I called my dad last week,
just to talk,
about life
and that's what we did,
we talked.
About my cousin,
she's pregnant again,
a boy.

About another's wedding.
About work, late hours.
His computer jargon
goes right over my head,
but I pretend it doesn't.

I tell him everything.
Every detail,
my new raise,
I'm rolling in the benjamins,
more like the jacksons.

About going out with friends
on a friday night.
About classes and grades,
his new motorcycle.

We talk and talk and talk.
An hour goes by a
and just as we're about to
say goodbye
he asks a question.

You see, he had a dream,
the kind that reoccurs
night after night after night.
I was molested in the library.
It got to the point where
he could not sleep.
His tone got all serious.
If that ever happen to you,
you'd tell me, right?

We talk all the time.

I moved the phone from my ear
swiping the tears that began to fall,
prayed my voice wouldn't crack,
returned the phone to my ear,
and answered:
of course, daddy.
I lied.

after a while

***** turns to water
and all of a sudden
it doesn't burn like it used to.

dancing turns to kissing
turns to *******

mistakes you can't take
back with the door wide open.

"this isn't free ****!"
at least someone
is looking out for me,
because I sure as hell ain't.

the truth turns to rumors
as pinocchio's nose grows.

"that's not what happened!

not exactly"
I try to salvage what's left
of my reputation.

but then again,
I was too drunk to
know what really did happen.

She was raised Catholic,
Maybe that’s why she hated God.
Because from birth
She was baptized in hypocrisy
Confirmed in condescension.
She began to choke on the bible verses crammed down her throat
The name of God tasted like poison on her tongue
It had been repeated so many times
It had lost its meaning
She just went through the motions
Sit down, stand up, kneel, and repeat
Sit down, stand up, kneel, and repeat
A drone-like disciple
Drowning in the sea
That Jesus was walking on.
She questioned, but
Any question raised had a simple answer:
Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ!
How come love one’s die?
Jesus Christ loved them that much.
Why aren’t I happy?
Have you tried Jesus? They said
Yes, yes she had.
And the curative powers of the Lord
Seemed to be failing her.
Every time she felt the slightest joy
It was a sin.
She was raised Catholic,
Maybe that’s why she hated God

I hear them talk about me.
****.
This wasn't my first rendez-vous
on the rumor mill.
Because boys and alcohol
make a problematic equation
especially when you add
booming music and dancing.
I've made the same mistakes before
with lips and backrooms.
But I know better,
I tell myself.
I knew better
than to kiss necks on dance floors.
But I fell for it,
I fell for the liquor in my veins,
for the music thrusting in my ears
and other places too...
I've done this all before
with the same
"what the ****"
on my tongue
and regret in my eyes.

I hear them talk about me:
The girl who can't control herself,
her urges.
****.
Maybe if we locked the door,
I wouldn't have to walk around
avoiding eye contact with everyone
wondering whether or not they saw me
and which half they saw.
I knew better but,
it's simple math
boys plus
alcohol plus
me equals
what keeps the rumor mills alive.

After hooking up and having ***
on the floor at a rager with a stranger.
After having to be reminded of your name,
again.
After avoiding each other,
taking different paths
just so we don't have to see each other.
After looking down when
we accidentally take the same path.
After embarrassment  
wondering what he told his friends,
because I know what I told mine
a lot with many details.  

After all that,
we woke up today and realized:
we were in love.

There is something about it,
parties with too much alcohol
and boys I've yet to taste. There
is something about it, sneaking
off into the shadows to do what
I want with whomever I please.
There is something about the
confidence you get, because
we chose each other to be our
bad decision of that night.
There is something about it,
the regret of never looking you
in the eyes again, cause god
****** our campus is too
small. There is something
about it, the rumors that do
not **** me off as much as
they should. There is a sense
of humor in the way I know
what people saw me do but
my give a **** level seems to
be broken. There is something
about it, friday nights, alcohol
and boys I have finally tasted.

I'm trying to find my home in this world.
The place where I belong,
because this 11 by 16 room isn't
quite doing it for me.
And when I travel five and a half hours
back to the place where I grew up.
Still nothing.

But little did I know home was not just a place.
It is an event, a feeling
that can only be described with a smile on my face
as I finish Buzzfeed quizzes in the RA's office
on a Thursday night.
It is writing poetry in the early hours of the day
when my creativity is heightened and
I speak in my "poetry voice" loud enough
for my neighbor to come knocking.
It is that no-named familiar face who
always smiles at you every day at 8:37
when you cross paths,
because he knows
Monday mornings make me meditate ******,
and a smile can ease that pain.
Home is a hug from a friend
that needs no words to be exchanged,
just a tight squeeze and
an unspoken pinky promise to
never let go.
It is Taco Bell on a Friday night
until they lock the doors
as you loiter and nibble at
nachos and a small drink
split between four people.

Home is the only meal my mother
knows how to make well,
but still burns it.
It is acceptance when you
trust someone with your
deepest darkest secrets
and they still couldn't stop loving you.
It is a phone call from the person
you needed to talk to the most.

Most importantly home is
a feeling that everything is going to be alright
no matter how bad life seems to get.