i spent the last weekend with
my older brother and his girlfriend
from mexico, and it'd been seven
years since i'd been in san antonio
and the first time in my life
i'd ever seen my brother without
my family.

he's grown so much from since
when he left, and he is an amazing
person and in ways we are the same
and it's interesting to connect with
someone you never spent a lot of time
with, and it's interesting to
talk to blood and be thankful
for the fact they exist.

it's quiet, and i sit and wonder
by myself in the silence why
i haven't been accepted as your
daughter yet.

already fell to the concrete
on my knees begging for a place
to sleep, somewhere to bathe,
instead you ignore my pleas for
help and you cast me out
even farther than before.

doing so much, just for you to
love me and i'm not sure what
else i can do, do i not fit into
your plans?

don't bother coming
to my graduation, don't
bother trying to be apart
of my life, get rid of all my
things if you have to
but the fact that you'd
rather me be homeless than
let me sleep on your couch for eight
weeks

you disgust me, you
are a horrible father and yet
i still love you and i
just want you to love me
too

there's one thing
that i will be sure
to never do again,
and that is to cry
alone in my bed
at night.

i like poems that sound pretentious,
that use big words that i never think to
use when i'm writing,
poems that go far just to prove a point,
wanting attention so bad that
they'll throw out words they're not
even sure what they mean.

i like poems that take a minute,
two seconds, to write,
poems that are created from a fleeting
thought, a quick moment,
trying to keep the pace with the brain
quickly, quickly, get the thought out
onto the paper,
don't bother rereading, it's perfect the way it
is, raw, and unedited,
true emotion captured
in just a few keys.

i apologize if this makes me seem like
a selfish child, but i am just trying to
get some understanding of the situations
i've found myself in.

it seems like i've never had a father around,
for the majority of my life.
despite the fact that here you are,
with good health and plentiful money to
supply your new wife and children,
and yet i am in the oven?

letting me slow cook, set at an unpleasant
two hundred degrees,
you pour words of distaste and disrespect
into the bowl you've placed me in.
telling me that i've done nothing for you,
despite how much you've done for me.

your lies make me turn inward and cry
silently, as i've learned that trying to talk about it
with you does nothing except give me the reply
"i take no blame for this."
i've figured out that nothing is you fault.
actually, you are the embodiment of perfection,
you have it all.
look at how far you've come in life,
divorced twice, second wife,
new successful children that you didn't have to raise,
a son that is on his way for greater things.

where do i fit into your perfect picture?
problem child, attention seeker,
unsure of how to speak to me, how to teach me
instead you poison the water and watch
me choke.
you must have control of the situation,
the moment your hands slip is the moment
you begin to flail and i understand this
and i forgive you for your deceit.

do i have daddy issues?
yes, i think i do.
i think i have issues with men,
getting close, everything in general.
it's not just his fault, it's not just the fault
of watching parents love crumble
or the verbal abuse of an old lover,
it's how the child reacted.

i was quick to get older,
quick to drink, quick to ****,
as soon as i'm older, everything will be better
but i was wrong and now i'm left to pick up
the clothes, and slowly sneak out of the
strangers bedroom.
careful not to forget the keys,
not to wake the child,
not prepared to handle the tears this early in this morning.
this late in the evening.

he will take no blame for the problems in my life,
i won't even give him the chance to accept blame,
that would be giving him too much
and i want him to have nothing.
no part in my life,
no part of anything.

you told me once you were proud of me,
and the tears i kept in the jar i think i'm
finally ready to pour down the drain.

there is something comforting in knowing i'm all alone.
lights in the living room and kitchen are all turned on,
keeping the room well lit is important while alone,
and the sounds of the apartment shift and creak
it's a cacophony of fixture and mix tapes
something that i enjoy, something that heats through me
right down to my organs.

when i was a child, my brother was five years older than me
and my father was never home, and my mother was always painting,
which left me a lot of time for myself.
at first i was confused, bored, unsure of what to do with myself,
lonely.
then i discovered that my stuffed animals and beanie babies could speak
and i gave them the power to show me their world, the
beauty in story telling and seeing colours on the ceiling.
staring long enough i could see the shapes move, as if i had just
taken acid.

it's a gift i thank my family for giving me.
the power of being alone means that
i will never be lonely, and that
words will always be with me and i will
always see the colours on the ceiling.

grasping tight on the rope
slipping until my hands burn
squeezing, so i don't fall into the tar pit,
eyes shut, ears closed off from the outside world,
unwilling to look and see
that the black pit beneath me is just
a void of a harmless nothing