of.
But still it remains,
Intertwined in our rope.
I wonder, if more people took the time,
to look at their rope,
To trace each thread,
each fiber,
back to where it began,
Would the whole world's net,
Be stronger?

Why is it,
That I like you?
Like you more,
Than our distant friendship,
Could ever allow.
Why is it,
That you have no problem
Saying anything in front of me,
Even if it’s about you,
And my best friend.
But you’d never tell me.
Why is it,
That no matter how many hints I give you,
You can’t take them.
Why is it, that just as I realize,
It won’t work,
And I do my best,
To move on,
You come around.
You can’t leave me alone.
I talk to you every day.
And I try to tell myself,
I’m over you,
We can just be close friends.
But I’m lying to myself.
Why is it,
That I believe my lies?
I lie, and I tell myself,
“It’s him!” not you.
I give myself dreams,
And hopes.
I say I want them,
But deep down,
I know I don’t.
Why is it,
These fake fantasies come true?
I say I’m happy.
No I’m not.
Why is it,
He’s not you?

They all see her.
They see her smile.
They see her straight A’s.
They see her skin-
Perfect, unblemished.
Beautiful-
They see her clothes-
Shirts cut just right,
Letting you know what she’s got,
But leaving you knowing you’ll never get it.
Skirts short enough to let you know
She knew how to have fun,
But she wasn’t going to have that kind of fun.
Heels just high enough
To put her beauty over the top,
But low enough she wasn’t just another Barbie.-
They see her, always with someone else.
Never alone.
They see her, always helping,
Always giving advice,
Always doing whatever she can for
Someone else.
They all see her happy.
They all see her as perfect.
They all see her beauty,
Her perfection,
Yet they miss,
The truth.
They miss the pain
Hidden deep in her eyes
As she smiles,
Helping them with their problems,
Wishing someone would see hers.
They miss the scars,
Hidden beneath that pretty silver watch
She says
Her father gave her,
Before he was deployed.
They miss the truth behind that watch.
They miss the engraved words on the face
‘Just a little longer…’
They miss how her ‘mother’
Looks nothing like her.
They miss everything.
Everything she wishes they would see.
Or at least try to.
She wants someone to even bother asking
“How are you?”
Or
“Are you okay?”

But no one ever does.
All they know is she
Seems
Happy. She
Acts
Happy
She’s always helping because she’s
Perfect.
And that’s what perfect people do.


But I’m not perfect.
I cry every day.
I’m struggling to keep it hidden.
I hate the life I’ve created.

They think I’m perfect.
But I’m the farthest thing from it.