He is screaming with frustration,
throwing objects like fits,
trying to contain his shrills but they
break through in shrieks
so I hold him.
He grumbles and growls wanting me
to leave. I just rub his back.
Slow circles; with my other arm
wrapped around him
like he is still a child.
I remind him to breathe
and tell him to try again tomorrow
and he huffs
but I can feel him releasing his anger
relaxing.
The tension in his body dissipating
until he is ready for me to
let go.
He picks up broken pieces
from the floor
tries to put them back together
the best he can  
I leave him to do this.
He never questioned my fear of the dark
when I would sneak away at night,
he eagerly awaited to hear my stories
and would hug me
no matter how hard I pushed him
away.
This is a love that can withstand
fights for the mirror
battles over school.
He is ever changing,
becoming someone new everyday
but when I hold him
he is still five
and braver than I.
He is stronger and kinder.
When I was his age
he could not understand
why I would cry in the other room
and bite at the ankles of anyone
who dared to step too close.
But I understand him.
The anger that lingers beneath skin
always ready to consume
and dominate.
This household is like
a pack of matches  
once he ignites he is forgotten
because we all burn up and out
without listening to his pain.
I remember that feeling,
it never fully goes away.
It is not something we speak of
but something we feel
and when he needs me to hold him
I will never be too far.
He has my ears,
my arms,
and always
my heart.

keep the fan on all night. if only change were simple. your ******* have grown and keep catching your eye in the mirror, a reflection of a girl you have yet to know. you have a boyfriend in buffalo, but here, there is a different boy with shaggy hair and glasses who drives you home at 1:30 in the morning and sings along with you to the radio. he is careful — even better, he’s convenient, and convenience is everything when being desired is what helps you see that girl in the mirror a little clearer in the morning. the sky is pink and nothing makes sense except how you feel right now, in this moment — like the earth itself is breathing in, swelling with air, reaching up, up, up and lifting you with it.

the boy in buffalo plays you jazz records on vinyl and takes your hand on crowded city streets and writes you love letters, but when you sit next to him in a church pew you can’t even raise your eyes to the crucifix. the clock is ticking, and you’re unsure, you’re scared. you steal away into the passenger seat of the boy with the glasses and make him turn up the radio so loud you forget about your own heartbeat. who do you want between your legs, and who do you want holding your hand? to both of them you could just be a beautiful idea of a girl, a long list of characteristics which they each want you to be but which do not add up to the sum of who you are. still, they both look at you from time to time as if they were hungry for an indescribable something that can only be found in the space behind your eyes.

it’s a summer night, you’ve kept the fan on, and everything is possible. you have rescued yourself enough times to know that you are never unrescuable, even though sometimes just picking your body up from the floor is a herculean feat. the sky is still pink and everything is balancing on the point of a knife but you feel your heart like a fist in your chest and you know that you’re going to keep waking up in the morning and that that alone is enough. the girl in the mirror looks like less of a stranger than ever before, the image sharpening ever so slowly. maybe change is only simple when we stop looking back at the people we used to be.

after years of being told how good my body was
i went through puberty.

after years of being asked how much time i spent at the gym
i grew hips
and disconcerting  looks from grown men who thought my fifteen year old thighs were too thick to be sexualized.

after years of wearing sundresses
and being applauded for being the first girl in my grade to grow *****
my metabolism slowed down
and i was made to feel like a cowbell in the least practical sense of the word.

i was thirteen and hunched over a porcelain toilet bowl when i told my friend i had purged and she called me gross as if it wasn't because of feeling "gross" that i was there to begin with.

and i'd grown used to my good-gened friends with their tiny waists and size 32 jeans telling me they wanted to join a gym in hopes i'd run along and lose some weight.

because when i was 13 and weighed little enough to turn heads i felt empty while looking whole.

and when you're fat you can't have an eating disorder, because illness can be seen so how good of a job my ana was doing depended solely on how faint i felt by midday.

in a world where nobody buys magazines it's easy to pretend we don't care for skinny bodies anymore, but when every smartphone is linked to an instagram page and every newsfeed is filled with "slim thick baddies" you can't help but wonder.

if i were to feel physically full why am i so empty?
i cheated myself.
she probably went and cheated on me because my body wasn't slim-thick enough to eat.

and it's easy to say this doesn't apply to me when you see the pictures on the beach but you don't see me scrolling through pinterest at 2 in the morning looking at "How To Lose 10 kgs in 3 Days" posts.

if i were so lucky i'd be a success story and could probably post before and after pictures of my body but you can not hear the ache in my belly screaming at me that it'd rather just be cut off.

when i was fourteen i could no longer wear shorts in public because grown men with wives would turn and watch my thighs clip-clap together as i walked with my dad.
i was asking for it.
i resented summer and the fact that i'd run out of clean pairs of jeans to sweat in.

but if i dare love myself, what then? do i apologise to the girlfriends of the boys who visit me for coffee? do i drink coke light with my whiskey? do i start writing poetry?

Spring reminds me
Of being thirteen,
And sprouting.
The verdant tufts,
And budding girls.

Girl,
You’ll be a woman
Soon, so start
Straightening your hair
So it’s smooth and shiny
And cake on your cumbersome
Concealer because
Acne is for boys.
Browse bras in Victoria’s Secret
The ones with plentiful padding,
Push-up, so your cleavage
Screams: “I am a grown lady”
Even though you’re only thirteen.
Trade your sweats for slimming
Jeans that squeeze, skin-tight
Telling you to take a trot to trim
Your waist because you weigh
More than a delicate number.