I never felt safe in my own house.
Could never climb the stairs without
nervous glancing, gazelle fleeing.
Could never turn off the lights
without another light beckoning in the distance
to guide me to safety like a white moth to flame.
His voice still echoes in the dining room,
I never fixed the holes he punched in the walls.
I don't know how to fix the ruins he's made,
To undo the damages he's done,
So for me,
This home will forever be haunted.

I hope you grow up innocent.

I joined the church choir
but I don't think I believe in God.
I guess the preacher should be
Preaching to the choir.
But the preacher's my dad
and I'm a disappointment.
So I joined the church choir,
because I like to sing,
And it's not so hard to pretend
not to be a failure in your parents eyes.

I should say Bon appetite
when I hand you my poems
because I know how you
devour the words.
Perhaps I should be honored,
But I'm a little afraid that
You'll know me too well.

My writing is not
pudding cups,
spring picnic in the park.
It should hurt
Like burning your tongue
and getting a brain freeze.
Does it cause you pain?
Can you actually feel what I do?

A poet should keep some to herself
because life is hard to swallow.
I can't forgive you for
reading my choking poems
where there's nothing but air
To take my breath away.

I should be honored,
but I am afraid that
You'll know me too well

The great inner landscapes
mirror the eyes of the soul
where skies and land meet
on a horizon beckoning home.

Never been there.
Can't talk about it much.
I've seen shadows on the wall.
Crying faces in my dorm hall.
I've seen reflections of friends
in the communal toilet while they Puke-TSD.
Can't talk about it much.
It's not a subject I like to touch.
Never been there.
Never talking like I've seen it all.
They have. Ask them what it's like to fall
down and check your face for scrapes
and have other people put band-aids
on your ***. ("Oops, my mistake!")
Or better yet, don't.
Don't ask me.
Don't ask them.
They can talk.
I've never been.

If they ask, you can answer with the voice of a friend.
But don't ask. Don't reopen the PTSDen
of pain and the past. Just listen if they ask.
Have some ******* courtesy till then.