My father walked me down the aisle,
But my mother held my arm.
He went with me,
But we went not towards the altar,
But towards the door.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And the ***** rang through the church,
Humming through the elaborate crown molding,
Carved by my ancestors.

He went,
Not beside me,
But before me,
And I watched,
As he was illuminated by the bright,
Overbearing,
Texas sun.

My father walked me down the aisle,
But I did not wear white.
My father walked me in silence,
And I shed tears not for a man standing at the altar,
But for the one I would never see again.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And no veil obscured my face.
All eyes were upon me, but not for my pristine beauty,
Instead for my clenched jaw and furrowed brow,
Severe and fierce to distract from my glassy eyes.

My father did not leave me at the end of our walk to sit beside my mother.
She clung to me for support and sobbed breathlessly,
Loudly,
Unavoidably,
And I carried her with one hand,
My sister the other,
And walked towards my future.
A future family,
Not one person more,
But one person less.
I walked,
One final time,
With him.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And I will never forget it.
Hundreds of eyes isolating my family from the crowd,
Slow and muffled sounds drowning in the deafening beat of my heart,
Blurred faces staring,
Black heels clacking against the cobbled path from the church,
The anguished wails of my mother,
The whimpering of my sister,
And the wooden box that glided before us,
Pulling,
A string tied to our patriarch,
The pin key of our family,
Pulled taut and then snipped with the slam of the hearse doors.

My father walked me down the aisle,
Before I had a chance to grow up.
He walked me,
Out of the church,
Away from the altar,
Never to be walked again.

Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t just been the backseat of your car,
Intoxicated. My first drunk hook up. My first. Period.
I picture myself being champagne on Valentine’s Day.
I picture myself being you, nervous in the car, holding Starbucks
because you know I love coffee. Sometimes, I picture myself as her,
calling you a stalker and ignoring your calls,
but then I see myself. I call you beautiful,
turn you into poetry, laugh at your bad jokes,
I see myself as I become your drunk Wednesday night
when you’re sad. I see myself as I say no,
I become a “this is not a good idea”
and you a “we’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.”
We laugh because this hurts too much.
You take her out for dinner and I burrow money
for Plan B because you forgot you don’t like condoms
and clearly have no idea how children are made.
I have already named him. He has your curls and
my anxiety. He is smart. Except, I never wanted kids and
you would be a great father. Instead, you tell her
the beach reminds you of her and I cry in a McDonald’s
bathroom with my friend as relief floods through me that
the test comes negative. I stop talking to you,
move forward, meet someone new and before long
see myself becoming you. Because isn’t that the cycle?
Bad men turn good women into bad women who turn
good men into bad men. I’ll set him free so he can hurt
someone like me, and I drink red wine as I read her
poems about him and me.

Every day is the same thing.
Awaking to see what the day brings.
Sometimes, I don’t wanna leave my bed.
Though I face the day ahead.

Meandering through the halls.
Staring blankly at these walls.
My feelings aren’t clear.
All I know anymore is fear.

My hands, shaking.
My confidence, breaking.
My breaths coming in gasps.
Just nothing more than rasps.

I succumb to the ensuring panic
And fall deeper into the Atlantic
Right now, I just feel really small
‘Cause there’s nothing more than the fall.

Your smile
Comparable to every ray of light
Your eyes
Glimmering with the twinkles of the night

You you you
are the sun and the stars
and you you you
are my favorite by far


Though in truth, I don't give a **** about the stars in the sky
The one I'll always love the most is the one close by
Sure, there are plenty of stars that have more light to give
But the sun is the only star I'll ever really need to live


You don't know, but your gravitational pull is so strong
No matter what, I always find myself strung along

It gets worse
At night.
When all the lights are off,
When I'm completely
Alone.
The feeling
Can be overwhelming.
This heavy, black
Misery.
This pulsating, pointless
Anger.
I'm driven to tears
By my frustration at
And fear of
Things that are far, far
Beyond my control.
When I am in this feeling,
It is real.
It is so,
Scarily real.
But the next morning,
It's gone.
Some sadness may linger,
But that blackness
Is gone.
It's like
It was never real.
And I don't know how to fight this,
When almost all of the time,
It isn't real to me.
So I make it real.
I make sure
That this feeling
Is remembered.
I write about it,
I mark it into my skin,
Letting the faint scars remain,
So I can look at them
And remember that
The black feeling is real.
That forgetting about it
Won't make it go away.
It'll just render me blissfully ignorant
Until the feeling comes back,
And there I am again,
Exactly where I was last time,
Feeling like this is the first time I've ever
Broken down in this way.
Then I feel like a child
Without any experience,
Any means
Of dealing with this.
I mark myself
So I don't forget
That what I feel
IS REAL.