i find it funny
how often i speak of love
when i myself
don't quite know what it is
and don't quite know what the difference is
between romance
and romanticised.

I carry a mask in my purse
for special occasions.
Turns out
wherever there’s people
there:
occasion

my father hates me
because I remind him
of my mother,

and he hates that
he fell in love with her
only for it to end
the way that it did.



my mother hates me
because I am
my father's daughter,

and she hates that he
believed there was romance
when all it was to her was
a warm body and a fun night.



my father hates me
because he hates my mother.

my mother hates me
because she hates herself.



my parents never failed
to make me feel unwanted,

but now I realize that
it wasn't about me.

they wanted children.
what they didn't want
was each other.

their hatred for one another
outweighed their love for us.



I know now that
all of that pain was aimed
at each other.

it ricocheted off of
the walls I tried to build
to protect myself,
and it hit us instead.

it hurt me so badly

but I realize now that
it was never my fault.

i mean aren't i supposed to know
where to go and how to feel
what happens? when i'm abandoned.
on this raft in a sea called my emotions
im afloat but my heart is drowning.
i still alive but the sharks are surrounding.
the same sharks that feed
on the broken moments in my head
AS I LAY IN MY BED
i lay, in my bed and stare at the ceiling
convincing myself its okay to be mistreated
is it

I told them
About the hungry and the barren
being I had become
about the not eating
the crying
the ice coffees
the empty calories I had become

The silence in the room was
Screeching
at me
I didn't know what they would respond with
But worse than anything I considered was
The silence
the calm
they responded with
The noise of my sobs
Too loud in this small sunny, peaceful room
I've now ruined

This is but a simple night,
Not unlike any other,
But the lonely figure in the garden
Meets the face of yet another

I become the face I see on the other side of the mirror,
The outside observer, the heinous sight,
Shifting ever slightly still,
So the glass might catch the light.

For it may be the sunny day,
Or the calm and peaceful night,
Yet still, you’ll see the small figure in the garden,
Smiling with delight.

Please---
shelve my wounded pride
and without flowers
with no mention or memoriam
bury me alive.