earlier, I was reading this story
about a kid who jumped
off the Golden Gate Bridge.

he said that
as soon as he jumped,
he felt instant regret.

this kid survived and
he has now become
a successful man.



I wonder how far
he had to fall before
he regretted his decision.

was it twelve feet down?
forty feet down?
two hundred feet down?

how far did he have to go
before he realized that
he didn't truly want this?



I am falling.
I have been falling
for a while now.

sometimes I feel like
I've hit rock bottom,
but then I see that I've
only slowed my descent.



how far will I have to fall
before I want to live?

what if that realization
doesn't hit me until
it's too late?

I am afraid that I might
finally see a purpose for
my existence, but by then

I'll have already
hit the ground.

what feels good can’t hurt you
until it’s not good anymore.

reality doesn’t touch the bedroom
until someone opens the door.

you can grasp skin and
pull someone close,
but it doesn’t stop them
from leaving
once you let go.

there was this one time
when some boy
looked at his friend
and said,

"you fight like a girl."

that same boy
called me a ****
and slapped my ***
when I walked by.

that same boy
got hit so hard,
his face smashed
against a locker in a
high school hallway.

that same boy
broke his nose and
chipped two teeth.

I looked down at him
and said,

"I fight like a girl too,
and I just ****** you up."

today
I watched her
open the mailbox.

she hesitated
before she did.

to anyone else,
this meant nothing.
they didn't know



that nine years ago,
she was standing
in the driveway
while her husband
was taken away.

under the glow of
red and blue lights,
she smiled thinking
that this was finally over.

there would be
no more bruises
and no more heartache.

she would finally be free.
she could finally breathe.

she had no idea that this
was only the beginning.



as the years went on,
the faith drained
from her body.

he was everywhere.

in her call log,
outside her window,
in her nightmares,

e v e r y w h e r e.

he wouldn't leave.

she didn't think that
she could ever be free.



but today,
I watched her stand
in her driveway

and open the mailbox
of her very own house

and read the letters
from the loved ones
that she was forced to
lose all those years ago.



today,
the neighbors watched
as a random woman
opened her mailbox.

I watched as a woman
finally opened the
gate to freedom.

be careful when handling me.
my body was built with gunpowder,
and someone lit my fuse
long before we met.

be aware that at any moment,
I could burst.

you can run away now
and never look back,

or you can wait here with me
and together, we'll look up at the sky.

it's entirely your choice.

but, darling, if you can't accept
the chaos inside of me,

then you will have no right
to comment on
my beautiful explosion.

"I want a lifetime
of waking up to you
hogging the blankets,
and holding you on
nights where you panic.

I'm not good with words,
not like you are.

but I want to fight
for what we have.

I want to stand by you
while we remind ourselves
why we got together
in the first place.

I'm sure of what
my life needs now.

it needs the girl
who hopped onto
the back of my bike
like it was nothing,

who didn't know
that one day soon
it would be everything.

it needs the girl who
stopped me and told me that
she wasn't ready to use
those three words,

but then yelled
'I love you'
while riding me not
too many nights after.

great timing,
by the way.

it needs the girl
who used words
to turn her pain
into a message
about surviving.

I could stare at you
for hours and still
be amazed years later
that I met someone
so beautiful.

luckily, you remind
me to stop staring
and to keep my eyes
on the road.

because of you,
we only crashed once.

I am madly
in love with you

and I want this
to be forever."



I reread this note
every night when
you're working late.

you're much better
with words than
you think you are.
you must be,

because when you
handed me this
and asked me
to marry you,

I didn't hesitate
before I said "yes."

we grew flowers
in our garden
when I was a kid.

we had tulips
and daffodils and
forget-me-nots.

my friend taught me
how to play the
forget-me-not game.

I'd pull off one petal
and say "he loves me."

I'd pull off the next
and say "he loves me not."

but I learned quickly
that there were only
five petals on every
one of those flowers.

if I started with
"he loves me,"
he would always
love me at the end.

if I started with
"he loves me not,"
he would never
love me at the end.



the other day,
I thought about
those forget-me-nots

and I laughed at how
ironic that is now.

I knew what type
of man you were.

I already knew how
we were going to end,

but I still chose to
play your game.

I forgive the fifth-floor window
who I once asked to swallow
me into the night.

I forgive the water who
once called out to me
when I walked above
its rushing currents.

I forgive the Aisle 10
in Home Depot
who once sold me
the razor blades
that kept my hoodie
on all summer.

I forgive the basement rafters
who once held the rope
that I planned to use
as my permanent escape.

I forgive the bathroom mirror
who once failed to disagree
when I sobbed to it
about the ugliness of
each feature on my face.

I forgive the scale who once
hurled numbers at me
without mentioning that
my weight was not
something to fret over.

I forgive the scars who
were once a release to me,
and who neglected to tell me
that they would not leave
even if I asked them to.

I forgive the pen whose ink
once helped write what I
thought would be my last words.

I forgive the doorknob who
once let me lock myself away
from everyone who loved me,
and who watched as I tried
to never come out again.

and above all,
I forgive the person
who I once hated most.

I forgive her for her anger,
and her hateful words,
and her nonstop cruelty.

I forgive her for
being the hardest person
I've ever had to forgive.

I forgive myself.

there used to be a shy, young man
living four doors down from mine.
he never seemed too hurt to me,
and he told me he was fine.

I shouldn't have believed him
but I didn't have a choice.
you can't listen to cries for help
if the crier has no voice.

he was from the south side
where bullets fly like stars,
painting the skies red every night
through windows, skin, and cars.

a girl lived on the north side
slightly to the west.
I had never met her,
but he said she was the best.

when he talked about this girl,
she was his rock, his moon, his sun.
she was all he'd ever dreamed of
and their romance had begun.

I saw him outside all the time
daydreaming down the block.
his story was a timebomb
and I wish I saw the clock.

I never saw this girl of his,
but she made him someone new.
he smiled, happy and in love
and I knew she loved him too.

he finally seemed eager
to learn, to live, to leave.
kids don't make it out of here
but I let him believe.

city kids are city kids.
they never travel far.
they will never see a garden,
just concrete, blood, and tar.

city kids don't breathe fresh air.
they smoke ****, cigs, cigars.
I wish that things were different
but this is how they are.

I wish that the boy four doors down
was able to be freed,
but just like all the other boys,
he had to stay and bleed.

that boy would sneak out late at night,
walking alone in silence.
he'd travel to the northwest side
with no fear of the violence.

every night, he'd stay awake.
his eyelids felt weighed down.
he didn't seem to notice.
I never saw him frown.

every day, he could be seen
doing what he always did.
with deals and deaths and drive-bys,
he didn't get to be a kid.

but none of that mattered
as soon as nighttime came.
he saw his girl when it got dark.
every night, it was the same.

until one night, the boy got stopped
and told to stay away.
the northwest side was not his side,
but he could not obey.

their romance turned to horror
and their love turned into fear.
I wish it didn't go this way,
but the end was clearly near.

city boys and city girls
never see what we call "fame."
they don't show up in newspapers,
and no one asks their names.

city boys die every day,
with bullets in their brains.
no one hears their cries for help.
no one feels their pain.

the young man living on my block
fell in love and saw no danger.
on the south side, he was sweet and shy.
away from home, he was a stranger.

he never made it out of here.
he didn't get to finish growing.
he went to see his perfect girl
but never got where he was going.

the next morning, his girl was told
how they found him on the ground.
she took a rope and went to bed
and that's where she was found.

******, pain, and gunshots
and a girl hung from her ceiling.
this city saw it all and more
and still, we aren't healing.

I think about him often now,
that boy from four doors down.
I wonder where he'd be today
if he had left this town.

two graves dug in the dirt too soon
are all that's left of them today.
you won't ever hear their stories
now that they've gone away.

a boy with hope still in his eyes
and dreams still in his mind
was stolen so abruptly
before it was his time.

a girl with love still in her heart
and faith still in her smile
was punished with a death sentence
but never had a trial.

he was a modern Romeo
and she was Juliet.
they fell in love and lost their lives
not even grown up yet.

a tragedy with pain and loss,
a true Shakespearean drama.
this is the kind of story
that leaves us all with trauma.

once, there was a boy and girl
who ended when they bled,
like characters inside a play
that they had never read.

they were taught how to survive,
who would hurt them, where to look.
they knew of pain and grief and death
but never learned to read a book.

if these streetlights could speak,
they'd narrate stories that would
keep you awake at night

and if these corners could scream,
they would never stop screaming

and if these streetlights could speak,
and these corners could scream,
would you listen?

are you listening?

I keep telling everyone
how beautiful they are
and how much they matter
and how much I love them.

I spend all day motivating
the people around me.
I say such encouraging things,
and I mean every word,

but why can't I say
the same things to myself?

"you're alright."
"it's just a panic attack."
"he's not here."

no, you don't understand.
he is here.
he never left.

he’s not in between my legs,
but he’s still invading my mind.

I don't feel like
myself anymore.

I'm not myself anymore,
not fully.

he's still inside of me.
he never left.

good girls
are not supposed to
get angry
or raise their voices
when they argue
or argue at all
in the first place.

good girls
are not supposed to
wear ripped jeans
or tight shirts
or say the word “****.”
good girls
are not supposed to
even think about *******.

and here I am,
having already used
the word “****”
three times in this poem.

good girls
are not supposed to
get plastered
on school nights
or tipsy before classes
or listen to music
with the volume
cranked all the way up.

good girls
are not supposed to
know which windows
make the least noise
when they’re sneaking out
or know where they can
buy cheap alcohol underage
or know who they can kiss
and where to kiss them
to get what they want.

good girls
are supposed to
smile silently and be pure
and go to church
or wherever they pray
to cleanse their filthy souls.

good girls
are supposed
to believe in
and put their trust in
and have faith in a god.

good girls
are supposed to
expect this god to
keep them away from harm,
and to never learn how to
keep themselves safe
if this god fails to.

good girls
are not supposed to
act anything like me.

the only thing
I have ever truly
believed in is poetry.

I outgrew religion by
the time I turned seventeen,
long before then
if I’m being honest.

I never turned to prayer for
advice on how to live my life.

I never turned to anyone
but myself.

I only consulted the bible
when I needed inspiration
for some tragic poem.

good girls
are not supposed to
write poetry
the way that I
write poetry.

good girls
never speak of or write about
*** and drugs and violent minds
and suicide and more ***
and broken hearts.

good girls
don’t sing along to
the lyrics of sad songs
in front of open windows
just for the ******* sake of it.

but good girls
don’t realize that life is short
until it’s too late.

good girls don’t ever
get to feel alive.

a girl like me
who gets into trouble
and refuses to stay quiet
and causes a scene
everywhere she goes
is not a good girl.

a girl like me
might be too reckless
and die too young.

but a girl like me
will die with no regrets
and plenty of memories
and so many *******
stories to tell.

a girl like me
will live the life that
good girls dream of,
but never get to talk about.

why would you smoke a cigarette
but leave half of it dropped onto the sidewalk?

“our cigarette butts leave signs,”
you told me,
“I threw it there to
let others know that
I can control my bad habits.”

this is who you are.
you’re the type of person
who leaves cigarette butts on concrete
to scream “I was here.”

you’re the type of person
who purposefully lives an unfinished life
for the world to wonder
what you would’ve done
if you had more time.

this was the same way you left me.
halfway through our dreams and goals,
only to find out that I loved you
wholeheartedly, obsessively, and recklessly,
while you walked away
with a mouthful of tobacco smoke
and halfway love.

I've always hated the term
"hauntingly beautiful."

it's what they say when
a sight gives you chills
and your heart aches
and your eyes tear up.

I understand the meaning,
but I hate how it's worded.
that phrase confuses me

because once, I knew
a girl who wasn't
hauntingly beautiful.

when I looked at her,
I didn't get chills
and my heart didn't ache
and tears never formed
in the corners of my eyes

but dear god,
she was beautiful
in a way that I don't
have the words to describe.



she was so
unbelievably beautiful

and to this day,
she still haunts me.

seated on the back
of your motorcycle,
I held onto you
a little too tight.

you laughed
at my fear.

but what you didn't know
was that I wasn't afraid
of letting go and falling
and hurting myself.

I was afraid because
for my whole life,
letting go of things meant
never seeing them again.

I was afraid that
if I loosened my grip,
you would drive away
and you would be gone.

injuries are temporary
and skin always heals,
but sometimes
heartbreak doesn't.

I wasn't afraid
of broken bones
or bloodied clothes.

I was afraid
of losing you

because I knew
that losing you would
hurt far worse than
scrapes and bruises.

I don't know why
I keep writing sad poetry.

I'm happy now.
I truly am.

my life is getting better
and my scars are fading

and I'm so proud because
at thirteen, I thought that
by now I would be dead.

so I don't understand.

how could I be so happy
if my mind is still
conjuring up these thoughts?

I'm finally looking
forward to the future,
so why is my mind still
thinking about the past?

my first love was young rebellion
and how it made me feel.
my second love was abuse.

I have been asked,
on more than one occasion,
how I could fall in love with
a man who I was scared of.

my masochism was
inside of me for years
before I admitted to it.
I like to talk about how
I didn’t know that it was
wrong for him to hurt me,
but somewhere deep in the
back of my young mind,
I did know.
I realize that now.

I realize now that
maybe I enjoyed it.
maybe that was part of it,
my own fantasies leaking
through the cracks of my
innocent, good girl persona.
or maybe I truly believed
that his abuse was
all I deserved.

my childhood had taught me that
I broke everything that I touched.
I came from a broken household
with a broken family.
I broke both of my legs at one time,
and started the next school year
with two bright casts.
I broke toys that weren’t mine,
and ceramic dishes that
I threw down too hard,
and the hinges of every
bedroom door that I slammed shut.
I broke hearts, including my own.

when I fell in love,
I had finally met someone
with no conscience and
no concept of morality.

he was a sociopath,
a narcissist, an abuser.
he was the perfect
subject for my poetry,
and the perfect match
to my masochism.

I looked at him and wrote
that he was the diagnoses
that flooded the pages
of some therapist’s notes.
he was the embodiment
of the pain that he inflicted,
terrifying but somehow
too attractive to resist.

he was a love story
jotted down by a nihilist,
a black hole taking me
deeper and deeper.
he was a blank slate
that could not be
written over.

he was as empty as a bottle in
the hands of an alcoholic,
a freshly dug grave waiting
patiently for a body.

I worshipped him
like an absent father,
idolizing his image
as if I had only ever
known of his appearance
and normality and charm.
I acted as if I had no idea
that beneath the surface of his skin,
he was nothing more than
a living corpse.

if chaos theory is
as real as death, and
if I was never traumatized
and grew up happily,
I doubt that any of this
would have happened.
but it did.

whenever someone asks how
I could fall in love with
a man who I was scared of,
I tell them this.

I tell them that
I fell in love with him
because he was already
missing something inside.
his mind had glitched
somewhere in his past,
and then it failed to restart.
he did not feel emotions
the way that other people do.
I’m not sure if he could
feel anything at all.
he was already broken.

I fell in love with him
because he was the only thing
I had ever encountered that
I knew I couldn’t break.

you held me close to you,
and I felt your heart beating
deep inside of your rib cage.

I closed my eyes and listened
to the rise and fall of your chest,
hearing the soft thump of
your heartbeat and imagining
that if I stayed still for long enough,
I could melt into you.

for the first time in my life,
I felt like I belonged.

you made me feel like
I belonged with you

like I belonged on this planet.

like I belonged here, right here,
secure in your arms.

I haven’t felt safe
since you let go of me.

my father hates me
because I remind him
of my mother,

and he hates that
he fell in love with her
only for it to end
the way that it did.



my mother hates me
because I am
my father's daughter,

and she hates that he
believed there was romance
when all it was to her was
a warm body and a fun night.



my father hates me
because he hates my mother.

my mother hates me
because she hates herself.



my parents never failed
to make me feel unwanted,

but now I realize that
it wasn't about me.

they wanted children.
what they didn't want
was each other.

their hatred for one another
outweighed their love for us.



I know now that
all of that pain was aimed
at each other.

it ricocheted off of
the walls I tried to build
to protect myself,
and it hit us instead.

it hurt me so badly

but I realize now that
it was never my fault.

what can you say
to someone who is slowly
sinking into their own self-hatred?

to a person who can’t even
cry themselves to sleep?

to a dreamer
turned insomniac?

to a hopeless romantic
now only hopeless?

to someone with tired eyes
and bruised knuckles?

to someone who flinches
at your touch
as if it hurts,
but can hurt themselves
without a second thought?

to someone who drives
down a small-town road
at 76 miles per hour,
who isn’t trying to crash
but wouldn’t care if they did?

to someone who loves the earth
but hates the people
living here?

to someone who assures you
that everything will be alright
despite not believing in
their own words?

to someone who you are
terrified to lose,
but who claims
to have lost themselves
a long time ago?

you can say
“please don’t leave me”
or
“I love you”
or
“I need you”
or
“I’m trying to be ok
and I’m doing my best.
but I don’t know how
to get through this
without you by my side.”

you can say
all of this and more,
but you have to realize
that they might not be listening.

each moment that you survive
takes you one step closer
to the time when
things will be better.

it might still be far away.
it might not be an easy journey.

but right now,
you are reading this

which means you are awake

which means you are alive

which means that
you have survived
every single moment
up to this point.

you have survived
every heartbreak

every loss

every laugh

every smile

and

you have survived
through times where
you weren’t sure you could do it.
but you did.

and now, you are done reading.
now, you are a few minutes
and 127 words closer
to seeing better days.
better days are coming.
just keep reading.
just keep breathing.

keep breathing…
keep breathing…
keep breathing…

I'm mad at you
and I don't want
to be mad at you.

but at the same time,
I'm not mad enough.
I should be angrier.

there have always been
gaps in my memory,
places where my trauma
nibbled away until the
memories were useless.

you knew this.

I have spent years of
my life trying to recover,
trying to patch up
the holes in my memory.

I lost my entire childhood.
I spent all of it trying to
remember what my brain
wanted me to forget.

I have cried and hurt
and panicked and once,
I even tried to give up.

for most of my life,
I have hated myself
and harmed myself.

you knew this.

you knew how badly
this ****** up my life.

you even tried comforting me,
giving me brotherly speeches
and advice that I took to heart.

I trusted you.
for all of these years,
I have trusted you.

the memories came back.
I haven't slept in six days.
I am being slowly destroyed
by my own mind, and
I don't know how to stop it.

you were there that night.
I ran to your room and
I banged on the door
and you opened it,
and I told you everything.

you were the voice
in the bathroom with me,
helping me undress
and assessing my injuries.

you knew what happened,
and you said nothing.

I know you were young,
and I know that this has
traumatized both of us.

but you were old enough
to remember everything.

you remember the
blood stains and the
fear in my eyes and
how I barely knew what
had happened to me.

I understand why you
didn't say anything
on that night all of
those years ago,

but why didn't you
say anything when
I was older and you saw
how it shattered me?

I almost killed myself
trying to remember
what you already knew.

this is my body.
that was my trauma.
those were my memories.

you knew this whole time.
you knew everything.
you ******* knew,
and you said nothing.

why did you say nothing?
why didn't you tell me?

I just need to know.
why didn't you tell me?

why did you keep this
locked inside of your brain
while mine desperately
searched to find it?

how could you?
I trusted you.

and this whole time,
you already knew.

“You loved him.”
It wasn’t a question,
but I answered anyway.

I immediately became defensive,
scared of my past being brought up
and merged with my present.
I was doing so much better.
I couldn't afford to mess it all up now.

“I wouldn’t call it love.” I said,
when I wanted to say:

YESYESYESYESYES OH GOD YES



“Why?”
Perhaps they were genuinely curious.
They didn’t know, after all.
They didn’t know anything about
him, or me, or us.
And they never would.
I couldn’t let someone in, not now.

“It's complicated.” I said,
when I wanted to say:

IT'S SO SIMPLE

I LOVED HIM BECAUSE
HE MADE ME FEEL SOMETHING,
AND FEELING ANYTHING IS
BETTER THAN FEELING NOTHING

HE TAUGHT ME HOW TO LOVE WHEN
I COULDN’T EVEN LOVE MYSELF



“So why did it end?”
I could feel the walls
I built myself tumbling down.

I wanted to tell them,
I wanted to tell them everything.
I couldn't. I turned away.

“It didn't work out.” I said,
when I wanted to say:

I TRIED I TRIED I TRIED

I GAVE HIM EVERYTHING I WAS

AND I LET HIM TAKE
EVERYTHING I HAD

AND HE STILL WANTED MORE

IN THE END, I WASN'T

SMART ENOUGH

PRETTY ENOUGH

SKINNY ENOUGH

THICK ENOUGH

QUIET ENOUGH

BOSSY ENOUGH

CLASSY ENOUGH

SLUTTY ENOUGH

WILD ENOUGH

PRIVATE ENOUGH

ATTRACTIVE ENOUGH

HAPPY ENOUGH



NO MATTER WHAT DID,
I WASN'T ENOUGH

once, you opened a box of Tic Tacs
and I smacked it out of your hands,
and I watched as all of those
little mints fell to the floor.

you looked at me in shock
and asked,
"why did you do that?"

and I went silent.

I didn't know how to tell you
that it was impulse, because
Tic Tacs make the same sound
as benzos do when they're rattling
around inside a pill bottle.

__________

once, we got into an argument
over something stupid,
and we yelled at each other
and we both said things
that we didn't mean.

you got up to leave
but I had stolen your car keys.
you couldn't go anywhere.
I locked myself in my room
and you fell asleep on my couch.

the next day,
I gave them back to you
and again, you asked,
"why did you do that?"

and I went silent.

I didn't know how to tell you
that you could've crashed and
your car could've gone up in flames
and you could've never made it home

and if that happened, the last thing
that I would've ever said
to you would be "I hate you."
and if that happened,
I would never forgive myself.

__________

once, I woke up screaming
and you tried to comfort me
with a hug, and when I felt that,
I hit you as hard as I could.

when your nose
finally stopped bleeding,
and you had gone through
and entire box of tissues,
you looked at me and asked,
"why did you do that?"

and I went silent.

I didn't know how to tell you
that almost every night, I relive
experiences that I wish I never had.

I couldn't tell if I screamed out loud
or if it was only in my head.
I couldn't tell my nightmares
apart from reality, because
my dreams always feel so real.

I couldn't tell that it
was just you hugging me,
because your embrace
reminded me of the man who
held me down once and
hurt me in ways that I'll never forget.
I didn't know how to say that
every night, he reappears in my head.

I spend all day fighting off my past, and
when I let myself relax to go to sleep,
I let my guard down. and he returns
to haunt me all over again.

__________

once, you packed your bags
and you told me that you were leaving.
you were crying and so was I, and it felt
like my entire world was imploding
and on the verge of collapse.

I wiped away a tear
from my cheek and asked,
"why would you do that?"

for a moment, you went silent.

and when you answered, you told me
that you didn't know me,
and I realized that you were right.

every time you had asked me
who I was, I went silent.

when you asked about my trauma,
you were asking me who I was

and this whole time,
I hadn't realized that my trauma
was such a big part of me.

I hate having to accept it,
but I know that it's true.

my trauma made me who I am,
and I don't like that person.

you are dead.

I didn't say those words
aloud for months.

I didn't talk about you
in past-tense.

I didn't tell anyone
what had happened.

you were dead.
you are still dead.

but speaking those words
into existence made
them feel too real.

I thought that maybe
if I never talked about it,
I could convince myself
that it wasn't true.

I snuck out

and I stole cash

and I ran away

and I got lost

and I was alone

and I was scared

and I got into cars
with strangers

and sometimes
I didn't know
where I was
when I woke up

and I kissed boys

and I had ***

and I got hurt

and I hurt myself

and I skipped school

and I did drugs

and I drank too much

and I trespassed into places
where I knew I shouldn't be

and I went home with people
who I knew I should've ran from

and I kissed more boys

and I had more ***

and no one noticed

and no one said anything.



but then I kissed girls

and suddenly,
everyone noticed

and I was told that
I was doing bad things

and I was told that
I was going to hell

and out of every bad thing
that I had ever done,

I was never told
that I had sinned

and no one had ever said
that I did something wrong

until I kissed another girl.

I was told that some people
are born to be leaders,
and other people
are born to be followers.

my depression has sent me
on a downward spiral,
and I know that
I can't stay strong forever.
I won't stand tall forever.

am I a leader?
when I fall, will I take
anyone else down with me?

or am I a follower?
will I fall because I let
someone drag me down?

and if I don't want
to be either of those,
then who do I want to be?

when I was younger,
I had these hopes and dreams
and this one huge goal.

I wanted to leave this world
a little better off than it was
before I existed in it.



now, I've realized that
all I want is to
leave this world

and I don't care if
it's better off or not.

before I met the man I love,
I had a bad history of
entering abusive relationships.

it might not make sense,
but a healthy relationship
used to be so much scarier
than an abusive one.

when my ex got angry,
he would hit me.

when my boyfriend gets angry,
he walks away until
he's calm enough to have
a rational conversation.

my ex was predictable.
I knew what was coming.
I could brace myself
for his punches.
I was never unprepared.

the first time that my boyfriend
walked away, my body
physically shook with fear.

because he didn't hit me,
and because violence
was all that I knew,

I was so afraid that
he would come back
with something much
worse than a punch.

he came back with a hug
and an "I love you."

now, I would be afraid
if a man tried to hit me.

it might sound strange,
but I am so happy
to be so scared

because that means
I've stopped wanting abuse.

it means I've finally realized
that I am deserving of love.

...and in the end,
we went our separate ways.

you don't love me
and I don't love you
and that's ok

because you taught me
how I deserve to be treated.


because of you,
I love myself

and that is the greatest
love story of all.

I used to be addicted
to the feeling of a blade
pressing into my skin.

I used to be addicted
to seeing those red dots
forming a ****** line.

I used to be addicted
to my own blood and
the relief it brought me.

I used to be addicted
to metal.


the world must be addicted
to the feeling of power and
violence and destruction.

the world must be addicted
to bullets in brown flesh
and mothers' cries.

just like I was, the world
must be addicted to blood.
its iron still tastes metallic.
it's still red.

just like blood,
guns also taste metallic
when the barrel is
in your mouth.


the world and I
have different views,
but we have one
thing in common.

we're both addicted
to metal.

I’m still a child
playing a game
of musical chairs.

I’m just trying to
find a seat with
everyone else.

I’m still going
around and around
and around again,
searching for my
chance to fit in.

but every time
that I think
I’ve finally
found it,

as soon as
I go to sit down,

life pulls the chair
out from under me.

I think about my daughter
awake at 3am, crying silently
over some boy who just
broke her heart.

I think about my daughter
who, with shaky hands,
comes to me sobbing,
begging me to love her
even if she falls in love
with another girl.

I think about my daughter
feeling like she's alone.
she doesn't talk to me
because maybe I'm
stuck late at work or
maybe I'm tired after
such a long day, but
for whatever reason,
I'm not there.

I think about my daughter
pulling up her sleeves
as she walks by me.
maybe I notice, but
I don't say anything.

maybe I just don't
know what to say.
or maybe I don't notice.

I think about my daughter
and how she's going to be
stuck raising her siblings
if I have any more children.

she'll be raising my children,
who she didn't choose to have,
because I'm not there.

she'll be tired and sad,
living her life the same
way that her siblings did
when she was young.



I think about my daughter,
who might exist one day,
growing up how I did
and feeling how I felt.

I think about my daughter
and I promise her that
she will never be alone.
I promise her that
I will always be there.

I promise myself that
one day, if I bring a
daughter into this world,
I will always be there.



I will break this cycle.
I will show her that
history doesn't always
have to repeat itself.

I will love my daughter
and she will know that I do.
she will never feel unloved.

I will be the mother
that I never got to have.

I slept in a little too late
a few days that week.

when the pharmacist called
about my prescriptions,
I didn't refill them
for the next month.

I forgot to eat breakfast
and maybe lunch
and I didn't remember
whether or not I ate dinner.

I didn't buckle my seatbelt
when I got into my car.

I didn't show up
when we made plans,
and eventually I stopped
making plans altogether.

I stopped joking about suicide
and you thought that
was a good sign,

but you didn't realize
I stopped joking
because this time,
I was serious.

when I hung up the phone
I said "goodbye"
instead of "goodnight."

and no one tried to stop me
because no one knew

because all of these little changes
seemed to mean nothing.

you didn't see
that I was hurting
until the tiles on
our bathroom floor
turned red.

you didn't see
that I was bleeding
until I had already bled out.

but on that day,
my story did not end.
my funeral was not
that weekend.
my death was not
on that Wednesday.



and now,
when I end the call,
I don't say "goodbye."

I never say "goodbye"
because tomorrow,
I will still be here.

even when it hurts
to simply get out of bed,
I will be here.

I will be here
because I am still breathing.
I am still alive

and there are so many
beautiful Wednesdays
that I haven't seen yet.

when the therapist asked
about my family history,
I gave her a history lesson.

I told her that growing up,
my house was a war zone.

I don't remember
what year it was, but eventually
the house collapsed into itself.
that trauma left me scared and hurt
with nowhere to go.

my mother moved out first.
she moved straight into
a life of addiction, and then
she found a new house
in the form of a jail cell.

my father also began
to call a jail cell his home.
he moved into the newspaper,
and then into the database of the
national *** offender registry.

now, we have separate houses
and conflicting beliefs.

we don't share anything
besides that story
and our DNA.

I couldn't tell her
about my family history,
because I don't
have parents anymore.

I have no family.
all I have is history.

if I die,
I know that my eulogy
would be read aloud
by my biological family
with tears in their eyes
and sad, solemn voices.

it’s scary to think
that if I die,
my eulogy would be read
by the same people who
once wished for my death.

I try to forget about
the things that I’ve done,
and sometimes I can

but when I get home,
I see that my bad decisions
are still stained into
my bedsheets.