Help me forget all the
Times he held my universe
Together with a look into my eyes.
Help me change time,
So that the seconds don't scream his name.
Help me remove the scars he left all
Over my body, memories of caresses turned bruises, bruises that turned into hurt, pain that stayed as scars.
Help me love you, I'm begging you.

the day someone loves me unconditionally,
perhaps like my cat does...
i will know that it's
REAL.

i smiled & he rubbed his soft fur against me.
i laughed, loud, cackling  — out of breath  —
& he rubbed his soft fur against me.

i screamed in anger, i cursed, i banged doors.
i broke objects & felt the anger move through
my veins.
& he rubbed his soft fur against me.

i clutched my stomach, unable to sleep.
anxiety running at an all time high.
eyes blood shot from a lack of sleep.
a nervous wreck i was.
& he rubbed his soft fur against me.

i paid no attention to him,
burying my head in a ton of books
in an attempt to see A's on my report card.
& he rubbed his soft fur against me.

i grabbed a razor & let it get acquainted with my skin.
i let it paint streaks of red lines
& form a red waterfall down my arms & thighs.
i grabbed a bottle of alcohol & downed it in one go,
with a bunch of pills in my hands.
i looked at him & said, "i hope somebody takes care of you when i'm gone."
& he titled his head
& rubbed his soft fur against me.

perhaps we all once knew how to love like animals,
unconditionally...
but it seems the older we get, the more brain capacity we acquire
as our heart's capacity to love decreases.

Sunday afternoons
When I'm finally alone
With myself again
And I can breathe
Like a normal human being,
When I take Edgar Allan Poe
Off the shelf
And sink into his words again.
Sunday afternoons
When I stop to watch a film,
A cheesy romantic comedy
About two beautiful kids
And no one will tell me
Not to laugh so loud
Or ask me why I'm crying
Such big, heavy tears.
Sunday afternoons
When I catch up:
Tweeze my brows,
Paint my nails,
Take a bath,
Maybe sing a song or two
Like I used to when I was still young
And he called me beautiful.
Sunday afternoons
When I sit on the couch,
Stare at the ceiling,
And dream of Adam
In the perfect quietness of the house,
Knowing that any minute
You'll be back,
Angry and penniless
With the smell of beer on your clothes
And not a dollar to your name.