i see a white truck driving opposite me
they’re on the opposite side of the valley
i wonder who is driving.

i like to imagine it’s a father with a little girl strapped in
mostly because i want to imagine it’s me
in my fathers brown chevy

it smelled like cigarettes and spring.
i mostly hope it’s the same for that little girl
and her father.

i miss my father cranking the windows down,
he would pull over to do it
because neither of us could reach.

he would go to hell and back for me.
i love him and he loves me
so why can’t we say it out loud.

now i sit on the bus with an aching back
trapped inside windows that won’t open
and i look across the valley.

The roaches come out
every 5 am when everyone sleeps
But I see them
When I’m up at dawn
They crawl one by one
On the microwave
the bruised wooden table
Sometimes it creeps into me
In one ear, out the other
It echoes my father’s laughter
My mom’s denial of said laughter
I hear its critter noises
And I shout ****** ******
Yet they all still sleep
Soundly at the comfort
of politeness and tolerance

No one believes
The crazy daughter
When she screams help

When your sister
died, it was the blue
box of Kraft Macaroni and
Cheese. Your half-
sister from your
father’s previous
marriage cooked it up
for you—she was only
a year or
two older than
you were—and you fell
asleep there on the
floor, where it remained half-
finished for the entire
night. When you
awoke the next
day, before you had even
opened your eyes, you 
thought for a brief
moment that maybe it
had all been just
a dreadful nightmare, but
then you opened them and
there the macaroni and
cheese still sat, half-
eaten on that paper
plate. No—
it had all
actually happened.

When your coworker
fatally poisoned
herself, you made
up your mind to
buy the nicest
ingredients you could
find and to cook the best
Italian pasta recipe you could
think of in order to
show your family
how much you loved
them. You wanted to be
present with them, to be still
alive with them. You
wanted to not
make the same
mistake twice, but
then there you were
at dinner, distant
for the entire
meal, unable to even
make simple
conversation, ashamed of
the awful contortions your
brain was doing in
order to process
your guilt over
her death.

When your father
died, it was some left-
over soup you had cooked
up a week prior. You were
embarrassed about how
the black-eyed peas and
sweet potatoes had turned out;
you apologized to your
wife for their mushiness,
and she smiled sadly and told
you it was the best
soup she had ever
tasted. After a week in
the refrigerator, the kale
tasted slimy. The soup was
overhot; its texture,
nonexistent. By
this point in your life, the
texture of nearly
everything—even that
of death—had become
wholly unremarkable
to you.

And when your old
friend from college
died, there was
no meal at all—just
a hasty cup of black
coffee you poured
yourself right before the
big work presentation
began. The text
message said that
he had thrown
himself from atop a
skyscraper in lower
Manhattan, and that
he had finalized his
divorce just a few
months prior. You
thought about calling
off the meeting, but your
boss said that he
would be in
attendance and, grimly,
you decided to swallow
your bitter emotions
right along with the
coffee—you didn’t
want to let
him down.

im a lil scared, my mom is unwell
i am reliving fears, i know this feeling all too well
each hospital visit, each tear filled eye
oh god why do you make my family cry
sadistic incision into my heart
idealistic vision into my art
i don’t want to feel good or bad, i just want it to end
i dont want to hear news good or bad, i just want to hold my mama’s hand
friends, family, it all hurts the same
constantly shifting frames, day in day out
labour hard, echo chamber scream it out
its hard, its hard, it hard
waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering where is the next empty spot
in the christmas dinner, thanksgiving dinner
dreams of the deceased, am i a sinner?

To the next man to love my mother, just know
She is a force to be reckoned with
She’s the type of woman who with take the clothes off her back to put it in yours.
If you should love my mother
Her kids are her strongest fighters
No home ever feels right unless she’s in it
To love my mother is a whirlwind.
No moment ever to dull
No moment is ever long enough
To love my mother is to love the things life can’t offer
To love my mother is accepting the luggage she works so hard to lighten.
To love my mother is to love every scar inside and out
To the next man that loves my mother
Keep her safe, to wrong her is to lose a light
Her kids may be grown but they will forever be little in her heart
To fall in love with my mother, is to love her kids.
We will always have a key to her heart and home.
To ever hurt my mother is to hurt yourself
You may stop loving her , but no one will love as hard as she does.
To the next man my mother loves, cherish her.
She is not someone easily replaced.
To the next man that loves my mother.
I hope you fall, because my mother is pure love.

you know what *****?
waking up all alone in the morning, without him next to you.
you know what *****?
that all of his clothes you have doesn't smell like him anymore.
you know what *****?
no longer receiving forehead kisses and unexpected hugs.

it just ***** that you could spend all this time with someone you thought you'd marry, just to find out 5 years later that it wasn't going to work out.

if only, there was time.
if only, someone showed us a sign.
if only, we could have turned back time.

that's a lot of what-ifs to ponder, but I suppose it is what it is.

a love that was snatched from you in the blink of an eye even after the grieving phase is over, with explanations that you will never accept.

a love that was undeniably strong especially when you thought the two of you would be forever.

Here alone
Far from my fellow kind
I stand by myself
But I am not lonely

Long ago I learned
Having more people in my life
Did not equate to
Having more friends

Being busier
Did not mean being more constructive
Or being more successful
That fulfillment comes from within

So now I gaze
Over a landscape filled with memories
Of family, friends and good times
I am alone, but not lonely