You told me you were trying.
I told you about the time
I threw up so hard I started praying.
I saw stars in my hair
and thought they might be angels.
But it was just the acid.
Just the light.
Just me, alone again
in a bathroom that never loved me back.

You didn’t say anything,
and that said everything.
You texted “sorry”
like a magician pulling shame from his sleeve,
then disappeared
like a good lie.
I stopped asking you
to prove yourself after that.
I just started watching
to see if you ever would.

Maybe I made the whole thing up.
Maybe you did say something.
Maybe it was kind.
Maybe it was cruel.

Maybe the light flickered
because of bad wiring,
not heaven.
Maybe I was just sick.
Maybe you were just tired.
Maybe none of it meant anything.

But then why
do I still dream in that fluorescent color?
Why does the silence still have your shape?
I built a chapel from our last conversation.
Tried to make the ache holy.
But I was the only one kneeling.
And no one wants a martyr
who won’t shut up.

You said I was unwell.
I said, Amen.
You said I was always bleeding.
I said, Isn’t that what makes it a miracle?
Because if this isn’t a resurrection,
then I’ve been dying for nothing.

I gave you the ugliest parts-
even the bathroom prayers,
even the version of me
that asked God to make you gentler.
You said, “I didn’t ask for that.”
I said, “Exactly.”

You weren’t the end of the world.
You were just the earthquake
I canonized.
The tremor I learned to waltz with.
The reason my mouth still tastes like salt
and I call it grace.

So if God ever comes back,
I’ll know how to greet him:
on my knees,
already emptied.

she’s still there 6.10.25 (11:03 pm / 23:03)
it’s all over now
the naive stupid little girl i was
i hated i wished for i killed
she’s dead now or at least
she’s supposed to be

but maybe she’s still alive i think
all those years didn’t work all those years of torture
trapped inside my mind rotting being neglected she didn’t die

i think that though i might wish her dead that i might only be
an empty hollow dead shell
she’s still there
her ragged fingernails still painted silver scratching at the bars of my cage
of a heart
holding the iron she’s begging to be free
she’s still there i can feel it i know it

i think that maybe she has been there the whole time healing
waiting for a moment of weakness waiting for me to crack
sitting there watching licking her wounds
i just didn’t see her

[playing: magic 8 ball by cavetown and frankie cosmos]

and i could hate the one who birthed me
and went through all that pain because i existed.
and she made me hate myself,
drew a line in my memory.

i've got nothing to remember,
only triggers that seem to last forever.

but she was and is my mother—
and despite all the pain and all the hurt she's given me,
i'll still take her stand when the world calls her wrong,
'cause i know what it feels like
to see your own going against you, before long.

and perhaps i'll carry these wounds,
of having to grow up with her
while helping her grow.

for i was a child,
and i still am—
but somewhere,
i became the mother
that i never had.

What I hate about myself
That is so pathetic and weak
That I despise so much 
Is that you can yell at me 
Call me names, throw lies
Throw all the trust back at me
Even hit me, scratch me 
Make me hurt and cry
Make my heart beg 
Make my voice loud
You can do all those things
Yet I know **** well
The moment we both 
Finally grow quiet and calm
The moment your golden eyes
Look upon my eyes, my soul
What I hate about myself 
Is that I would still love you
I would love you wholeheartedly
Through the pain and anger 
The guilt, regrets, wounds 
I will still love you through it all
Even through gritted teeth
Even through running tears
Even with a broken heart 
I will still love you through it all

pleading,
crying,
begging—
wanting to be heard.

watching, writhing,
burning in agony.
dreaming a nightmare,
hugging solemn innocence.
aching—
in despair, in desire.

once an angel of life—
now a demon of death in disguise.
her wings were torn, brutally,
and she couldn’t even scream one last time
before they threw her
off the landing.

nowhere to step, nowhere to stand—
barely able to sit,
and yet she ran.

kept running, far and farther still,
only to be pulled back
every time she thought she'd made it out.

they were always there.
watching.
waiting.
hoping.
to catch her,
to tear her—
hands on every part of her.

disgust piled with the blood in her mouth.
she scratched her skin,
tore herself apart—
knowing it’d hurt less
than being caught
by the counterparts.

and yet—
oh, look.
isn’t the moon pretty?

I was handed fists
for as long as I can remember.
My curiosity—squashed with screams.
I didn’t learn the alphabet—
it was beaten into my ribs.

I didn’t hold hands.
But their grip was tight enough
to remind me I’d never leave.
I’ve been property since conception,
just signed over with a new lease.

My tears were never wiped—
they were smacked off my face. You must swallow all emotion or you're a disgrace.

I was to speak when spoken to and never out of turn. What happens at home stays at home and no one else should learn.

It wasn't a phase mom- daughters marry men like their dads. Though I came pre-etched in rules there was a new ruler to be had.

I was handed fists,
my whole life,
disguised as loving encouragement
to be better.

How was I to know you don't have to yell to show passion?