As the moon washes over me,
So does your face.

I try to hear your voice-
Try to quiz myself.
Like you were once my favorite meal,
And now I can only somewhat remember the taste.

I try to rest longer-
To rest more.
If I could only live behind my eyes.
Then I wouldn’t have to miss you, and my grief would be done.

But instead, you slip away each morning,
Creeping out with the sun.

1.a special handshake between the two of us that he would accidentally try with others.
2. his favorite cereal bowl. a pink egg with a bunny painted on the inside.
3. the reality tv show we’d watch for hours, just to talk **** about.
4. a crisp hundred dollar bill.
5. the van that he sat in for hours.
6. a 47 second phone call to tell me he was proud of me and my poem.
7. not enough pictures.
8. his hair and face staring me down in the mirror.
9. a lifelong aversion to drug addicts
10. the van that held him as he took pill after pill in a parking lot.
11. an empty feeling home that was once filled with him.
12. a little sister who saw too much, who feels too much.
13. his anger as i watch my mother move on faster than i can fathom.
14. $85 a week in therapy bills.
15. a lifelong attraction to drug addicts.
16. dreams like my subconscious is testing to see if i remember his face still.
17. not enough videos.
18. a loneliness i couldn’t have imagined.
19. a big sister, full with the future that he was supposed to love.
20. the answer to my lifelong, unasked question.
21. guilt.
22. a little green jar that makes me feel more hallow than not.
23. not enough.

His palm envelopes my fist,
Folds over each finger,
Swallows my wrists.

His palm enveloped my fist,
Folded over each finger,
Swallowed my wrists.

In response to Edge by Sylvia Plath

"The moon has nothing to be sad about,  
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag."
-Edge by Sylvia Plath


The night drips on and on
As they all just watch.
Wonder what got her so far-
What's got her in knots.
This is how they wanted her,
No denying that now.
Perfection in her silence,
Her last breath,
Her broken vow.
The moon has nothing to be sad about.

She looks down on her with apathy,
Just another face in the crowd-
They watch her as she scorches it
All to the ground.
Her body a vessel for pain and for persons,
Her mind gone numb from being treated so worthless.
The moon-
Having seen this all before,
Illuminates the horror within that small home
Staring from her hood of bone.

Although not new,
It is still tragic-
To see such a woman drained of all her magic.
To have once brought life,
The same that she has taken,
And now on her kitchen floor they all lie
Naked.
The moon just sends them back
To the roots of being- for
She is used to this sort of thing.

Life here on earth feels particularly brutal,
Like there is no escape
And to dream of such would be futile.
Don’t let it get you down,
For it is truly just womanhood,
You belong to the silence-
To the frowns.
So tightly sew that pretty mouth shut,
Sworn to be either dead or gagged-
Her blacks crackle and drag.

I am a daisy in the dead of winter.
Upon first glance,
my petals blend into the snow as if they are one.

Gentle,
and kind,
my vernality becomes a responsibility.
Stay warm,
Stay pretty,
Stay sweet,
No matter how cold the snow gets.

Vulnerable to anyone who may decide to rip my roots from the ground,
I savor each moment,
try to bask in the green of my own leaves,
and remain soft.
Remain alive
despite existing in a world
that would rather see me wilt.

Most mornings, I meet her in the mirror. I carefully brush through her hair, wetting her down, just to see her clearer. We whisper about what is ahead of her; silently lament about what is behind. Gentle with my hands but less with my mind. I know I owe her.

Know I own her. Know that even at my best, there is so much sorrow between us. So many unmeant apologies, unmet necessities, unmatched niceties. So many men I allowed to touch her, to toughen her, to tangle up her tenacity until it was treacherous. I feel I have betrayed her in the most vulnerable of ways. I feel I have run out of happy lies to say.

Most mournings, I meet her in the mirror. I tie up her hair, knotting it without care, just to see her clearer. We scream about what is ahead of her; daydream about what is behind. Brutal with my hands and more with my thighs. I know I owe her.

I check my dad’s breathing while he sleeps.

Meet the sun at the horizon and together we sneak
around the corner,
avoiding the floorboards that we both know have a tendency to squeak.
It’s in these moments that I love him the most,
when his eyes are closed and he’s almost at peace.
There’s still hope for the day so long as he speaks.

Or maybe he’ll sing.

Our lives could have been beautiful,
had he learned how to fight it.
Had he grown past the affliction
that left his own family divided.

And some days he tries,
although he denies it.
I know when he’s clean
because the come down is quiet.
It’s borderline silence
coated with the threat of violence.

On these days all I can do is try
my best to pretend I resonate
with this man from hell.
Not a stranger, I know him too well.
Sometimes I see his anger in my own face.

Desperate to escape his youth, he forgot about mine.
And I’ve had this nagging thought for a while
that he only loves me when he’s high
enough to look down and remember I’m his child.