It's ironic
How beautiful it is
The way it flows in a thin line
Drops of pain and sorrow
That puddle up on your bathroom floor
Drained
No longer a part of you
You start to think
*"Maybe if enough is lost
The pain will go away."

I was hell bent on being sad
Making desperate decisions
To push away the past
Thought I lost all that I had
It all started with my dad
I used to think my rebellious ways drove him to drink
Until I learned about his eleventh chromosome
It was then I knew why the sight of alcohol made his mouth foam
He’d raise his voice
Then his fist without a conscious choice
The next morning he’d be sorry
Kiss my bruises if he could
But I’d already be gone
We all knew I would
I’d be gone before he woke
With ****** friends looking for anything to smoke
Now I only smoke the ashes of my pride and the fresh potpourri of my regret
There’s a few things like this I’ll never forget
Here’s to my mother
She could never understand
Why I changed so drastically by the unwanted touch of a man
It tore us apart the way she just couldn’t see
How that man could ever take so much from me
My little sister would worry when I didn’t come home
She’d be scared each time was real
That each time I’d finally leave her alone
But what she doesn’t know is why I’d always return
I came home to see my baby sister
Because a baby is how my eyes will always see her
My sister put a smile on even when home was hell’s prison
Somehow she always felt she had to hide what’s arisen
She was always good that way
Through every heartache she’s been the strongest of four
She’s the reason why I don’t run anymore
Now and then I reminisce back to when she was three
It took so long for ignorance to pass
Took me a while to see
How I need her curious eyes to forever look up to me
Some days I lose my calm thinking whether or not she always will
As long as she does, I’ve not lost it all
In my baby sister’s eyes, I’ve got everything still

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But I admit, there’s something about the way the bird in my chest starts to sing your name and I pray you can’t hear it with every step I take away from you.

Instead of meeting yours, my eyes wander away together, because they have better things to do than have pointless conversations— I shush them and push them slowly towards you, because those “pointless conversations” are the only ones we have

There’s nothing really remotely handsome about you. In fact, I can see your mother whenever I look at you: the long bridge of your nose, the mischievous twinkle in your eyes, you were a total momma’s boy, but I remember hearing of adventures with your father—skiing, hiking, camping—all rugged outdoors-y activities that I could only dream of doing or even enjoying.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But there’s something about the way you touched my hand briefly that made my ears burn—perhaps you were a lit candle, and I was an ice sculpture of nothing in particular, so when we touched I cried out in pain, but I wanted to bring you closer

There’s this tone in your voice when we talk, and it speaks nothing of love at all—not for me, or anyone in the room. You talk to me as you would a child, a young girl, your sister’s best friend—and I am all of that. I should learn to be content with that

I remember hearing about a girl in your life, and I don’t think I knew what to feel. I shared in with sisters’ and your mother’s teasing whispers about her, in their hushed laughter. I didn't share what another part of me felt—something strange and twisty, like licorice, and no matter how long you chewed on it, it never got smaller, never disappeared, but it did manage to leave a strange taste in your mouth.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But nothing stopped me from going up to my sister last night to tell her: “I think I have a problem.” I like to think of myself as “reasonable”, but no matter what I thought, I couldn't reason with myself. I couldn't find the exact moment, the exact word, and the exact reason for why I felt this about you.

We've known each other since your sister and I were small. Even then, I avoided you, and you did the same. There was nothing we could talk about—you were into sports and I was into dolls. I’d hide away with your sister in our imaginary lands, and you were probably at hockey practice, but you were the first boy I've talked to and that scared me.

What am I to you, anyway? I've been told I was a part of the family…do you think so too? Do you follow the unspoken rules like I’m desperately trying to? Do you wonder, at all? I try to block you out of my thoughts, push you away as if you were like vegetables on my plate. There’s nothing about you, logically speaking, that should make me think about you.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you. So why is this happening?

Every night she would lie in bed and finger the stars
Pressing her rough cherry lips to the moon.
Sometimes it seemed as though
Everything was attacking her.
The expectations of the world pressed down
With coarse intolerant hands.
But nights,
Nights seemed different.
Her eyes would bathe in the sadness of the moon
And her heart wouldn't be attacked.
Sometimes
If she urged her mind into the sublime
She could feel small.
Just as she had always dreamed.