How come you left my mom?
Was she too sweet,
like the sugar she saturated your coffee in,
Or was she too kind,
letting you buy every
little boy play station game?
She warmed you like the sun,
penetrating your skin,
tanning your insides.
Was she too bright, beautiful,
mesmerizing?
How come when I see you, I still smile?
As my family curses your name, I smile.
When they tell me “He’s not a good father” , I defend.
their nostrils flare, but I
smile.

How come I forgave you so **** easy?
Maybe, so I can forgive myself,
for not being daddy’s little girl.
Not being able to gently step on your feet,
dance around the house.
For not being my sister, who has a father,
Enveloping her in wave after wave
of calm ocean love.

How come you haunt my dreams?
Voice calm, forgiving,
whispering: “I love you.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
“I miss you.”
soft whispers of broken promises echo

How come you stayed for him?
Was it because you knew
you could play baseball with him?
Or was it because when he turned 15,
you could teach him
how to pick up girls like dandelions?

How come boys break promises?
Not just boys, men.
Men like you,
Who tell 10-year old’s that
their present is on the way:
“It’s in transit.”
“It’s in the mail.”
“I just shipped it.”
“It should be there.”
“Happy Birthday Honey.”

How come I look for guys like you?
They say I’m “asking for it.”
Wanting to ****** up every simple, soft
smiling, cold
hearted, Uncomitting,
immature boy.
Maybe they’ll keep me
company
‘til you return.
You were my first definition
of a prince,
How charming.

How come I don’t trust anyone,
even that nice boy swaying silently to the song
that I adore, or that one who helps me
through dreadful chemistry lectures?

How come you text “I love you”?
When I’m alone, crying
over the latest breakup,
Submerging myself in heart wrenching
love songs,
Drowning in the comforting
lyrics. The soft ping of a text,
imitating conversation.
Your name
A heart emoji
I love you.

Your texts have become another promise.
I have begun to count down the days
until those words are murmurs
And three words become
zero.

How come, I still say “I love you too”?
How come you walked away before I could even walk?
How come my last name still follows me around like a brand?
How come you moved so ******* far away?
How come I believed you year after year,
Winter
Spring
Summer
Fall
Winter
Spring
Summer
Fall
Winter
Spring
Summer

Where are my presents,
Wrapped quickly in promises,
stamped “return to sender”

Dear misogynists,

Let’s be very clear here.
Boys are not ******* by nature. It’s not in their genetic makeup to automatically be mean-spirited or cruel. Being born with a ***** does not predispose anyone to being the kind of person whose hands make a welcome mat of my hipbones, who licks his lips as if looking at an appetizer, whose breath laced with tequila, privilege, and desperation slurs "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, baby?" from the other side of the street.
Genetics does not do that. Society does.

Dear misogynists,

It is the reason I know Title IX better than my own social security number. It is the reason I have to clench my keys in white-knuckled fists when I walk home from school. It is the reason I avoid eye contact at all costs because that "counts as permission." It is the reason I am told my mouth is useless unless he's the one putting something in it. It is the reason women all over this ******* planet get asked "Well... What were you wearing?" because apparently my outfit speaks louder than my voice, but you must not have met me because I can be pretty **** loud.

Dear misogynists,

It is the reason I am told "You know boys won't like you if you don't stop with that feminist crap." Who the **** asked you? If you think that passionately wanting equality and not being afraid to voice that is "crap," I don't want you to like me anyway; in fact, I want you as far away from me as ******* possible. I don't give a **** about your disapproval and I never will.

Dear misogynists,

Maybe you're right - "locker room talk" is as American as baseball, or apple pie, or roofies. "How could he possibly help himself? If he saw you in that dress, what was he supposed to do? NOT assume you wanted him??"
YES. That's exactly what he was supposed to do: NOT assume I wanted him, or anyone else in the room for that matter. Stop excusing ****** harassment because "boys will be boys;" my skirt is not an invitation, nor is anything but the sober word "yes" - and I include the word "sober" because yes, it does make a difference.

Dear misogynists,

So no. I don't give a ****.
And no. I won't stop with "that feminist crap."
And no. Boys will not be boys. Boys will be held accountable for their actions, just like everybody else.
And yes. I do kiss my mother with this mouth, but you can keep dreaming.

Signed, a Feminist

I keep my mouth closed,
using super glue like it's chapstick.
Lips sealed but hands free, writing my secrets into poetry,
I sometimes feel very cowardly only being able to share empty words about my empty feelings  to empty faces on this empty stage.
Empty.
I don’t cry as often as I should, maybe I’m just drained, maybe I’ve just emptied
The drain that connects my tear glands to the rest of my body.
And on the off chance I cry-
my pillow must have nightmares from my screams,
and sometimes- sometimes I hear my pillow sobbing with me.

i have experienced writer’s block before,
but not like this...
not when i’ve forgotten the meaning of every word that comes to mind,
every word except one: you

you are by far the worst thing that has happened to my poetry
because, before, i could write about my sadness,
about how the world was closing in on me,
but you stood in the way of that
almost as if you were saying 'no, darling, let me show you something new.'
so you showed me the world in a new light,
and suddenly it felt so big i did not know how to deal with it;
could not find the words to describe what i was feeling,
could not find the words.

in the weeks that we have been together,
my sadness became dormant.
sometimes,
sometimes it still erupts out of me;
the hot lava of my tears washing away any hope i had had left.
but even in those moments
you have been there,
there for the repercussion,
for the mending,
there for me.

Now all i can write about is you, you are the only thing that makes sense in my lines,
like, you belong there, you were made to be my inspiration.
around you, my verses and phrases dance, tangle themselves in your eyelashes,
curl themselves around your legs
a beautiful revelation of purpose.
until it doesn’t make sense anymore
and then i am stuck again
stuck in the spaces between the words that adore you so
but to them, i am a prisoner, forbidden from venturing out into the world of rhyme schemes and verses

this is what has been happening to me since you’ve left

and let me tell you,
the day you left i was
preparing myself for a novel
filled with wit and conversation
and joy
but now i can hardly find a single line
that doesn’t call out your name

*how could i ever forget about the way you hurt me
if you are all my writing remembers?

We order a mushroom-cheese omelet

Now see you’re the kind of guy who eats jam on toast
And I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t eat toast as all
So when the plate comes, I give you both pieces of toast
And you spread the strawberry jam on it
While I’m busy cutting the omelet in half
But before taking a bite of anything
We both pick up a hashbrown simultaneously
As if somehow we’d planned the entire thing
And we both take a bite of it and
We love it
It’s cooked to perfection and potatoes are my weakness
Back to the omlet though,
So I’m not that great at cutting
And the omelet cut unevenly in half
So you take the smaller piece
Even though you’re bigger than me
And I steal the bigger piece
Even though I’m smaller than you
And you eat your half in three bites
While I’m struggling with mine
And the string cheese is caught somewhere between
My fingers, my mouth and the plate
And it takes me a while to eat
About twenty bites in, there’s no way I can eat more
So I ask you to eat what’s leftover
I guess I should have given you the bigger half to begin with
But I guess that’s just how we work
Where you’ll always take the smaller portion
But end up eating most of the food
Because I’ll always take the bigger portion
And leave most of it untouched
You eat my leftovers in two bites
And the coffee arrives
I almost knock over your espresso
While reaching for the complimentary cookie
I eat my cookie
And then I eat half of yours too
And by this time I’m pretty full
But I see a sign for a free cookie
And I want it
You don’t really care for it but you laugh
Because you haven’t seen me want anything as bad
As the cookie (it's free!)
And so you get me the free cookie
And I’m too full to eat it
So I put it in my bag
Very proudly; it’s my success for the day
I finish my Americano faster than you finish your single shot espresso
So you give me a sip of yours
But you drop a few drops on me
And now my pants look like they have blood stains
And I smell of espresso
And you’re trying to clean it with a tissue
But the waiter thinks we’re doing something naughty
So I tell you to stop
And even if we were doing something naughty
Who’s the waiter to say anything anyways
Anyways
So we finish out coffee and we call for an uber
And my pants are stained
And I’m carrying my cookie
And I don’t think I’ve ever been happier
While we wait for the uber
You steal my glasses
And you try them on
They look funny on you
I like them on you
I think I like you
And you can’t see anything
And I can’t see anything either
Except for your outline
That’s enough for me
So the uber comes
And he calls us
And we’re leaving
At the counter you pay
And I see a Nutella cookie in the window
I want it
But you just paid for breakfast
So I’ll keep quiet
We sit in the car
And I put on pomegranate lipbalm
And I give you some too
Your lips look nice and soft now
And I think today has been a really great day
And I think you fit me well
Because you love toast and I leave toast
And it works out
(except for that baked tomato no one ate)
But look the point is
Is that we work
Well.
And we squish in the back of an uber
And guess what?
The seat was made for two.

We ordered a mushroom-cheese omelet
It was a good day

When my friend committed suicide, I didn’t find out directly.
I found out through a teacher. I was called in the office later that day along with everyone connected with my group of friends.


We sat there, and as the counselor told us why suicide was bad they gave us a pamphlet from the back wall.


How? How could they put suicide alongside ******, ecstasy, ***, AIDS, Party Drugs, Teen Alcohol, Texting and Driving.
Depression is not something offered at parties or given out for 20$ a pop. Depression doesn’t make you tipsy or destroy brain cells.
FREDDIE MERCURY DIDN”T DIE FROM DEPRESSION.


Like that pamphlet my eyes were opened.
Bi-Folded and Arranged like an informational epiphany

The first thing that I noticed when I walked into the psychiatric hospital was how cold the floor tiles were.
You See, they took my shoes off because I was a thirteen year old, five and one half foot, one hundred and ten pound threat.
I made grown men think I was off my edge...and looking back on me, I was.


I mean, killing myself? That’s the ultimate game show bet.
“WHAT’S BEHIND CURTAIN NUMBER DEATH” I seemed to ask myself.
And also, what games would I have to play to get there.
How long do you have to hang to die?
How much blood would it take to bleed to death?
How fast does my mother have to be going on the freeway to make my jumping death quick?
HOW MUCH OXYCODONE DO I HAVE TO STEAL FROM MY ABUSIVE STEP FATHERS DRAWER?
Someone would have to be mad to even bother looking behind that curtain.


But like I said, the first thing i noticed was the floor tiles.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Today I am Taking You to an Amusement Park.
You Know It? It’s right between Bastardville and LonelyTown.


My favorite ride is depression, it goes so far down!
Abuse is like a Kiddie Ride.
The Bully Stand has the best Food imaginable.


Oooooooo, or have you been to The Freak Show?
It’s by the Broken Home Balloon Stand.
Ooooo, The tension on insecurity, and G-Force on Divorce will drive you WILD.


I love the Rejection food stand, they have some delicacies like the slit wrist salad bar, or even the starvation sandwich.


Shall I Go On?
The final ride is called SUICIDE, often times it breaks down, but when you ride it you won’t want to leave....