I stared at
You
Staring at
Paintings
On the walls.

"How marvelous"
You remarked.

"Yes"
You really are.

Can you tell me when?
                    What dear?
When will being yourself be easier that suicide? And don't
call me dear.
                   Well, let's not talk about that, sit and eat your breakfast.
If not now, then when??
                   Be still, girl, and when you finish, go comb your hair.
Would you rather I end my own life than to stop pretending to be something I am not?
                  You now that's not what I mean. And you aren't pretending, you are just being silly. I put some more lip gloss in your purse. The pastor called, he wants to read you some scripters later. And your dad is going to take you shopping for some girlier clothes, those are horrid. Have you seen that nice boy who lives across the street, you should try to get to know him. You two would make some pretty kids. And-

Can you all just.. stop. Maybe it will be clearer when I'm not here for you to accept who I am..
                Be quiet, young lady. Pass the butter.
But I am not a lady..
And at that she laughed and reached across my plate and got the butter. She had to spread it with a spoon because she thought all the knives were missing, but if she listened closely she could have heard the clinging noise they made under my bed.

here's to:
my first kiss (and first everything, really),
my friends who can't take their masks off,
my friends who never wear any mask,
my family that's getting better,
my financial problem which doesn't get better (yet),
my neighbor who yelled at me for making out in front of her house,
my mom who has kicked depression's ****,
my sister who has kicked cancer's ****,
my father who's still kicking and kicking,
my grandma's and grandpa who supply me with food,
my significant other who's laying on his bed at his home in Australia,
my online friends who never forget about me,
my followers here, and on twitter, and on tumblr,
and every single one of you who's reading this right now,

happy new year.

I will tell you not of our
Secret mangrove tenement,
Tunneled through the space
behind both of our eyes.
A place meant for whimsy
and bioluminescent fauna,
fawning faux sun light
out into obsidian night.

Nor will I tell of our
soul’s soft meridian,
served on the half shell
to both kind and prying
eyes, distant though
unarguably tied— ribbons
spun, fastened, dyed

For what end should I tell?
When your very presence is
Heaven.
And your very absence
Hell.