Healing isn’t linear
But it is until it’s not
The sailing is always smooth until you capsize into a sea of cold currents that take you anywhere but where you need to be
But I carry you with me
Are you the boat or the sea?

Tell me what it’s like
To not fear your own shadow
Always it follows

Fifth grade:

Today the boys and girls were separated so they could learn about their body parts. You weren't sure you understood, but the teacher said you didn't have to be afraid of change.

Seventh grade:

Today the class started to learn about ***, but all you did was look at diagrams. Your teacher told you it was alright to giggle.

Eighth grade:

You've decided you'll wait until marriage, because your teacher told you that was the right thing to do. You can't wait to have a family.

Freshman year:

Your health teacher tells you that 50% of people will catch an STD, and he shows you pictures to make sure you don't become one of the statistics. He reminds you that it's immature to giggle.

Sophomore year:

You fell in love last year, and he thinks it's hot that you're still a ******. You tell him that you want him to be your first. He wants to sleep with your best friend instead.

Junior year:

That boy won't love you back, no matter how hard you try. He wants your body on his, and that's about it
But you want him
Maybe you even need him
And you know that *** is supposedly about love, so if you love him then that's enough,
right?
But while you laid there and cried, he wouldn't even look you in the eyes.

Senior year:

You can't explain why things are red and itchy and you're missing so much school. But finally the doctor called on a Tuesday, and you have to tell your mother what's wrong with you.

You can't stand the way the pharmacist looks at you when you pick up your prescription
You know your new lover deserves more than this
And so do you

Because your fifth grade teacher never could have warned you about these sorts of changes
And you really did want to wait until marriage
But freshman health didn't warn you about someone who would lie to you, someone who would kiss you while he kills you
And the statistics couldn't prepare you for the names you would be called
The sleep you would lose

It's funny how my fingers shake, how they spill their suffering onto a page
I've written this poem a million times, but somehow the only thing that ever surfaces is shame
Because I can't forget that my silk underwear broadcast a warning sign
And now my life will never be the same

This poem is dedicated to all my regrets
It's dedicated to loving you, to hating me, and everything in-between
To reminding myself that my mother was wrong when she said no one else will ever love me, because I know that I am worth loving
I dedicate it to the burning and itching feeling of missing you, because sometimes I still do
This poem can be about the way i shake when I think about ever seeing you again
Or it could even be about the way my lover has to hold me while i try and breathe

You have left your mark on me and it has grown into blisters
And while I am teaching myself to hate you, I hope you think of me each morning.

There was a time when you were Sixteen and you were excited about life
Because you could only hope that the world would get bigger than a boys bed
And you were ready to see it for yourself

But now you are Eighteen and you're not sure how you've survived this long
Because you never learned how to sleep on your own

You don't know if the world got bigger, but you can be sure that you grew harder
Sometimes you may see that sixteen year old in your dreams, but she doesn't know you and you can't bring yourself to tell her

All you can do is wish her the best and send her on her way before she tries to fix you too
Because you know she will

Except you can't seem to shake her, and every night she sits in front of you with wide eyes, all while you tell her about who she became

But last night when you looked for your sweet Sixteen, she was nowhere to be found, and in her place was just an old dusty mirror

Maybe you'll cry for her and what she reminded you of
Or maybe you'll have a drink with her name on it, and you'll down the last thought of her

You are sure you won't cry, because Sixteen led to Seventeen, so it wasn't a good year anyway

But you will wish you had told her to remind her future lovers of what she is, you'll wish you had repeated it over and over until it was like a red flag on her head

YOU CANNOT LOVE A LIVE GRENADE UNTIL YOU KNOW WHO PULLED THE PIN
YOU CANNOT LOVE A LIVE GRENADE UNTIL YOU KNOW WHO PULLED THE PIN

But you were set to explode long ago, and you are still picking shrapnel out of your chest

And while you cannot breathe around the ache, you will still secretly hope that Twenty-Something can teach Eighteen a thing or two.

Each bad dream was running wild, leaving train tracks for those thighs

Escape did not come lightly, for there's no relief in lullabies

I need something new
Something for my messy mind
A breeze of relief

It was February, and integrity had long ago fallen with the leaves. This clearing was forgotten, for it had not felt the steps of a heavy heart in many years. But today that would change, and the forest could feel them coming.
Although the forest knew they would come, it was simply a coincidence that they would arrive on the same day. They were not spectacular, or even particularly good, but they both had the same intentions.

She stumbled into the clearing first


She didn't know how long she had walked to get here, but she was amazed by how right it felt to have arrived. She knelt down into the dead grass, letting it scrape across her fingertips, all while thinking of where to go from here. The path did not carry on any further, but she knew that if she rested there long enough she would find her way. So there she sat, humming a tune she couldn't remember learning, when the first rustling of leaves found her ears. She had been in many forests, and on her journey she had encountered the footsteps of many cautious deer, the trampling of frightened rabbits, and even the silent tread of hunters. But what she heard now, were footsteps she never thought she would find:

they sounded like her own

Before she could be seen, she ducked behind a fallen tree and peeked over the top. Watching and waiting, the anticipation was enough to swallow her whole. But just as she nearly gave up, there was a break in the foliage, and it led to him. She was not sure what she expected, but it was most definitely not him. Maybe she thought he would be scary, or even another animal, but he was just a boy. He was built of simplicity and marble, all smooth surface and a calming stillness. He was surrounded by the grace of God but his eyes spoke of Hell. They burned like hell too, and she felt it when he instantly spotted her. She was frozen, for she did not know what else to do, but her wild eyes were already telling stories of where she had been— they whispered the desire to be wanted, but more importantly they screamed the demand to be understood. They were both hesitant, but he broke the silence first.

"I won't hurt you. Come out from behind the tree."
So out she came, but she did not speak.

"What's your name?"
This took her by surprise since she had not said her name in a very, very long time.

"I don't know," she stammered.
This brought a slight smile to his face, and although it did not reach his eyes, it transformed him. With a corner of his mouth lifted, he was holding the weight of the world.

"That's okay, I didn't know mine either. But I do know how you can figure it out." So he rummaged in his pocket, pulling out small, strange objects, until finally he unveiled a skinny paint brush. Slowly he walked towards her, and holding out the paint brush he said,
"Here, take it. You can write in the dirt."
She was baffled when she said, "Well, what do I write?"
There was the smile again, taunting her ignorance but also promising clarity.

"That doesn't matter yet. Just close your eyes and scrawl in the dirt."
She did not know why, but the amount of trust she felt for him was unfathomable. So without peeking, she closed her eyes and she felt her fingers move. It was as if her fingers were meant to spill over the top, uncovering the name that had followed her for all of her life, and now after. It was a familiar friend giving her a warm hug, a blanket wrapping around her, finally coaxing her identity to the surface.  It was over as soon as it began, and she opened her eyes to look at the bold lines in the dirt. The letters showed no sign of hesitation or fear; only strength and hardness. There lay the word, etched into more than just the Earth.

WAR

"What does it mean?" She whispered to the boy, but when she looked up at him she saw only astonishment. He smiled again, however this time it fully reached his eyes. When he looked away from her name and into her, he felt as if he had known her name from the very beginning.

"It means you have a beautiful violence about you." In those words there were a million meanings, things that would never be spoken aloud, but that was alright, because she understood. Her smile was bright, and it was then that she realized she had not yet learned his name.

"What's your name?"
His smile faltered as he spoke.
"Silence"
It was obvious that he resented this title, but she could not understand why.
"It's lovely, you are the calm before the storm," she said.

Before he could say anything the ground began to shake, and in front of them the trees trembled and cracked until two paths had appeared. It was very obvious that one was made for destruction and the other was made for peace. Silence did not dare look at War, for he knew he had to follow his path without looking back. But War did not care, and she stared into his soul. When he did not look at her she began to weep, because she did not care about the paths. She was War and she was destruction, she would create a path wherever she went. He was Silence and he was acceptance, but he could only make a path when he dared to make a sound. She knew what he would say next, but she would not let him get that far.

"Don't leave," she said.
This time when he tried to smile, it was only a sad grimace. He must have felt his lips revealing too much, so instead he spoke.
"Our paths are different, you must understand that we are not the same."
She was no longer scared of him, because she felt the rightness of their unity. She knew that she had to keep him. He felt finality in the paths but she felt finality in the one path that led them there— the path they had both traveled.

"What brought you to the path that led here?" She asked him.
His eyes went dark, but he found humor in the question. He walked towards the first path, and he looked far down it, although he couldn't see where it began. He turned back to War and he said,
"A rope necklace showed me the way. How about you?"
And in that instant, she knew she was right.
"I took a ten story leap, and I landed here."
He did not speak after that, but he was named Silence for a reason. He did not need to speak.
"Stay," she whispered in the light of dusk.


His quiet decision spoke for itself, when both of their paths grew back together, to form the forest walls that they could call their home.

I've been thinking of you
And how you used to let me eat cough drops like candy, and sleep with my face nuzzled in your back
The world couldn't touch me there
I am engulfed in the world now.

I miss the days you would rescue me from home to take me shopping, and you wouldn't make me go back. You would tell dad that you were keeping me until he was nicer, that I was your little girl now.
I know dad misses you too
He just won't talk about it
I'm glad you didn't have to see him on the day you forgot his name, because all he could do was cry.
Three years ago, we all cried together. He cried because he would miss you, mom cried because we did, and I cried because no one had even told me you were sick.
Dad said it was better to remember you how you were: sassy and full of life.
But I don't think he realized that the memories would follow you.
Sometimes I can't remember your voice, but I can still remember how the nursing home smelled like death. I have a lot of things to apologize for now. Like when things got really bad, and I wouldn't answer the phone anymore. Or when I stopped saying yes to rubbing your feet. Most importantly, when I didn't visit you for three years because no one would bring me, but also because I couldn't make myself do it.
Things are okay now, and I am sure you're in a better place
You're voice comes back when I do stupid things, because I'm sure you still scold me with my middle name. Thank you for looking down, because I am looking up.

I don't know about God, but I do know about you
And I know you're with me
And I know I love you more than you could imagine
All the Archangels are rubbing your feet now, and you don't even have to give them a dollar.

On Christmas Eve, a man called Nicholas stumbled down a sidewalk drunk on cheap liquor. He watched as his poison splashed onto his shoes, and he thought about his purpose, about who he was supposed to be. He liked to imagine himself as a good man (or a better one at least), a man who remained a legend long after this time was spent. Nicholas laughed at his frozen fantasies, dismissing them with a swig of that somber bottle. He made his way home half drunk and still laughing at what could have been. He unlocked his apartment door and stumbled towards the bedroom, but something in the hallway caught his eye. Nestled in a brown picture frame were a boy and a girl, from many Christmases ago. The young boy was smiling away with a fistful of the girls hair while they argued over the same present. Although the children were fighting, and although this moment was frozen in time, there was one thing that was unmistakable. It was the joy in their eyes. But the joy was clouded, because this was the year mother told the kids that her black eye was from a door. This was the year Nicholas came home each night reeking of drug store perfume, and didn't even try and hide it. This was the year Nicholas lost his job and the children had to argue over that present, because it was the only one they got. This was the year Mother became a father, and changed the locks on the door. But this was also the fourth year that Nicholas promised he would change. Nicholas was dragged back to the present with the sound of the answering machine beeping for him. He stumbled forward, taking a sip with each step, until he was close enough to press play. As the message began he heard a woman clear her throat.

"Nick, it's me. I brought the kids by your place today so you could see them, but you weren't there. It's Christmas Eve, Nick. You always see them on Christmas Eve."

There was a short silence on the line until she spoke again.

"Don't call here anymore."

In a fit of rage Nicholas ripped the answering machine from the wall, throwing it at the door. He was once again thinking of what could have been, only this time he couldn't wash the apologies from his mouth. "I was a good father," he screamed at the ceiling. "A good husband, where did I go wrong?" If only he could hear the heavens laughing at him. Suddenly he was here and he was there, everything around him, even the photographs, in small pieces— all but his shot gun. His shotgun seemed to be his salvation, the remedy for his sickness. Tears ran down his face drowning out the words, and he held his gun in one hand, and turned up the stereo with another. It wasn't long before his finger was on the trigger and he was kissing the barrel goodbye. What a merry Christmas this would be for his beautiful son and daughter, two concepts that were now far from his mind. The clock ticked down and at a quarter to midnight his neighbors heard the shot.

In apartment number 4, a man's blood was staining the floorboards while the radio sang, "Merry Christmas Saint Nick, Christmas comes this time each year."