We used to spend this time together,
but recently I just ponder alone,
gazing at a dusty photo reel
ten years in the making.
A flood of scenes uncovered
from young swing set drama
to liquored up laughter,
silly whispers in confidence
to creating stories we'd never tell our kids.

I've been staring for hours;
I wish I knew why,
and I wish I knew how,
but the film has timed out
and you're no where to be found.
A solo swing creaking, you're drinking alone,
with no one to tell your secrets to,
you'll make stories with no audience.
You just want to remember it as yours.

I shouldn't have
let you get so close,
let you pierce me with your eyes,
let you own me.
I shouldn't have.

I shouldn't have
been so naive,
been so blind to your intentions,
believed you meant well.
I shouldn't have.

I shouldn't have
submitted to your sin,
the stain I now must bear,
I will not wash clean.
I shouldn't have.

I shouldn't have
ignored what they said,
they were right.
I should have seen
the vicegrip that you claimed as love
was around my neck
and not my heart.
I should have!

I should have
left long before I
made so many mistakes,
decisions can't be undone.
I should have.
I should have.

You can't keep this up.
I burned the walls of your pasture,
I'm no longer yours to herd.
And you're right.
I am guiltless, free of that pressure
you forced onto my shoulders.
That avalanche of boulders you hurled
at me have crumbled to dust at my feet.
Fueled by you.
Your constant slugging, endless dependability,
fixation on control that destroyed us, and now
are about to destroy you. (If they haven't already.)

I am freed.

I've found solace in something new.
And it's about time you did too.

A kiss in the rain preludes

an embrace so long

they leave a lone dry spot

in the street. 
Parched.
Thirsting for more,

yet somehow release,

a “see you soon” leaves

her at piece.

But soon is gone, 
later has passed,

silence screams in her ear

that it was never meant

to last. 
The clouds have cleared,

the rain has come, gone

and come again, but now

with a haunting from the ghost 

of her heart; it hovers 

over that same empty space, and
drop by subtle drop the void fills,
never to be visible again.

Imagine
what the world would be like
if those fighting to ban two men wedding
were committed to ending global hunger.
What would it be like if
the time we spent bantering about what
firearms we can and can't own
was spent ending child abuse?
If the energy spent denying the truth
about our deteriorating planet
was used to fuel green technology,
wouldn't the world be different?
I guess we can only
Imagine.

I started one step down from the top,
I had weights holding down
the bottom so I wouldn't fall.
But suddenly a violent gust
knocked
me down a rung.
However most of my supports survived the whip.
I climbed back up.

But, alas, the storm was just beginning it's brew
for the gusts returned, angry, and along with came
chilled bones and slick skin. I could not
maintain my place, I was
knocked down three times as far.
With no time to recover I was shocked once more,
I clung to the sides as the wind gained strength, but
it was too much.
The wind howled, the thunder snarled and echoed,
a stampede was rolling through.
My foundation had been wiped away,
rendered useless.
A crack roared from the heavens, and just
as I looked up in reaction, a giant flash of yellow
fried my ladder and sent
my body flying,
screaming.
Unwilled, unforeseen, unforgiveable.

I am on my back
and my ladder is gone.

I don't want to live in a world
where comparison is bedrock,
where I feel pressure when I look down.
I feel disgusted in front of a mirror,
I despise the side view, and
the need to shrink becomes eminent.
I can't leave the house unless
I'm in line, every part.
Every eyelash must be individual.
No clumps.
Every blemish must be hidden.
No exceptions.
And if one thing goes wrong...

I just want to look like her.
Or her.
Ms. Flat Stomach And Tan Skin.
(Soon to be a Mrs.)

Someday
your eyes will fixate on mine
and they'll never have to part again.
Someday
the taste of your lips won't linger
and fade, it will only stay.
Someday
from your embrace
I'll no longer be ripped, and
Someday
the worry, fear, and doubt
will only be a memory. But
Someday
can't can't replace what is,
and what is can't be faked.

Someday.

They say it's hope that gets us through,
it's hope that keeps the heart beating
and dreams dreaming. But
what they forgot to tell us
is that hope also sets us up
for disappointment, anger, failure, pain,
relapse.
It plays a sly little game,
dealing a hand of wild cards and
wearing a poker face of a thousand
different personalities.
Call, pass, or fold? The outcome is uncertain, yes, but
with only a few penny chips left, it's best to fold.
Because it doesn't make sense to have hope
when hope doesn't even have you.

Is this what you call a family?
You cannot demand respect, only earn it.
You cannot say you love, only show it.
Earning and showing
are foreign words to you,
but understood to your daughter.
A stellar student and beloved friend.
Hard working, dedicated, never failing
or giving up, a support for the weak and
a shoulder for the damaged.
These were earned, and now are shown,
but remain invisible to you.
You see your daughter, but you do not see her.
Is this what you call a family?
Hatred, disrespect, belittlement, shame?
You've neither earned nor shown and have failed to see,
you fill my life with **** and misunderstand me.
I am angry, yes, but I am angry at you. Angry
at your inability to practice what you preach,
at your ignorance, criticizing, oblivion to who I am.
Open your mind eyes and you will see, close your mouth
until it says what is true about me. *******,
I don't need you, I'll do this on my own.
You brought this on yourself, and now I'm

gone.

She's different, that's why she's rare.
She's different, that's why she's mis-
understood. Seeing through a unique lens
inspires scrutiny, slander, blurs.
But forgive her for having passion,
passion that so many others lack;
they simply fall in line, want to fall
in line. She never cared for lines much.

Her standards and her head are held high,
she brought this upon herself;
a long way to fall,
an even longer climb back up.
But sometimes you gotta fall before you fly.
She is her disease, these aimless words
are her therapy. On top of them she sores,
and together they find direction.

Has she taken the road less traveled, or
the road never paved?
Is she just used,
or is she useless? Can she be sure
of what lies ahead?
Is she even supposed to know?
Is she even even?
Nothing is definite, everything is
chaos.
Relentless.

She's become good friends with the ceiling.
Her mind cannot know peace;
it's on the run. Anxiety here,
stress there. "You can't escape us," they cackle.

She's become good friends with the ceiling.
The black space that separates
them is nothing new to her.
She blinks and the color remains.

She's become good friends with the ceiling.
Seconds, minutes, hours tick
above tired heavy eyes fixed.
Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

Tonight she's okay.
Her head lay sweetly on me, drifting off to dream,
and I can tell she had a good day. A good day
that turned to a good night, something she couldn't
have lately. She found a sliver of peace
today, despite a night alone. She rarely enjoys
solitude, but something about today just felt alright.
She can only hope tomorrow gets the memo.
It's these days, small glimmers of faith, that
keep her breathing steadily,
keep her dry head laying sweetly,
keep her dreams hanging
on for one more night.
Another fight.

Four seated around a table, four proper place settings.
Napkins on laps, forks in hands jabbing pasta and grayish meat,
unused spoons and knives on the right.

Casual conversation, metal clinking porcelain.
Occasional slurps and crunches, paper wiping skin.
The household cat mews in the background.

Father.
Bills are late, mortgage is due next week.
Is there even enough in the checking to pay them?
Mother.
Tuna helper for the third night in a row.
Daughter.
I’ll just say I’m just sick of eating this stuff.
Maybe that, or…
Son.
I’ve seen her journal.
Do I say something? But…
Father.
$89.45.
Mother.
Tomorrow will make it four.
Daughter.
… I’ll “get sick” again.
It seems to be working.
Son.
…she’d **** me if I told.
I guess I’ll keep quiet.

Four plates form a circle, their propriety slowly weakened.
Food blotches have tinted the once pure white napkins,
forks, spoons and knives are laid lazily on tuna scraps.

Meaningless words have turned to awkward glances,
throat clearing and thumb twiddling signals another meal over.
The cat patiently waits in the kitchen, still whining.
He wants the leftover tuna.