Tonight, months later, I lay here accompanied with only
The leisurely winds teaching my cigarette smoke to dance
And a rage as present as the hole your father put into your playroom wall when you were five.
Did you mean a word of it?
The night we spent together on a stranger's front porch
Because their car wasn't in the driveway
It was you, me, and that bottle of whiskey you'd stolen from your mother's liquor cabinet.
You were tracing the lines of my palms
Whispering promises into them
Until intoxication brought us slurred words and sleepy eyes.
Since that night I've wondered if mountains would choke
On the echoes of me screaming your mangled promises into them or
If the trees would suddenly blush in shades of gold and red; a temporary Autumn.
I never knew how it felt to drown until you left me choking on the sound of your name.

I sometimes think it is unfortunate
That nothing escapes my pen but tales of an unrequited love.
I wish I could write about
Why I have not stepped foot in a church
Since the day I found catharsis in the word "alone",
The first time I truly felt safeguarded
Or the first time the word "divorce" shattered me.
I wish I could describe
The smell of a chilly fall night with crisp air and rain-dampened pavement and how it inaugurates autumn
Or the remorse felt toward a child who let go of his balloon to be left to the mercy of capricious winds on the Fourth of July.
But instead I am stuck incapable of writing anything but run-on sentences about Loss,
Why the burn of whiskey tastes better than that misconception of 'home'
And turning cracked pavement into metaphors about heartbreak.

I am a monster who is trapped
in varying levels of confusion, desperation, hypocrisy
Slamming doors in the faces of anyone
who offers me a purpose.
I question if love knows the word requited
because of how many times I've been able to find
purpose
But only in the bottom of an empty bottle while
Sitting tongue tied in a vacant room,
Fantasizing about the peacefulness of the cemetery a few blocks over.
Maybe that's why God stopped listening
I've looked into so many eyes
So many god ****** eyes,
explained my ghosts
struggling to make sense of the monster I am.
It's not that I've lost touch with empathy,
But putting it into words
Would be describing depth perception
to a blind man.
I once watched my father spend hours in front of a mirror
I couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying
but I've grown so familiar with his actions.
I am a monster and not by choice,
who was broken with love only once
and since then I've learned to walk with cracked bones.

I wonder if your mom was only sipping out the last drips from the bottle, to keep it away from the angry hands of your father.
I wonder if she slams the door as well, just to save him the trouble.
I wonder if she yells at the walls and buries her head where they meet, just so that he knows he isn't alone.
I wonder if she harms her own skin just so he doesn't have to.
I wonder if she tells herself she's worthless so he can save his breath.
I wonder if everyday, she breaks herself down so that he can feel like he's at least better than someone.
I ask myself often what you learnt from living in a house built up of dented walls and liquor stained floors.
I try to convince myself that you managed to build your own shelter, that you're different than them.
When you yell, I try to believe that you're just letting the sounds of your childhood escape your head.
When you punch the walls, I try to convince myself that your trying to make this new home a little more familiar.
When you bruise my skin I try to convince myself its because you don't want me to do it for you.
When you trip on your way up the stairs because of the alcohol in your veins I try to convince myself its because you don't like the way a full bottle looks on the kitchen counter.
When you turn away from me, I try to convince myself its because your scared to let me see you cry.
And after all this, when you tell me you love me; I try to convince myself that you really do.

I hope you believe me when my I tell you my body is composed of more than a skin and bone frame.
My body is a picture book of times stained to me like tattoos of memories unable to be washed off.
If you stare closely enough my purple knuckles tell a story of walls caving in on days I can't remember.
My fingers are a light shade of skin because they have traced bodies who's pigment fell in love with my hands.
My palms are empty from receiving and giving a little more than I should of let go; some things I should of clutched onto for longer.
My arms are made of clenched embrace and have a scent of regret laced from wrist to elbow.
My shoulders hold individual carvings of finger nails and teeth marks from more than one individual night.
My lips are a discolored red from every poison stained mouth in which they've met.
My neck is a canvas of rough hands, ropes not tied tight enough and purple stains of affection from those who have lied about loving me,
and my eyes have turned grey from staring for too long into the forests and oceans they've met at three in the morning in the caves of unfamiliar faces.
So if you happen to walk into my room, don't be alarmed by the smell of apathy. Don't concern yourself about the bottles buried and broken under mounds of clothes that reek of Marlboros. Don't turn the light on, and don't open the curtains.
I have lived long enough, my body will tell you the story.
But before you read it, please trust me when I say "there is more to me than this."

Fifty-two is the number found between fifty-one and fifty-three. Fifty-two will never be the sum of any proper divisors of any number. Fifty-two is the international dialing code for Mexico. Fifty-two is the atomic number of Tellurium. There are fifty-two weeks in a year. Fifty-two white keys on a piano. Fifty-two cards are in a deck. And fifty-two years, have led up to this day, and to this paper that you’re holding. This paper in your hands is a letter to you expressing my gratitude. Though it hardly represents a fraction of it. I want to thank you for being an example of what it means to really care for people. Even in anger, you are never unkind. Thank you for the clothes on my back and the roof over my head. Thank you for educating and molding and nurturing me. For loving me through every stupid lie and every too-short skirt I tried to wear to church. Thank you for the coffee-dates you took me on when I was too young to understand that you were showing me how a man is supposed to treat me. Thank you for loving my mother in such a way that I know exactly what to look for in my own husband someday. Thank you for every hug and every kiss and every “I’m proud of you” that built me up and reassured me constantly that I was loved. Thank you for telling me I was smart. Thank you for wrapping me up in that hug that day I tripped and fell and cried because I was embarrassed. Thank you for every birthday and every Christmas and every light-hearted excursion that resulted in more toys I didn’t need. Thank you for your encouragement and constant support. Thank you for every basketball game and every school play you came to. Thank you for always being present. Thank you for holding my hand in public places in spite of the assumptions strangers always made due to the difference in our skin tones. Thank you for never treating me differently than any of my siblings even though I am not biologically yours. I may not share your DNA, but I am a testament to your love. There is no other father I could ever imagine any of my memories being with. There is no other father I want to walk me down the aisle.
There is no other father I would rather have.

- m.f.

this is a series of brief letters to the pieces of my body

dear body,
we don't always work together very well,
but i swear i am trying.

dear hands,
the callouses and crescent moons in your palms
will not be for nothing.

dear knuckles,
aren't you tired of painting yourselves black & blue
every time words fall short of the fire burning behind my sternum?

dear feet,
you know better than to follow roads that lead to dead ends.
there are better places for us to go.

dear eyes,
you have sunken so far into my skull
it shocks me you see anything at all anymore.
you're fixated on shades of gray
but i promise the world will regain its color soon.

dear knees,
stop crawling.
this broken glass is from his bottles.
get up. no more blood.

dear shoulders,
it was never your burden to carry. let it fall,
and try your hardest not to feel guilty.

dear neck,
his hands will never make a home here,
and you are worth more than one night of empty bruises.

dear spine,
stop waiting to be warmed by fingers
that would reach for another body if they could.

dear tears,
do not waste yourselves.

dear ears,
you have been filled with ghost songs for too long.
stop listening for things no one is saying -
it will make life much simpler.

dear mouth,
i know these secrets have been threatening to break my teeth
but please do not open your gates. i am not ready.

dear skin,
we have never been close friends.
i am sorry for the scars.
i am trying to learn how to be comfortable in you.

dear mind,
if i could wish you into an etch-a-sketch
and shake you clean of these bad memories i would.

dear heart,
i hope you can forgive me for being so careless.
i feel how tired you are. rest is on its way.  

dear body,
you will one day see a grave,
but it must not be by your own hands.

- m.f.