My older sister once told me
that if you aren't making
sacrifices for someone,
it isn't love.

So I wondered if she
would be proud of the way
I'd sacrificed parts of myself
to make it easier for you
to hold me. The way
I'd cut off friends due to
your paranoia of being left
before you were able to
do the leaving. Or how
I gave up my dream job
so you would never have to
face up to your problem
of codependency.

I swore to her I would
be giving. It's funny
how ironic life loves to be,
isn't it?

Because while I was sharing
everything with you,
you were desperately
clinging to your only child
mentality. A little boy,
still scared of sharing toys
and feelings. The problem is,
I'm not a little girl anymore.

I've outgrown the myth
that boys hit you because
they like you.
Boys hit you because
you learn how great the
word no feels rolling
off your tongue.
Boys hit you because
alcohol turns smart
men stupid.
Boys hit you because
they are terrified
that you will realize
your worth.

And I finally have.
I do love you,
but I love myself more.

And now I finally
understand what
my sister meant.

She is a daisy
found in the middle
of a blizzard.
She is the five
dollars you found
laying in the road.
She is the surprise
birthday party thrown
for you after you
were convinced
everyone forgot.
She is every
unexpected, wondrous
joy you've been blessed
enough to receive in life.
She is watching
a child blow bubbles.
She is listening to
a baby's heartbeat
for the very first time.
She is a teenagers
first nervous, shaky
kiss that they
never forget.
She is everything
beautiful and holy.
She is the rain
pattering down on
your rooftop on
lazy Sunday mornings.
She is meeting someone
who teaches you how
to love your flaws.
She is old home
movies, filmed before
your parents divorce,
when everything was
still innocent and
the world hadn't
yet touched you.
She is the comfort of
returning home after years
of being lost inside
your own head.

My mother has recently taken
it upon herself to sleep in
my room with me.
Afraid to leave me
alone for even a minute
out of fear that I will escape
this life sentence.
Which causes me to wonder:
Can you tell I'm on the
verge of death? Do I
wear it like a broken heart
on my sleeve? Are my
intentions as transparent
as a sheet of glass?
I'm aware she is only
concerned out of love...
But can she not tell
that she is only driving
me closer to the brink of insanity?

Dear eleven year old Briauna,
Sixth grade will be a long year for you; don't worry, it ends.
You are going to be tempted
to cut off all your hair to look like
Alice from Twilight. DON'T.
You'll regret it the day later,
and the only thing more ******
than making a horrible decision,
is making a horrible decision
because others tell you to. Besides,
you'll soon learn how important
your individuality is. After you start
to change, your friends won't
feel like home anymore,
but don't stress over this, there are
many other apartments that
you have never explored.
You'll find one that fits
your needs better anyway.
Twelve,
I remember this as the divorce year.
The year you learn that family units
are hard to split evenly. The time
you finally realize how it feels
to be a magician's assistant,
being sawed in half until there are two
of you. You will try to make sure
mom and dad get an equal piece
when this happens... They won't.
Mom needs your ear and
dad your shoulder. Let mom rant.
Let dad cry oceans over mom,
I promise it will make you an expert
at sailing through the waves.
Thirteen,
The year depression creeps in
like smoke under a doorway
in a house fire - slowly rising up,
taking over the space, quickly
eliminating your ability to breathe.
The fire extinguisher is found
years down the road, but for now
just let the water pour from your eyes,
it will diminish the flames.
Fourteen,
Kate Moss, unfortunately,
becomes your idol this year.
Boys take the backseat to body image.
Your diet will consist of apples
and carrots, and you will assure yourself that THIS is what being
a teenage girl is.
THIS IS NOT WHAT BEING A
TEENAGE GIRL IS.
Teenage girls are sleepovers and
gossip and impossible daydreams
made possible through extreme ambition. Teenage girls
are ******* kickass warriors,
but they are also sensitive and fragile.
They often need reassurances;
someone to remind them that
their body is just the casing that protects the essence of their soul,
someone to appreciate the beauty
that they produce, someone to say
**** diamonds, food is
a girls best friend, no matter how
much our weight obsessed culture
try's to convince you otherwise.
Fifteen,
This has so far been your best year.
Treasure it. This year you'll meet a boy
who reminds you to be unapologetically yourself.
When you kiss him for the first time,
don't apologize after. He hates
the way you take blame for all of
the world's problems. He will soon
slip through your fingers so quickly
that you won't be able to tell if
he was even real or simply
a daydream that you wanted so badly,
you went along with the delusion.
Other boys will come and go,
but he will always return. Let him.
Sixteen,
This is the year you let your depression
run rampant, spewing destruction
on anything that could possibly
bring you joy. You'll turn
to alcohol and razors, anything
to numb the constant assault
from your brain. Right before your
seventeenth birthday, you will
swallow a bottle of antidepressants
you kept hidden in your sock drawer,
but it won't **** you.
Instead it will empower you.
You will use your survival to promote recovery. You will take your passion
and throw it into poetry.
In fact, as I write this poem,
you are now four months clean.
Dear twenty-five year old Briauna,
I imagine you surrounded by beauty. Beautiful cities, beautiful people,
beautiful talents. It comforts me
to remember that you and I
may be in different places
right now, but we're on the same path.
The happiness you currently feel,
I will eventually feel too.
Thanks for not giving up on us.
I'm really excited to meet you.

There is a town I call home
where streets are filled
with empty people.
People whose only way of death
is by taking their own lives.
When my older brother
committed suicide, that was
the first and last time
I set foot on Holy Ground.
There are people I know
who clutch nooses
instead of rosarys
and maybe this is
the reason my throat
closes up when I am asked
to say my hail Mary's.
But that doesn't stop the
young women in my town
from clutching Bibles
to their chests because
even though we don't
believe in God, we all
still need something
to hold onto.

I am the stovetop
your mother warned you
not to touch when you were five.
You did it anyways, of course,
because you wanted to see if
you could survive the pain.
I remember you telling me
that story on our third date
after I told you I've never met anyone
I didn't end up hurting.
Masochism runs in the family
you said. Wreckage runs in mine.
When I was five I put aluminum foil
in the microwave just to
sit and watch the destruction
it created. When we met, I knew
we wouldn't last long.
Fire and ice together never does.