my skin
has housed sunburns
and scraped kneecaps.
it has carried
hair and goosebumps
and so many freckles
that I could never count.

my skin
has endured bruises
and cigarette burns.
its suffering is
the aftermath of
abuse, impulsivity,
and my own self-hatred.

my skin
has braved hot weather
and icy water.
it has protected me
from prickly thorns,
from strong winds,
and from myself.

despite the cruelty
that I inflicted
onto it,
this skin
held me together
even when I
felt like I was
falling apart.

it’s been years, and I still scream
halfway through the night.

I still wake up drenched in sweat and tears,
feeling his grip around my wrist.

when I take a shower,  I find myself
still trying to scrub him off me.
I’m still trying to erase the
cigarette burn on my right hand,
the one he gave me when
he was drunk and angry.

sometimes, I scrub my skin until I bleed. not intentionally, of course.
I don’t want to hurt myself.
I’ve hurt myself enough over the years,
and I have the scars to prove it.

all I want is to scrub him off of me.
I want to feel clean again.

but no matter how raw I scrub myself,
the fingerprints and bruises still linger.

I don’t know if I feel happy anymore,
but sometimes I don’t feel numb
and I call that happiness.
it’s more peace than happiness.
it’s more of a relief.
in these moments, I feel something
and I know that I’m still alive.
I must be alive
if I can still feel
…right?

when I get asked about my scars
and how I could possibly do something
so cruel to myself,
I want to say that
when I did it,
it wasn’t cruel.
I wasn’t trying to die.
I was trying to remind myself
that I’m not dead yet.

I’m a writer.
I’m supposed to be good with words,
and I am.
so why can’t I tell you how
I’m really doing?
why do I keep saying “I’m fine”
when I’m anything but fine?
why can’t I find the words to express
this feeling?

no,
it’s not a feeling.
it’s the lack of a feeling.

I haven’t learned
how to explain this yet.
I’ve spent years leaving and entering
this numbness,
over and over.
I think I’ve spent more time in it
than out of it.

I didn’t learn much, but
now I know that

the only thing worse
than feeling pain
is feeling nothing.

my abuser was a predator,
and I'm sure he still is.

predators don't change.
they are naturally
carnivorous creatures.

they are all the same.
it must be one monster
inhabiting millions
of human bodies,

and that monster seems
impossible to ****.

he enjoys draining
the life from his prey.

he has an
insatiable appetite

and a sweet tooth
for my innocence.

he uses the salty
taste of my tears
to season his meal.

and when he finally
sinks his teeth
into my skin,

the force of his jaws
crack open my skull.

he leaves a bite mark
on my brain itself.

he's inhuman.
he's soulless.
he feels no pain.
he has no remorse.

it's too late for me.
he's already bitten,
and his jaws are
difficult to pry off.

but it's not too late
for all of those women
that this monster
is busy luring in.

if you are out there,
please save them.

another child
will be taken
and forced to
grow up overnight.

another woman
will lose her life.

these women
are everywhere.

if you know one,
please, help her
to run away.

if you are one,
please, leave and
don't look back.

there is no
human heart
inside of a monster.

you cannot change him.
you can only leave,
and change yourself.

you're trying to figure out
whether she's really
wearing Gucci,
or if it's a fake bag.

I'm trying to figure out
whether that look
in her eyes is grief
or another sadness
that I have not yet
learned to understand.

you're judging her
because her teeth
aren't perfectly straight.

I'm judging her
based off of the words
that come out from
behind those teeth.

you're hating on her
because she doesn't
wear her makeup like
the rest of these girls do.

I'm loving her because
she has the courage
to stand out, and the
self-respect to not care
if you don't like it.


you're studying her looks,
but I'm focused on her soul.

that's what makes us different.

you told me once that
I have an old soul.
you were wrong.

I wish I had an old soul.
old souls are wise,
and kind, and helpful.
they contain beauty
that radiates
from the inside out.

no, I do not
have an old soul.
what I have is
an old mind,
packed with remnants
of the past that I
have tried my hardest
to forget.

how do you walk through
a mind like mine,
filled with fragile relics and
antiques that could easily fracture
if you aren’t careful?

how do you go on
without the fear of having
to pay for the damages
if anything shatters?

we use mascara to
mask our madness,
and concealer to
cover our faults.

we refuse to leave
the house until we’ve
done our makeup.

we forget our wallets
on the kitchen counter.
sometimes, we have to
drive all the way back home
just to pick them up.

we forget to say goodbye
to our families as we
rush out the door to
get to work on time.

we forget car keys,
glasses, cell phones,
pocketbooks.

we forget everything
that we know we
need to remember.

but we never forget
to put on our makeup.

we never forget the idea that
our values are almost always
determined by some man’s
perception of beauty,

and that our brains
mean nothing if we
can’t share our thoughts,

and that we can’t share
our thoughts if we
don’t look pretty enough
to draw attention.

we never forget that we are
ignored by our bosses and
criticized by our coworkers,
until our beauty is noticed.

we never forget that our
bodies receive more attention
than our voices ever have.

we forget to prepare
our presentations,

but we never forget
to prepare our bodies
for an entire day
of being judged.

your mother fights with your father
over anything and everything.
you realize at a young age that
your parents will always put
more effort into hating each other
than they'll ever put into loving you.

your mother surprises you and
picks you up from school one day.
she tells you that you're
going on a vacation,
and you're happy because
she's never done this before.

she takes you out of state,
and she promises that
you'll go to the beach soon.
you're so excited.

a few days go by
and you finally realize
that your mother took you
away from your father,

and that once again,
this is about hating him
and not about loving you.

you never go to the beach.

as you get older,
you figure out that
your mother does drugs.

you mop up her *****
some mornings, and you
worry about her health.

there's a program at school
that tells you all about
addiction and drug abuse.

you act like it's dumb,
and you say that you
don't want to sit through
some boring presentation
because that's what all
of the other kids are saying.

but secretly, you want
to know everything.
you can't understand
why your mother
would do something
that hurts her so badly.

you watch your mother
steal money, and you begin
to hide your own cash
in a hole in the wall.

there are times when
your mother runs out of money.
you know that when this happens,
she is going to be very mean.

your mother runs out of money
again. this time, she tells you that
she tried to have an abortion,
and that you are only alive
because she didn't have the money
or a ride to the clinic.

she tells you that if you weren't born,
nothing would be the way that is is.
she says that you were
the one child too many,
the final unwanted responsibility
that she needed to push her off
the edge of sobriety.

you believe her.

as the years go by,
you try every drug that
you come across.

you do drugs to forget.
you assume that your mother
does drugs for the same reason.
you wonder what she's
been trying so hard to forget.
you think that maybe
she's trying to forget you.

your mother leaves your life.
you blame yourself
because she blamed you,
and even if you didn't believe
a single word that she said,
you know that
she truly believed it.
and that hurts.

you move in with your father,
who makes it obvious that
you aren't wanted there either.

you've never had a curfew.
but when you come home
around midnight, your father says,
"only ****** come home this late."

your ask your father what time
to be home, and he tells you.
but he starts locking the front door
a few hours before
whatever time he gave.
sometimes, you sleep outside
on the front porch.

by sixteen, you rarely spend
nights at your father's house,
and you have no idea
where your mother is or
what she's been doing with her life.

you've been told
by your parents that
you are a *****, a failure,
a failed abortion,
and a waste of space.

you tried to commit suicide once,
and when you came home,
your father complained
about the hospital bill.

he wasn't worried
or sympathetic.
he was angry.

in an argument later
he tells you,
"next time, do it right."

you've been told
by your parents
that you don't matter.
you aren't loved.
you aren't wanted.

your parents were
your first tormentors.
they were bullying you
before you even started school.

society tells us that
our parents are always right.

for some kids,
that's good advice.

but if your parents
tell you the things
that my parents told me,

when they make you feel
the way that they made me feel,

you are being told that
you're supposed to believe them.

I still feel like I should be sorry
for not believing their words,

but if I believed everything
that my parents have said,

I would have listened to my father
and made sure that if I tried to
**** myself again, I would finish the job.

if I believed everything
that my parents have said,

I would be dead right now.

I’m so scared,

and I don’t even know
what I’m scared of.



I don't even know
what I'm scared of,

but I know that
I need to be scared.

I sum up politics in three words:
wealth equals power.

we are expected to make lasting
changes in our communities,
and in our country itself.

but to do that,
we need power.

and the people in power
will always have more
wealth than we do,

which means that
the people in power
will always have more
power than we do.

they tell us that we are
the future leaders
of this country.

they tell us that as leaders,
we are expected to make
changes in our communities
and in our country itself,

but they tell us that
only because they
know that we can’t.

I swear
I don't drink

but it's 2:19am and
I'm ******* wasted.



I swear
I've been clean

but please don't
pull up my sleeves.



I swear
I take my meds

but don't look
in the trashcan.



I swear
I'm fine

but do you really
still believe me?

in ancient Greece,
there was once a belief that
humans were originally created
with four arms, four legs,
and two faces.

Zeus, the Greek god of the sky,
became afraid that these humans
would have too much power,

so he split them into two bodies
and separated them.

they were condemned
to spend their lives
searching for their other halves.

according to Greek mythology,
looking for your soulmate
is a punishment.


I don't believe in those stories,
but they make sense.

we punish ourselves
by spending our entire lives
in search of our soulmates.

we are on an endless journey
looking for love in
all of the wrong places,

and we never pause
to look at our own lives
along the way.

we are so blinded by
this need to keep moving
and to find someone,

that we miss everything
we could be enjoying
by ourselves.

I guess you could say
that I feel broken.

it's this feeling where
I'm in the room,
and you can see me,
but I'm not here.

it's kind of like
I left pieces of me
everywhere I went.

I dropped my
idea of safety
while I was running.

it landed on the corner
of Morris Park
and Fillmore street,
and was tainted by
my friend's blood
pouring out onto
the concrete.

I didn't want it back.

my innocence was
left shivering
on the pool table
in my first
boyfriend's basement.

I remember thinking
that this was the
right place to
leave it, and
then crying once
I realized it was gone.

my faith in humanity
was lost too.

it fell somewhere
between the cracks
in all of this violence,
and was swallowed
by the fog of dust
and debris.

I don't know
where the rest of me
disappeared to.

maybe I gave too much
of myself away
when I tried to help
everyone else,
and ended up
forgetting to
help myself.

or maybe
I left those pieces
with the people
I loved, in the
places where
we used to go.

maybe, if you looked,
you could still find me

in my laughter
echoing under
the streetlights

or hidden deep
in the shadows
where we used
to park our cars

or floating towards
the sky in a cloud
of marijuana smoke

or stuck to the lips
of someone I loved once.

but maybe,
there's a chance
that all of me is still here,
even though I feel
so broken.

maybe I'm not incomplete.

maybe I am still enough,
even with all of these
missing pieces.

and maybe, one day,
I will find myself again.

when my boyfriend
rests his head on my chest,
he listens to my heartbeat.

I wonder if he knows
what is in the blood
that thumps beneath
my rib cage.




I wonder if he can hear
fists smacking chins

and drunken yelling

and noses bleeding

and children crying

and pill bottles opening

and ambulances blaring

and parents fighting

and skin slicing

and screams muffling.




I wonder if he can hear
the ***** music

and funeral speeches

and lives ending

and hearts breaking.




I wonder
when he listens
to my heartbeat,
can he hear

where I come from
and what I am made of?

can he hear
who I am?




and I wonder if
he could hear
all of those things,

would he still be here
with his head on my chest?

he has his father's eyes.

that's the first thing
that I notice when
I hold my son
for the first time.

those huge, hazel eyes
are staring back at me
from his perfect face.

he is so small
and so young
and so innocent

but already,
he reminds me
of his father.

already, I am scared
that my son will
grow up to be
just like his father,

or maybe even worse.
maybe my son will
grow up to be
just like me.

if I went backwards,



you'd find me underneath
those dim city streetlights

laughing with the other
kids on my block.



you'd find me at
the first funeral

and then the
second and third

staring ahead with
blank eyes and a
tear-stained face,

brown dirt on
my black shoes

and you'd never again
find me laughing at
the end of my block.



you'd find me
running, running,
always running

from the cops
from rival gangs
from foster homes
from mean kids

from my responsibilities
and my guilt and the truth
and eventually from my past

and I wouldn't slow down
until I collapsed.



you'd find me on a
pool table in a basement
with my first boyfriend
on top of me.

he whispered that
he loved me,
but the bruises
said otherwise.

I listened to his voice
and ignored his actions.



again, you'd find me
running, running,
always running

from my ex and his abuse
from my self-hatred
from my confusion
from more cops

and I wouldn't slow down
until I collapsed.



if I went backwards,
I would be running.

I'm still running.

if I go forward,
will I stop?

will I always
be running?

I can rewrite this poem
as many times as I want.

that’s the reason I do this.
the reason I sit up at night,
scribbling down sentences
that may never reach anyone’s ears,
stringing together words
that may never inspire anyone,
forming poems that may
never actually matter.

that’s the reality of it.
one day, these poems
aren’t going to be remembered.
maybe they aren’t even
remembered now.
maybe when they
reach my readers,
they go in one ear
and straight out the other.

but here, on paper,
I can erase what happened.
here, I can change the story.
here, I am in control.

I can rewrite this poem
as many times as I want,
but I will never be able
to rewrite the past.

we had a risky kind of love

a young kind of love

a reckless kind of love

a “we don’t know where we’re going
but get in my passenger seat
and we’ll know when we get there”
kind of love

a skinny dipping

crazy adventures

endless road trips
kind of love

a “there’s so much to do.
but touch me and just for tonight,
let’s forget about everything else”
kind of love

a smoke clouds

red eyes

breathe me in
and hold me there
kind of love

a “the world is scary
but hold onto my hand
and you’ll be fine”
kind of love

a late night drives

flushed cheeks

“shut up and kiss me”
kind of love

we had a risky kind of love
but *******
it was so worth the risk

I'm reading over the notes
that my therapist jotted down
during one of our first sessions.

there is so much trauma
and so many diagnoses.

my therapist says that
I'm not alone, and that
so many people know
a similar type of pain.



she's right. I'm not alone,
because I'm not the only
person to have a therapist

and because I'm not the first
person to be diagnosed
with these conditions

and because right now,
at this very second,

there is someone who
is reading this poem and
relating to these words.



sometimes this thought
is upsetting to me.

it depresses me to think
that other children were
raised by parents who
were like my parents,

and that they've faced
the same type of pain.



other times, this thought
is oddly comforting.

it hurts to think about
the children who grew up
the same way that I did

but it also calms me
to know that there
are other people
who are just like me,



because that means
there are people who
have survived this.

that means that
this is survivable,

and that even if I
sometimes doubt it,

it is possible to thrive.

when I was a child,
my mother was never there.

I believe that her absence
was a factor in my fate,
part of the reason that
I went searching for love
in all of the wrong places.

I believe that her absence
is one of the reasons why
I became a mother so young.

it wasn't her fault, not entirely.
it wasn't fully my fault either,
nor the fault of the man
who had fathered my child.
it was no one's fault.

I was pregnant, and placing blame
couldn't change that fact.



I was still a child
when I learned that
my own child was
growing inside of me.

I was scared
and sad and lost.
I wasn't ready.

when they put that
cold goo on my belly,
and my son's little body
formed on that screen,

I already knew that I would
do anything for my child.
my son was my world
before he even entered it.



but before my son's eyes
opened on this planet,
tragedy struck.

I woke up in a hospital bed.
I was told that I was alive
and that my son was alive too.
an emergency C-section
was able to save him.

the first time that I saw him,
I wasn't allowed to hold him.
he had tubes coming from
every part of his tiny body,
and a ventilator was
breathing air into his lungs.
he looked so fragile, almost
like a porcelain doll.
it almost looked like
none of it was even real.

the NICU doctors
read me an entire book
of my son's diagnoses,
medical terms with words
too long for me to understand.

the only part that I heard was,
"you might want to start
saying your goodbyes."

I refused to say goodbye,
and my son refused to give up.



my baby was a fighter.
he beat the odds over
and over and over again.

he grew stronger and
healthier every day.

eventually, I was told
that I could take him home.
I was also told that his time
with me would be limited.



my son's father
read one page from
that long book of diagnoses,
and he was overwhelmed.
he walked out on us.
I wasn't angry at him.
I was overwhelmed too

but I wouldn't leave.
I would be there for
every moment of his life
and every breath that he took.

it was me and my son
against the world.
we were inseparable.

I read him books
every night before
I tucked him into bed,
even when he was
too young to understand me.

I kissed him on his forehead
and I told him that
I would never leave him.

I promised my baby
that I would be the mother
that I never got to have.



my son fought
harder than anyone
who I have ever known.

despite the hospitals
and the medicine
and the surgeries,
he was a happy baby.
he had no idea that he
wasn't like every other kid.

he laughed and he cried
and he smiled that big smile
when I held him close to me.



and then the day came
when I had to say goodbye.

I had that same
heartbreaking feeling
that I did when I first
learned of his existence.
I wasn't ready.
I would never be ready.

all that I have left of
my baby are photographs
and memories and a
small, pale green urn
sitting on my dresser.

my son is gone.
my baby left this earth
not even a few years
after he had entered it.
my only child
was taken from me.



I still have these strong
maternal instincts.
I feel a need to protect
someone who no longer
needs my protection.

I am missing a child
who will never come back to me.
I am broken.
I am so broken.

this gaping hole
in my life will
never be filled.




I was a child
with no mother,

and now
I am a mother
with no child.

it's 2:56am, and I'm lying next to a stranger.
when the sun rises, I'll already be gone.
I'll have already climbed out of his bed,
found my clothes, tiptoed
to the front door, and vanished.
the house will be left exactly as it was.
his car will still be parked in the driveway.
the curtains will still be drawn.
the withering houseplant in his kitchen
will remain unwatered.
everything will be left untouched.
when I leave, it will appear
as if I had never been there at all.
but I was.

two weeks from now,
he won't remember my name.
he won't remember anything
besides the feeling of skin on skin,
of a warm body pressed up against his.
in his mind, I will have been
nothing more than another body.

I always imagined that going home
with a complete stranger would feel wrong,
would be terrifying, that not knowing
who is next to me when I am falling asleep
would be scary.

a few months ago, it was 2:56am
and I was lying next to a stranger.
this time, he wasn't a complete stranger.
this was not my first night with him,
far from it. I knew him. he knew me.
I wasn't gone when the sun rose
in the morning. the house was left
exactly as it was the night before.
the only difference was that this time,
I was still there.

two weeks after that night,
he would remember my name.
he would remember my laugh,
my freckles, my eyes
my voice when I was tired,
how I talked too fast
whenever I was excited,
the way that I looked at him
when I was in love.
and I would remember all
of those little things about him,
the same way he would remember
all of those little things about me.

I always imagined that sleeping next
to someone who I loved would feel safe,
would be comforting, that knowing the
person next to me when I am falling asleep
would be wonderful.

for the most part, my imagination
wasn't incorrect. I was right when I pictured
how incredible sleeping next to
someone who I loved would feel.
I was right when I pictured how frightening
sleeping next to someone
who I didn't know would feel.
I was right about most of it.

but I was wrong about one thing.
while lying in a bed at 2:56am,
I realized that the memory
of sleeping with a complete stranger
hurt far less than the memory
of sleeping with someone
who I once thought I knew.

I want to recover.
I want to open up in therapy
and take my medication like I should.
I want to feel again.
I want this numbness to end.
I want to, I do.

but for that to happen,
my disorders and diagnoses
would have to go away.
I would be left to face
the real world all on my own.

this safe world that my disorders
have built around me would be gone.
I would no longer feel so
disconnected from my body.
I would no longer feel so
disconnected from the world around me.
my disorders would leave me.

I can’t lose any more friends.
I’m still hurt from those endings
that I never saw coming

and whether I like it or not,
these disorder are my best friends.
I can’t lose them yet.
I’m not strong enough.

I thought that by now
I'd be happy.

I've been battling
these demons for
so, so long.

I don't want to lose.
I don't want to give up.
I just don't feel like
I'm able to keep fighting.

the truth is, I'm not
strong enough
anymore.

I need help,
but I don't want it.


please, teach me how to
disappear in peace
without taking
a piece of you
with me.

you need to
remain whole.
you need to
fill in the gap
left by my absence.
you need to
keep fighting.

keep fighting.
do what I couldn't.
please...

silk sheets and
expensive lingerie
and red lipstick

and I waste it all
on someone who
I know doesn't
love me but

when he lies
and says he does,

at least I hear it.



he says
"I love you"

and I know that
he's said it to
ten other girls
this week alone

but I smile and
I kiss him back.



because
when he says
"I love you"

the words linger
in the air and
his scent lingers
on my pillow

and when he's gone,
if I listen closely,

I can still hear it.



he says
"I love you"

and I know that
he doesn't mean it

but it doesn't matter



because
"I love you"
is something that
I still can't tell myself.

if I were to get famous
for some talent that
I haven't discovered yet,

and stand in front
of an audience with
hundreds of people,

I don't think I could do it.

but that's not because
of my stage fright.

I don't need to imagine the
audience in their underwear,
or whatever trick performers use.

I don't think I could do it
because my eyes would never
stop scanning the crowd.

even in a sea of
people who love me,

I could not stop
searching for you.

and it's so much easier
to imagine that the audience
is wearing something dumb

than it is to imagine
you being a part of that audience.

I couldn't trick myself into
believing that you are there.
you're not.

my imagination can't change that.

“you ain’t a man until you’re given a gun.”
he said. but I knew better.
giving a boy a gun
doesn’t make him a man.
it makes him a boy with a gun.

my hands were made for pens, not glocks.
I told him his were too.
he laughed and said,
“nah, my hands are made the same
as every other boy on this block.
you cut off my finger, it’s still gon’ bleed.”

I tried to argue but he said,
“these hands steal ****.
money, jewelry, clothes.
hell, these hands steal lives!”

and he was right about that.
he had the same dirt on his hands
that any other boy around here had.

still, I think his hands
were made for pens, not glocks.
maybe he would’ve picked up a pencil
if his hands hadn’t gotten
so used to holding a gun.

he was nineteen.
he was young and angry
and ready to fight,
and he didn’t know exactly why,
but he knew he had to be.

the streets here are where people
disappear when it gets dark,
and where no one asks questions
when the sun comes up.

there are no flowers
growing next to the sidewalk.
here, there are bags of crack
and gold chains and Cuban cigars.
there are plants here, but no flowers.

I was taught that here,
they don’t follow laws,
but they need to follow rules.

most rules here are unwritten.
instead, they are ingrained
into the street’s children,
a mantra that you could die
for not remembering.

he said, “if I die,
it’s gon’ be sprawled out on concrete.
no way I’m going down
without a fight.”

here, they are still fighting wars
that ended years ago everywhere else.

here, they grow up without
mothers and fathers.
they learn to feed themselves
as soon as they no longer
need a baby bottle.

here, it is strange
to not join in on the violence.
it is strange to not participate
in drive-by shootings.
it is strange to not want revenge.

here, strange is dangerous.
things are the way that they are
and this is the way they have always been.

here, he was any other
nineteen-year-old boy.
here, they would say he died naturally.
he stepped a little too far into view
and a bullet struck him in the right spot.
or the wrong spot,
depending on how you see it.
quick and almost painless for him,
but that hurt moved on to everyone else.

here, there are no rights and no wrongs.
things are not good or bad.
things simply are.

his mama sobbed when
she heard what happened.
she cried for him, but also
for every other boy on the block.

she cried for the boy
who ended her son’s life,
because she knew
he wasn’t any different
than any other boy here.

she cried for all the mothers
who lost their sons,
and for all the children
born into this life.

here, they don’t have to die
for you to lose them.
this life takes them from you,
dead or alive.

he was a friend,
and a brother, and a son.
he could’ve been
a writer, or an athlete,
or a ******* astronaut
for all I know.

but in the end,
he was only a boy with a gun.
here, they call that a man.

it’s 3am right now
and I’m wide awake,
sitting on the edge
of my bed with
tears in my eyes.

I am in exactly the
same position I was
frozen in last year

and two years ago

and the year before that

and when I was young,
something like thirteen,

and basically every year
that I was old enough
to have some memory of.

I’m still that same
sad girl who writes
depressing poetry and
makes reckless decisions.



she sees a future sometimes,
but sometimes all she sees
and hears is television static.

sometimes she wants to
fill in the blanks and
paint a colorful future

and other times she’s
not so sure she wants
to see any future at all,
existing or not.

I’m still that girl.



I have a bed that
the love of my life
is asleep in right now.

my room is painted
a dull blue-grayish
color that I once
would have hated.

I no longer have
fan memorabilia from
concerts and emo bands.

instead of posters,
my walls hold
pretty picture frames.



there’s one of me
and my love at the top
of a mountain we hiked,

although truthfully it
was more of a hill.

we laughed at how
overrated that hike was.

in this picture,
we’re still laughing.



my room is in a
beautiful house in a
suburban neighborhood.

unlike so many people
who I once knew, I
made it out of the city.

I have a diploma and
the start of a college degree.
I received an education
instead of dropping out.

the school district here
is rated highly.
this is a safe place
for my future children
to grow up in.

there is green grass
in a spacious yard,
and a patio outside
where one day
I might sit and watch
my children play.

I have an amazing life
that I never thought
I could possibly have.

I am genuinely happy.



but for some reason,
I’m sitting here crying
in the middle of the night.

3am is still a time when I
am almost always
wide awake.

I am still a sad girl

who sometimes sees
a wonderful future

and sometimes sees
no future at all.



my surroundings have
drastically changed

and right now,
my life is truly good.

I have already begun
to build a new
life for myself.

I am somewhere
safe and happy.



but I know now that
all of that means nothing.

I have begun to build
a life that I once only
dreamed about living,

but when I moved,

I had to bring myself
with me.



nothing can change
until I do.

I used to want to **** myself,
so I did. I killed myself.
but not in the way that
you're thinking.

I killed the old me.

I murdered her bad habits
and tore apart her self-hatred.
I cut off her toxic "friends"
and blocked most of the
contacts in her old phone.
I kidnapped her and took
her on a relaxing vacation.
I taught her a lesson on how  
she deserved to be treated.
I gifted her with new clothes
and some therapy sessions
and a newfound sense
of long overdue self-respect.
I took every part of who she was
and every single detail that she
hated about herself, and I
squashed those feelings
with my bare hands.



I killed myself
without taking my own life

and a confident, loving,
unbelievably beautiful woman
rose from her ashes.

when he called me a *****,
I said "thank you."

if a ***** is what a woman is
when she calls you out
on your ignorance,
then yes,
I am a *****.

if a ***** is what a woman is
when she tells you "no"
and it hurts your fragile ego,
then yes,
I am a *****.

if a ***** is what a woman is
when she uses her voice
and stands up for herself,
then yes,
I am a *****.

so if you call me a *****,
my response will
always be "thank you."

if having my own opinions
and my own thoughts
makes me a *****
then yes,
I am a *****.

and I am proud of that.

there was this boy who
got ****** at my friend
because she rejected him.

he called her ugly,
and we burst out laughing

because two minutes ago,
when he was flirting with her,
he didn’t think she was ugly.
two minutes ago, he called her hot.

he didn’t call her ugly until
she used the word “no.”

he stormed off after a few
more ignorant words,

but I wanted to ask him
what he meant.



was she suddenly ugly
because of her appearance,

or was she suddenly ugly
because he realized that she
had a voice, and she certainly
wasn’t afraid to use it?



was she suddenly ugly
because of her appearance,

or was she suddenly ugly
because he realized that she
was more than just a pretty face?

dystopian novels and
post-apocalyptic movies
somehow captivate
everyone that I know.

humans enjoy violence.
maybe it's the fear,
maybe it's the power,
maybe it's some sort
of adrenaline rush.
I don't know.

humans spend
so much time focusing
on the end of the world.
will it be zombies?
aliens? an outbreak
of some form of virus?
will we turn to anarchy
and cause our own demise?
again, I don't know.

I can't figure out why
this is so appealing.
I don't understand
other humans.

maybe my trauma
won't let me learn.

maybe my disconnect
comes from the horrors
I tried to leave in my past.

maybe I'm not interested
in the end of the world

because it feels like
my world ended
a very long time ago.

every moment we spent together
flows through my veins.
with each beat of my heart,
they are pumped through me.
these memories will always be there.

they will be there when
we’ve both grown old
and given up the reckless lifestyles
that we never wanted to lose.

they will be there when
you move far away from here
and hug your family goodbye,
knowing that someday
in whatever city you settle down in
you will start a family of your own.

they will be there when,
years from now, you sit in the backyard
of the house that you share
with the family that you assembled,
and tears fill your eyes
because you have lived a life
that you are proud of.

they will be there when
I finally stop running from my past
and find somewhere I want to stay,
somewhere that feels like home.

they will be there when
I kiss someone who isn’t you,
and I feel the same happiness
that at one time only you could give me.

they will be there when
I find the answers that
you inspired me to search for,
when I have this sudden epiphany
and I realize my purpose,
whatever that may be.

they will be there when,
years from now, I sit on my rooftop
staring up at the stars
above wherever I decided
to settle down, with tears
trickling down my cheeks
because I have lived a life
that I am proud of.

and you and I
will live these lives apart.
we’ll move on and forget
what it felt like to wake up
beside one another,
and we’ll find what
we’re looking for elsewhere,
and one day, we’ll understand
why this all had to happen
the way that it did.

what we have
will always exist somewhere.
in the sidewalk cracks
we used to walk over
hand-in-hand,
in the lyrics of old songs
that neither of us
have heard for years,
in the dust gathering
on boxes buried in our attics.

and sometimes
we might remember each other.
when I see a young couple
laughing in a diner booth,
when the bright beams
of a car’s headlight
shine through your window
and jolt you awake,
when we pass road signs
that we once drove by together
and cross through
states we once visited.
we might think of each other,
even if only for a brief moment.

and despite how important
this all was to me,
and despite how important
it still is to me,
I’ve folded up the days
that I spent with you
and taped them into
the messy pages of my journal,
stuck somewhere between
my 3am thoughts and an old,
yellowing photograph of us.

and now, I’m running.
I’m running away from every
droplet of self-doubt
that is trying to wedge its way
between my ribs,
running in the opposite direction
of words like “regret”
and any intrusive feeling
that is trying to trick me
into worrying that
none of this was worth it,
and that I am destined to face
a life of bitter loneliness without you.

because those thoughts are convincing,
but they are liars.
because all of it meant something.
even if parts of it hurt,
even if, to this day, I still can’t
understand the meaning of some of it.
because all of it was worth it.

and maybe you and I
didn’t have the fairytale ending
that we always imagined.
maybe we didn’t live our
happily ever after.

maybe the only place
that you and I still exist together
is in crumbled photographs
and life lessons and
these memories that won’t go away.

and maybe, even now,
there’s still pain there.
maybe the wound has healed
but still feels sore when it’s touched.
maybe we wonder what we could
have done differently
and what our lives would
be like if we had.

but in the end,
it doesn’t matter
how we began or
how we fell apart.

because in the end,
I’m just so happy
that I got to love you at all.

you tell your six year old daughter
all about stranger danger.

“don’t get into a car
with someone you don’t know.”

“don’t listen if they say
that they have a puppy
or candy or something fun.
they don’t.”

your six year old daughter
knows exactly what to do
if she is ever approached or touched
by a strange, unknown man.
but does she know what to do
if the man who touches her
has a seat at the Thanksgiving table?


you tell your thirteen year old daughter
that someone who she loves
should never hit her.

“if punches are thrown, leave.”

“use that can of pepper spray.”

“if you have to hit back,
aim for the eyes, or the groin,
or anywhere weak.”

“run away.”

your thirteen year old daughter
knows to never let a man hit her.
but if he yells at her,
and degrades her, and scares her,
and maybe even grabs her
but not quite hard enough
to leave a bruise, that is still abuse.
did you tell her that?
does she know what to do
if he doesn’t leave any marks
and tells her over and over again
that he’s sorry?


you tell your sixteen year old daughter
to yell “fire!” instead of “****!”

“people will care more
about the well-being
of their own property
than they will about your life.”

“they will come running,
but only if the situation
affects them too.”

your sixteen year old daughter
knows that people can be selfish,
and if they don’t want to see something,
they’ll simply turn the other way.
but there is good in this world too.
there are people who will care
and who will love her
and who she can trust.
did you tell her that?
if she stops believing in love
and genuine people,
does she know what to do?
or will she settle for the first man
who gives her any attention,
thinking that he is all
she will ever find?


you tell your twenty-four year old daughter
that one day, you hope
her future is beautiful.

“marry an amazing man.”

“have grandchildren.”

“live happily.”

when you tell her this,
you unintentionally add
your hope for her happiness
at the very end of your sentence,
almost like an afterthought.
your twenty-four year old daughter
wants to get married
and live in a nice house
and give you grandchildren.
but does she know to put herself first?
or will she marry a man because
she thinks he wants her to,
and have grandchildren
because she thinks that’s what you want?
does she know that
she has her own voice?
did you tell her that
she doesn’t need anyone
other than herself
to find happiness?

we were fourteen kids.
there were enough of us
to fill a classroom,
but we rarely went to school.
we learned what
we needed to know
from the streets.
school was pointless.
multiplication and cursive
wouldn't keep us alive.

one of us was almost sixteen,
in the wrong place
at the wrong time.
he got mistaken for
someone else, and he was
stabbed over and over
and over and over again.
we were thirteen kids.

two of us were nineteen
and almost twenty,
walking down a block
that wasn't ours.
we heard the shots
from our street
a few blocks over.
we were eleven kids.

one of us was thirteen
and on our block
where she thought
she would be safe.
she was pulled into an alley
and hurt in the worst ways.
she found out
she was pregnant
a few weeks after.
we didn't hear the gunshot
when she took her own life,
but we all knew she was gone.
we were ten kids.

one of us saw his brother
gunned down in
broad daylight.
he couldn't stop
replaying the scene
in the back of his mind.
he grabbed a Glock 19,
and he took the lives
of four kids from
the other side of town.
he disappeared that night
into the glow of
blue and red lights.
he rotted away in a cell.
we were nine kids.

one of us was a hero.
he pulled a woman
out of a burning car
and lost his life
in the process.
the newspapers refused
to show his story
when they heard
what neighborhood
he came from.
he died a hero, but
he would never be seen
as anything but a villain.
we were eight kids.

five of us lost so much
that eventually we had
nothing left to lose.
the gang life called,
and five of us answered.
we knew that
they couldn't be saved.
these streets don't
give people back.
and they'll take you,
dead or alive.
we were three kids.

one of us was twenty
and he thought that
he would make it out
of here, onto better things.
he was making dinner
for his younger sisters,
two beautiful little girls.
a stray bullet burst
through the window
and took him down.
the last thing he saw
was those two little girls
who he loved more
than you could ever imagine.
he was their older brother
and their parent and
their best friend, all at once.
they watched him fall
and never get back up.
we were two kids.

one of us made it.
she grew up, and she
moved far away from
our old neighborhood.
but those memories and
those losses and that pain
never left her mind.
she turned to pills
and then to needles,
and one day, she
took a little too much.
I was one kid.

I am one kid, now grown,
with thirteen dead friends.
I am a survivor, but that
isn't something to celebrate.
I shouldn't be a survivor
because none of this
should've ever happened.
we should still be fourteen kids.

I constantly complain
about my hatred for society

because a few years ago,
I tried to **** myself.

the only souvenirs
I brought home
weren't purchased
in the hospital gift shop.

they were etched
into my body,
unwanted
but permanent.

I will never
give birth now.
I'll never hold
a child in my womb,
and it's possible
that I'll never hold
a child in my arms.

my body no longer
functions like that.
I'm broken.

and the worst part
is not having
anyone to blame.
I did this to myself.

a few days ago,
I talked to my brother
on the phone, and

I told him I was thankful
for my suicide attempt.

he was confused
because that day hurt me.
it destroyed me.
it broke me.

if that day
had never happened,
I'd have no scars and
I could still have children
and right now,
I wouldn't be writing
this sad poem.

but I wasn't lying to him.

despite how utterly
horrible it's been,
and despite how
it still affects me,

I am thankful
for my suicide attempt.

because if I still
had to call my friends
panicking over
a late period,

if I still had to worry
about that every month,

I might only be eating
one meal a day.

I might have to
sell my old jewelry.

I might resort to
stealing money.

I wouldn't want to
but if I didn't,
I would never be able
to afford tampons.

I am grateful
for my infertility,
and for almost dying,

because I know that I
wouldn't have the money
to pay for tampons.

that's ****** up.

and somehow
you're still wondering
why I hate our society.