do you spell nicole with an h or no h
my question for you father is do i spell neglected with the prefix emotionally or was the one time you told me you loved me supposed to make up for all of that
i can still hear it
through my post-suicidal brain
believe it or not
I remember how to spell YOUR middle name
i guess i thought family
would be bound by more iron strings than intelligence genes or my-god-that's-a-lot-of money
and i guess i thought fathers
of daughters dying of anorexia
would give up the scales in a slowed-down heartbeat
instead of masking them in more excuses
hidden beneath hardwood floors
but then i also thought forever
existed outside of neverland
so i see i was naive.
just tell me one thing
do you even love me
or was this an experiment gone wrong
that you feign concern for half-heartedly.

To the deadbeat I hate to call my father,
I can’t say I hate you, for I would be hating myself.
You walked out of my life when I was four,
Yet came back a decade later asking me to ignore what you put me through,
Asking me to put the past on the highest shelf
Of my metaphorical closet.
I did as you asked, thinking this time around things would be different.
For a year I was overjoyed, you put me before yourself
But as the saying goes, what goes up must come down,
And your façade began to crumble.
Slowly but surely my calls went to voicemail,
My texts were never received,
Our plans rain checked for another day that never came.
I told you it was okay.
I was afraid telling you my feelings would make you runaway.
My anger was taken out on the woman that you hurt
My anger was taken out on the woman you cheated on and abused.
All the horrible things I wanted to say to you, I said to her instead.
My mother, the only parent I truly have, began to call you too.
Everyday, her and I would fight, trying to figure out what to do.
Well I’ve decided I’ve had enough.
You are not a man.
You are unfit to be a father.
You choose your own happiness over mine.
You say I asked for a lot-
When all I wanted was to catch up.
Ten years is a large gap.
I know I’ll see you at family gatherings,
I know I’ll have to deal with you eventually.
But I refuse to be fooled by you again.
You are a coward.
You have three daughters that need their father.
Two of them refer to their step-dad as their only dad.
I unfortunately do not have that luxury for my step father is a lot like you.
They say ignorance is bliss, but that is not the case.
You’ve hurt me too many times and there is no one to blame but myself.
I let you back in.
I listened to your lies.
From now on, I will not hide this problem on that metaphorical shelf.
You are the issue.
I am done with you.
I cannot hate you, as I said before.
Half of me is you.
But half of me is my mother.
The half that is kind and strong and knows when to move on.
I know you’ll want to be a part of my life again, but you’ll be too late.
I thought I needed my father, but I have enough people in my life to fill that role.
You are irrelevant to me.
I do not need you now.
I will not need you later.

Yesterday
I spent $45
on brand cosmetic makeup

Drove home after
debating with
myself in line,
shaky hands fumbling
with the plastic
casings enveloping
over-priced wax

Today
I woke up at 6 A.M.
applying my new
purchases with a
loving hand,
Confidence glowing
from my freshly done
face like sun beams

You and I
may have different
definitions of
a good day

The goals I set
for myself you
may scoff at,
a daily routine
for you has taken
me 4 weeks, 32
days and the writing
of this poem
to finally complete
(It would be 31 days
but I spent one extra
trying to convince
myself that I am
as worthy as
the first day
of the
month.)

Since Monday
I have accepted
the doctor’s advice,
paid my
car insurance and
my phone bill,
returned 11 missed
calls, hushed the
demons beneath
my bed so that I
could get one
good night’s sleep
(Their voices in
my head no
longer haunt
me.), remembered
to take all
of my
medicine

My dad
is proud
of me

This kind of
pride is
not the type
he flaunts
over toasts
at the bar,
he doesn’t
chime into
conversations
like, “My
daughter scored
a perfect 36 on
her ACT” with
“Did she? Well my
daughter can
finally take
all 5 pills
without
a reminder”
but
He is proud

To be so appreciative
of something so
small
is because
he remembers
the vortex
before this

The days I could
not remember
the function
of any part
of this
lifeless body,
the days I
would keep
as silent as
the intonation
of the ugliest
shade
of grey for
months; he
prayed each
weekly
phone call
from
the hospital
wasn’t
the “I’m
so sorry”
following my
suicide

These
were the
bad days

My life
was a gift
I wanted
to return

The thick
fog of darkness
settling inside
my head served
as mood lighting
for the loose
screws and
bent nails,
the crevices
of my brain
inviting each
drop of
mental illness
in to
drown me

Depression
loves me
so good

She has
this intrinsic
flaw of
locking the
spotlight
on you,
the betrayal
to parallel
your thoughts
with her
own, and
it becomes
more natural
to welcome
the abuse
than to find
a way to
escape

Today
I willingly
climbed
out of bed
before my
alarm,
washed my
bed sheets,
changed
my profile
picture on
Facebook,
opened
the windows

You and I
may have different
definitions of
progress

I didn’t get
the perfect 36
on my ACT
even after taking
it 4 times, I
didn’t get accepted
to my dream
school, but I
don’t punish
others
for the
absence of
my desires,
and my dad
is proud
of me

The brick wall
edifice of my
depression now
lie in ruins, and
I take full
credit,
the filter of
grey shading
over my life
has transformed
itself into
the color of
hope

My favorite pen
I’ve relied on
to rewrite
my life has
challenged me:
“This is not
the life you
want to
live.”

But
I
am
alive

I’m not
weak in the
knees
over the glistening
edge of a razor
blade, my nightly
prayers don’t
include
tomorrow’s death
wish of throwing
myself off
the Brooklyn bridge


I just
painted my nails,
folded all
of my laundry,
called my dad

And told him,
“I hope you’re proud
of me.”

I cursed every tear that dripped from my blue forsaken eyes, rolled down my cheeks, to rest at my lips, the ones that never got to call you dad.

Satin sheets
Like when daddy used to pull them up and down in quick succession
Sending out pretty little waves of air
Searching for you
Like echolocation
And they'd puddle around you
Like tiny hills and valleys
And you
a smooth little rock
Ensconced in a blanket of snow
All covered up
stay there
It's warm, and quiet, and soft
The light filters in in slow pulses
You let your eyes shut over sepia screens
(you wish this was eternal)

Leave us for a shot at fame
All it brought was pain
Everyone involved
Problem un-resolved
My father left me for dead
I cried on the bed
He took the easy way out
Now I'll ***** and pout

Dont try to understand
Don't try to comprehend

I will cry away the hurt
I cried the worst
For someone that I didn't know
Someone who never showed
Their face

The source of my frustration
Is the temptation
To be like him
But he never tried to live

He should've ******* lived

I heard that the human body doesn't have one cell the same as seven years before.

Now I'm no biologist, but that would mean I am not the same girl you left ten years ago and there's not a single cell inside of me that you ever got to injure. In all honesty, it's much easier to believe my body is sacred now that I know you never touched it.

Tell my mother I'm sorry
that the love notes I wrote were never for her,
that she never had enough time to actually pay attention to me or what I said,
that she wasted her time tucking me in at night to help me feel loved when it never even helped,
that I stepped on the cracks in the sidewalks so her back was constantly broken  while she was trying to provide
for everyone else but me.

Tell my dad I'm sorry
that I was such a failure that every step I took in the right direction was the wrong one,
that his voice went hoarse but at least he was acknowledging me,
that no matter how many times he left bruises I counted it as a hug,
that he never had time to listen to me,
that he never had time to swallow his pride,
that he never had time to love me.

Tell my siblings I'm sorry
that they never took the time to understand me,
that they'll never know just how easily harsh words can stick in someone's brain,
that I ended up so much like the person they despise,
that I lived up to every negative expectation they had of me.


Tell my friends I'm sorry
that my conditions were some sort of joke,
that I never actually mattered unless they needed something,
that when they replied laughing out loud when I said I was dying they couldn't even recognize I actually was.

And tell my heart I'm sorry
that I forgot how to sew it back together again
when it
stopped
beating.