I was seven years old
When my dad broke my heart.
He said he would move away
But we would never be truly apart.

I waited, and waited...
Sometimes in the  intense heat, or snow
But only with age I learned
That my dad would never show.

One day I got tired of waiting
and stopped watching the road.
My heart hardened a bit though mom
Still thought it was made of gold.

I guess at this point was when
I started to lowkey hate men.
Never have one kept his word to me
Not josh, nor Caleb. Not Keith, nor Ben.

All my relationships fail,
I leave them before they leave me.
It hurts less you know?
When you know you hold the key.

So at 20 years this where I am at.
And this is why I write.
It takes the pain away you see,
Some, but not much.

For all those people that think life is so easy.
Step into my life and it wont be so breezy.
Why is there senseless killing of others?
Why cant we live in peace with one other?
Why is there so much disease and poverty?
Why cant we come together and stomp thee?
Why is there so many racist?
What did that race ever do to you?
So many more questions are out there.
But no one there to answer them
I'm not here to preach about life
But I’m here to teach about life
For all those people that think their parents are annoying
I say this once, so listen closely
Go an thank your parents for keeping u alive,
cause if wasn’t for them your *** would be dead.
I bless my mom for what she has done for me
She takes care of me my sister and my brother.
I bless my dad for creating me
beside that I want nothing to do wit him
For all those soldiers that fight for America
You are the real heroes
You are the real heroines
Because you fight for a country that’s not perfect
You fight for all of our freedom
So thanks for what you are doing
Now for my friends that passed away Rest In Peace
But you will always be in my heart
I know you will be watching upon me
Because of this our dreams wont stop here

my very first poem enjoy!

flesh concious since
my mom caught me and my cousin Anne naked in that old beat up rusty hulk of a truck right next to the outhouse
playing show me yours
at five years old and scolded us like satan's spawn
several psyches through my tale
I decided to live with it
got naked one day
ran through the ******* middle of town
plucking flowers from gardens and graves
had several pinned in my hair by
the time the constables caught me trying to
steal a shrubbery from the
garden center at Wal-Mart

4/3/18 - Started dating my boyfriend
2/5/09 - The day I lost my best friend (Grandpa)
9/16/17 - The day my dad and step mom got married
7/16/18 @ 3:35pm - The day I might lose my other best friend

love
hate
like
date
the words that are four letters long
tend to be the ones we don't talk about
in front of our moms
I could never tell mom
about the things i love
because love comes with happiness
and I don't feel happiness
I never could tell mom
about the man I hate
because it was the same man
she was in love with at one time
I never could tell mom
about the man I liked
because the thought of
seeking her approval for a guy
I've already fallen in love with
would hurt me too much
I could never tell mom
about the men I date
because it was already too late
and if the guy broke my heart
she would probably hit them with a rake
14 years down the road
my mom has never heard me
mention an emotional four letter
word to her
and that makes me feel ok

After too many years of mom’s psychiatric issues,
whose pendulum of unpredictable emotions swung
between fits of violent rage and victimized hatred,
I gave up the struggle many of us
try and fail to endure.
Some people who love the insane
fall into the pit of personal torment,
an anxiety or depression of inner madness.
Others choose eye for an eye revenge.
Headlines of such retaliation steam over social media:
‘Wife Murders Husband Over Cold Turkey Complaint’
I made the completely selfish choice of maternal divorce,
to spend Christmas with a neighbor friend
who had endured much of the same abuses
and learned the same lessons years earlier.

Ana and I spent several merry Christmases
at one of those all you can eat seafood buffet joints.
The restaurant was simply a massive room.
A trough ran the 100 feet length of the back wall,
where the cattle lined up to feed.

Each year, we looked forward to our glorious feast,
not for the quality of the food, but the friendship
and the king crab legs neither of us could afford
any other time of the year.

We’d trade laughs and stories of the year.
We reminisced about friends and family passed on.
For 2 or 3 hours on a cold winter’s night,
there was no poverty, no family, no hardship,
no greed, no fuss…only laughs.
Except for the year I asked myself,
‘What would Jesus do?’

Standing in the long, sweaty buffet line,
a mumbling buzzed about a **** up front
taking too many crab legs.
Even though the restaurant claimed unlimited portions,
in reality, the kitchen workers played a good game,
only filling the large metal bin every 30 minutes.
The unwritten rule among buffet veterans
is to take 5 or 6 crab legs and leave some
for the others behind you.
The poor must look out for each other
because we all **** well know
rich ******* only care about themselves.

After a couple minutes of the crowd grumbling,
a heavyset woman in a moo-moo screamed,
‘Look at that guy! Look at his plate!’
The slicked-hair office drone the moo-moo pointed to
confidently strode past the hungry patrons
in his business casual golf shirt and khakis.
In one hand, he balanced a plate stacked
with at least 20 crab legs.
His other hand carried a cereal-sized bowl of butter.
The apparent jeers of shame from my fellow wretches,
whose bellies would go empty for another half hour
didn’t affect this guy’s silent march,
his corporate attitude to loot, to conquer.

I stepped out of line in the guy’s path.
‘What the are you doing?’ I said.
‘It’s a free country.’
He tried to squeeze around me, pressing his hip
against the orange chicken buffet station.
I moved to block him again.
‘Free for you, but no one else, huh?’
‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Just move.’

His empirical entitlement inspired me to perform
a little Christmas justice.
With both hands, I lunged for the man’s plate
and wrapped both hands around all but four crab legs.
‘What the hell, buddy?’ he shouted.
The guy had become a moneychanger in our temple.
‘Do something,’ I said.
A woman in line looked at me, her eyes wide, startled.
I handed her a crab leg.
The coward ran his mouth in an emasculated mumble,
but skulked back to his table.
I then walked down the line,
handing each of my fellow diners a single crab leg.
Old men formed expressions of confusion,
Young mothers and fathers laughed.
Children pointed their single crab legs to the ceiling
in a show of solidarity to the cause,
victory against a great evil.

A short Asian man approached me in line.
‘You must leave,’ he said in broken English.
‘But I paid for the buffet.’
‘No troublemakers. You go.’

I’d become a scourge to the Roman power structure,
an immoral bandit of Nazareth.
Being bad never felt so good.
After all, one can remove the boy from madness,
but without intense psychiatric treatment,
one rarely removes madness from the boy.
Ana wasn’t happy that we missed our annual feast.
I drove us home quietly content.
Another Christmas celebrated.

I woke up early
and took the wrong purse

I wore the wrong shoes
my skirt did not match

I grabbed the wrong book
its pages glued shut

I missed the last stop
then ran, didn't walk
but made a wrong turn
at the end of the block

the sign was deep red
I pretended to stall
and traced my steps back

the rain came down violently
I began to cry
in a quaint little shop
always checking the time

He came in and sat
we drank coffee and talked
I laughed my eyes dry

When he asked for my name
I thought of my mom
and kindly declined
just then he was gone

Everybody wonders
why I never walk and
my skirt doesn't match

My bestfriend wanted to **** himself last night.
Drunk as **** he called me.  
Crying his eyes out as he rants.
Talking about wanting to die.
Begging I pleaded for him not to.
Yet he had no care for what I said.
Telling me he wanted to feel what it was like to cut.
Leaving his phone to go find a razor.
I ran the five minute walk to his house.
Rushing in, he throws the blade in shock.
Then fights me as I try to keep him from going and finding it.
Fights me as I try to stop him from getting another one.
Crying I beg him to stop cutting.
Beg him to stop as he slits his wrists open infront of me.
It was as though he had no care for me.
As though I was some stranger standing in his way of happiness.
He was a different person entirely.
Calling the only mom I trust.
She rushes over and we force him to get up and leave.
We were able to stop him.
Get him to talk.
Yet.
He is still so distance.
So different.
I'm scared to death...
Scared that I'm on the verge of losing my bestfriend.
The guy who got me sober.
Who has stopped me from cutting and more, countless times.
I can't survive without him.
I can't help but pray with everything in me.
That he will be okay.
That he will make it through.
I love him too much to lose him.
He's my bestfriend.
I'm scared to leave him alone.
I'm scared to overcrowd him.
I just want him safe.
I don't know how to feel about all of this.
I'm scared out of my mind.

Boys, I warn you, you are not
to look at Twinkle Girls;
I, Glum Master of the Universe, command
that none of you boys
look at those Shiny Girls who
are Bright as Stars
and so are called Twinkle Girls –
remember, you are not to look at
or wink at Twinkle Girls.
You can, O you immature boys
you can chase butterflies
and climb trees and fall off them and break your legs
but chasing Twinkle Girls,
no – I expressly forbid you from such a pursuit.
Twinkle Girls always come with a chime and charm
still, when they pass by and their scent gets into your mind
you are to poke your noses into your books
and you will contemplate the secrets of addition and subtraction
and the intricacies of algebra
until they pass you by…
Look, boys – you can have computer games
and you can play role-play games
and you can twitter and text
and you can steal cookies from the pantry when mom’s not looking
and you can spend the whole day
at websites your parents told you to stay away from –
but looking at Twinkle Girls,
that, I, Glum Master of the Universe,
I expressly forbid
And what will I, Glum Master of the Universe,
do about it if you ogle at  those Twinkle Girls who giggle?
I’ll amend the Books that Surely Lead to Heaven
so boys like you will all end up in Hell…
So, if you want to go to Heaven and eat for free
without mom nagging at you to be neat
and you want to play computer games for all eternity –
boys, I warn you, you are not
to look at Twinkle Girls…

Rays shine
warm breath on my neck
golden light in my hair

Here comes the sun

Catapulting life into overdrive
while smiles glance off
rain dropped tulip petals
and the outside of my spoon
scooping red delicious
watermelon dripping from

My fingers
My lips
sweet sticky
like baklava
or my mom
when I leave home
affection caressing our
words and tears

Honey filling our eyes
as we look back
once more
to see if the other
is smiling or crying
or both

Summers remind me
of transition
coming home
going home

So many homes

I never really liked Hugh Grant,
'til I saw him in "About a Boy",
It's not as weird as it might sound;
This lonely kid likes to hang around
And play with Hugh Grant's toys.

Wait, I didn't mean THAT! I meant CD's,
And he teaches Hugh about life...
Hugh's a loner & his life's a mess,
The kid's mum is SO depressed,
Thus their neuroses fit like peas.
(in a pod)

See, jerks in school chase the boy each day,
‘Cause he wears old, hippie clothes.
One day he hides at Hugh Grant’s pad,
Listens to music that’s kind of rad,
So he shows up every day.

Hugh and the lad start hanging out
He buys him trainers, shows him what to wear.
But soon, the kid wants Hugh for a dad,
And though it makes Hugh selfishly sad,
He kicks the poor kid out.

"Killing me softly" is the Mum's fave song
So the other kids beat him up.
In a school concert, Hugh sings along.
The mom is thrilled and cooks some Tofurkey,
Hugh joins the crowd; Thanksgiving is quirky,
And Rachel Weisz picks him up.

She’s got a son who’s kind of ******,
Over his Mum’s divorce and he tries to be Goth.
He roughs up the boy and mom is stunned,
'Cos Hugh Grant lied about having a son
So she tells him it’s a no go.

In the end, Mum doesn't commit suicide,
Though the kid DOES waste a duck,
With a loaf of Mum's 10 lb., whole wheat bread.
Everyone laughs and it clears their heads.
Mum & Boy and others get glad,
And the boy's mum finds him a new dad

Rachel forgives the boyish Hugh,
After seeing his good deed.
He loves the kid, the mum and her.
Everyone gathers for Xmas at Hugh’s’;
He wears a paper hat and agrees:

He's no longer an island and needs other folk.
The Boy gets a pal and Mum no longer sulks.
Everything is saved by the new Hugh Grant,
And at least he doesn't wear LEATHER PANTS!

Some say I'm obsessed with the night
and I, I say they are right.
I used to be afraid of the dark
the full moon
I used to be a huge horror fan
and well, I still am.
But I grew out of those childish fears
and now I see the wonder
as I gaze upon the stars
and adolescent angst
makes the night feel akin
to the dark thoughts
but as we mature
we realize that the night
is just the prelude to
a beautiful dawn
a new day
a new start
and the glory
of a beautiful sunrise
seen through introspective eyes
and even as I type
an essence of my thought
is lost
or simply kept
as I heard it put in another poem
and it resonated with me
like thunder on a dark
and stormy night
I used to feel afraid of the thunder
even though mom
would say lightning is something more
rational to be afraid of
but she couldn't hear the monsters
in the thunder that were out to get me
now thunder is calming
as I realize that there
are more worrisome noises
in day-to-day life
Going back to the night
as I sit outside
and tears stream down my face
as my eyes look into outer space
and I realize I'm just a speck
in this greater place
just floating on a rock
moving to and fro
like the waves that
crash shore to shore.
But we are all universes
with our thoughts
and even as I type this an essence
is kept
and lost.
Some say I'm obsessed with the night
and I, I say they are right.

one pill
two pills
three pills
four.

how many more
before i hit the floor?

five pills
six pills
seven pills
eight.

i think that i
can already see the gates.

nine pills
ten pills
eleven pills
twelve.

this war is ending now,
the one with myself.

thirteen pills
fourteen pills
fifteen pills
sixteen.

sorry mom
i'm a ****** up queen.

seventeen pills
eighteen pills
nineteen pills
twenty.

wait,
how many?

twenty one pills
twenty two pills
twenty three pills
twenty four

and now i am asleep
upon the floor.

I never thought I’d be one of those people
the ones who sit in coffee shop's on Bay
readied note pads in hand, sitting with engraved pens
bought by mothers with high expectations
of their child drawing out the new future

But here we sit, a collective sum
drawing out pathetic fallacy’s
peoples right arms
someone else's future in poetic prose
finding details in the blur
of business men rushing past
so green is a theme in these woods

Grande Decaf 2 Sugars 2 Milk
and a shot of espresso
I stayed up late finishing a politics paper
What’s keeping you up “Todd of TD Bank”
Your extravagant 2 bdrm 2.5 bth on Bloor?
Or the realization your wife cheated on you
with a younger college drop out
i don't actually care Todd
i just want to write a new **** poem

Satchels hang from wooden chairs made by moroccans who get paid bottom dollar
I sit drinking over the sweat of latin americans picking coffee beans in a summer heatwave
the music plays to mask the confusion i feel here
displaced
my sperrys muddy and unkept
i am a large flaw in this small system

i'll keep my pen gliding
finding the answers to my questions
hoping when my words meet they shake hands in agreement
they are thoughts but not entirely
thoughts are questions short lived
and often unanswered

it turns out theres no answers in my silver pen either
engraved with an edgar allen poe quote
to a poem my mom never bothered to read
she wants me to draw a future
yet doubts me in every step to achieving one

When you look into the mirror
and you are unsatisfied with the fact that you cannot see your ribs,
unhappy with your lack of a thigh gap,
ashamed of your extra (ugly) curves,
missing your hipbones,
wishing for dainty, feminine hands,
wanting the stretch marks to vanish,
praying to feel beautiful.

When you regret eating, but also regret not eating,
you're kindof ******.
When you only get relief after throwing up the contents
of how little you ate.
When you feel like everyone is watching you eat,
terrified, in fear that if they stop you,
you'll eat them too.

When you hate the way your thighs jiggle excessively with every step you take,
how they accommodate the size of Russia when you sit down,
how your love handles aren't so lovely,
how you can't wear clothes that flatter you appropriately to others
because you feel so disgusting in your very own skin,
and you wish for nothing more than to be skinny enough to be loved...

When you regret the scars you claim to love sometimes
because you can't wear those cute short-shorts,
like you would anyway,
but it just eliminates the option.
How you are terrified to wear bathing suits because of your deep pink and purple scars, even the faded white ones,
and how they litter your thighs, and aimlessly hope
that someone could find a way to love them, if possible.

When you can't wear short sleeves or a sleeveless shirt,
because of the dark pink scars scattered across your arms,
the burns,
the cuts,
the deep ****-looking scars,
when you hate yourself for making them,
but still eventually accepting them, only to
end up hating them, again and again.

When you feel like a stranger in your own home,
because your step mom doesn't want her daughter to see your scars,
and yells at you for every choice you make,
and your dad doesn't even ******* defend you.

This isn't healthy, but you can't do a single ******* thing to change it.

it was your birthday yesterday
mom reminded me
like it hadn’t been the only thing on my mind all day
she said she couldn’t believe that it’s been so long
but it felt like i had just hugged you yesterday
i didn’t want to believe it
i don’t believe it
and i’m not sure that i ever will
so i set up a number that leads to no where
because i wondered what it would be like to call you
to leave you a message
to tell you how my day was
and i think of you
whenever i see a flannel shirt
when i eat peaches
when i smell fresh flowers
and sometimes when i want to feel close to you
i’ll go into my spare room, open the closet
and put on your army green police jacket that you left
it even still smells like you
i was too young then
i was too young to be sorting through an entire house of things so the entire family could decide what i would be able to remember you by
but even now
i don’t need your things
i remember you as clear as the blue skies you loved
it would just be nice to have more of you around
but i know you’re there
i look up at the photos of you in the living room every single day and smile
you’re gone
but i know you’re here

twelve years gone
but i can still feel you all around

You’ll find them in all such establishments,
(Be they graceful small-town former Victorian homes,
Or cinderblock edifices mindful of some campus multi-faith center)
Sitting in the basement, cheek-to-jowl
With moldering burial records and banking statements,
Yellowed newspaper clippings, faded prayer cards
Small squared-off boxes hastily tabbed together,
Ostensibly temporary containers which have acquired
An unintended and wholly unwelcome permanence.
The whys and wherefores of their subterranean placement
A mixed bag of foible and outright foolishness:
Unresolvable squabbles concerning possession and burial,
Families that skipped out on the bill, leaving mom behind,
Cases of outright not giving a good-*******.
And so they remain, in lieu of repatriation and redemption,
To sit for something akin to perpetuity in some cases
(Members of the profession resolute in their respect
For the dignity of life,
Though their sincerity enjoys less unanimity)
While others wait for mass burial
Once legal niceties have been satisfied,
While still others, in care of firms not so scrupulous
About crossing their t’s and dotting their i’s,
Are flung, albeit somewhat surreptitiously, out the back door,
The remains to take flight if the grass is dry and the wind is brisk,
Otherwise to be left to the vagaries
Of curious birds and creped soles.

He doesn't know all the words
To every led zeppelin song
So he doesn't sing along with me
While I'm belting out the lyrics
He doesn't idolize jim morrison
He doesn't love stevie nicks
He doesn't listen to johnny cash
He doesn't feed my mind
He can't tell me something
That I don't already know
He doesn't bite his nails
Or lick his lips
He doesn't have long hair
That I can twirl around my finger
He doesn't know
how much I adore my mom
He doesn't know
How much my father has hurt me
He doesn't know
I live solemnly for my siblings
He doesn't know
That I cry at night
Because I hate my appearance
He doesn't know
The little things that make me laugh
He doesn't know
That the shawshank redemption
Is my favorite movie
He doesn't know
That I hate wearing shoes
He doesn't know
Where I've been
Or where I want to go
He doesn't know
i'm a big fish in a small pond
and i'll never make it in the ocean
He doesn't know
all I ever wanted
was to be loved and taken care of

He doesn't know

He's never going to know

But you know

You know

All the words

to every led zeppelin song

Everyone asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year, and I didn’t really have an answer. I’ve felt somewhat numb this week.

After the clock struck midnight, and it was my 24th year on this earth, it was made very clear to me what I want for my birthday.

I want things to go back to how they were,
dumb teenagers in love with each other, holding on maybe just a little too tight.

I want to lose track of time with you in your bed, listening to songs that seemed so relevant when pouring our hearts out to each other.

We ended things and moved on with our lives in very separate directions, but we always stayed connected. I think we were both secretly rooting for our reconnection, someday, when the timing was “right”.

And no matter how far apart we had grown, there was always unexpected reminders of you everywhere. We kept in touch. The depth of our love created this ongoing tension, always tethered.

I talked to your mom a few days ago, on the anniversary of your death. She’s one of the only people that I think truly understands the complexity of my pain.

I never got closure from any of this. The only thing I’m left with is the realization that I’ll never get a “happy birthday” from you ever again.

Maybe I’m selfish, but I think it’s okay to be selfish on your birthday. and my only wish is that you were still here. that you didn’t take your life. that somehow you’re still out there thinking about me when I’m thinking about you, like how it always was, but will never be again.

The only thing that I can do is listen to our songs, and talk to the moon. I would do anything for you to be able to listen.

You were born on August the 2nd of 1948.
Your death was sad and hard to contemplate.
Today would've been your birthday but you didn't survive.
If you hadn't died, today you would've turned seventy-five.

Your death was a very painful thing that I was forced to experience.
It was hard to accept your demise because it ended your existence.
You gave money to the homeless because you loved to give.
You were the greatest mother on the planet while you lived.

It was so sad to learn that you were going to die.
And it was very painful when I had to say goodbye.
I wanted you to survive but I didn't get my way.
You were my mom and I wish you a happy birthday.

dad is in the garage.
days into spark-light and piles of polyethylene
etched.
soon, he says.
as grandaddy laughs,
rattling the icebox for more beer.

dad’s homemade android:
  the thing.
like a doll polished
& grinning, it
dances for us in the kitchen.

the dog barks, chained in the backyard.

the thing,
do-si-dos for a laugh, catches a glimpse
of the trees beyond the yard,
overheats,
circuits popping into a limp heap of pieces.
  dead.
left to mold-over in the garage.

the days.
the rain.
the cats tiptoeing along the edge of fences
across the street.
the dog barking, chained, &
snapped.
  dead
beneath a truck.

dad is in hysterics.
dad is in the garage,
weeks in and his soaked red knuckles.
mom is drinking with grandaddy.
they rattle the icebox.
  the dog.

the dog dances for us in the kitchen,
reboots and sits.
it digs a pit all night and buries three cats there.
it sleeps on the mound.
it never barks.
it waits there in the backyard, still
& staring into the trees.
  the trees.

(A Christmas vacation vignette)

Lisa and I choppered onto Manhattan island yesterday morning. We’d both felt toasted—so we took naps—and yay! We awoke recharged.

Later that evening, Lisa and I were at the ‘Elsie’ Rooftop Bar, in Manhattan, waiting for Lisa’s boyfriend, David.
Ok, man-friend? More age appropriate I suppose, he’s 27, but that description doesn’t have the same bf slap.
Dave’s a Wall Street M&A guy and they’ve been together for over a year - a future for them seems very real.

Slinky, jazz-like versions of secular Christmas favorites were playing somewhere and it’s a groove I slipped into immediately. We had reservations and I’d misbegottenly hoped for a five-star, breathtaking city view, but the indoor tables turned out to have these uncomfortable, high-backed, bench-like seats that face away from the windows—***? I made a mental note to check website pix in the future. The place is in need of some serious feng shui-ing.

Disappointed, I asked for a side table where there was, at least, a pitiable skyline view and I placed my iPad, volume down, on the table so I could side-watch the Thursday Night football game—hey, I’m not meeting MY boyfriend, ok? As the official third-wheel, I figured I’d need a little entertainment.

After a few moments, a waitress came by and she paused to look us over with a cat-like indifference that signaled she was better than me, better than us really. She was just cooler.
I was delighted—why am I drawn to people who look down on me?
I suppose I need years of psychoanalysis—but who’s got the time?

I glanced at Lisa. We know each other at a cellular level. With a milli-second of lash flutterings and eye dilations, I asked “are you getting this?” And she affirmed that she was. Because we’re cyborgs. A couple of cyborgs.
Just kidding. We’re not cyborgs, neither of us. We wish we were sometimes—think of the advantages, you could complete college in a blink—wirelessly.

Anyway, back to the narrative. The waitress reminded me of when I was starting high school and my mom and I toured colleges, how snooty the Harvard people were, even though I’d been accepted and offered a free-ride scholarship—I mean, shouldn’t we all have been one, big, self-congratulatory snooty-group together?
(Of course, I chose Yale because the people were totally friendly).

“I better get used to it,” I side-bar’d Lisa, who got the reference to my upcoming, year-long, master's program at Harvard—because we’re cyborgs. I handed ‘Laura’ (our snooty waitress was tagged) my Black American Express card, which got her attention, and said, “start a tab please—someone will join us—run a 40% tip too,” I added with a smile. She practically jogged off to get our drinks and hors d'oeuvres and I turned my attention to the game, you know, to catch up.

I love Pro football—it’s not really fall without football—is it? Even though Tom Brady retired. This all goes to say that I’m a pro football ******. Lisa likes it too, though she’s not totally obsessed.

Just after Laura brought us our martinis and ‘poached lobster’ slides, a random, well-dressed man (he was wearing an expensive Brioni, wool linen silk suit), 35-ish, receding mousy-brown hairline, high-ball glass in hand, took the opportunity to stop by and chat. “SO,” he said, in a deep, jolly, ice-breaking salesman’s voice,
“You girls like football?”
I decided that the suit was too shiny for a Brioni—was it a Zegna?—I idly wondered.
“We’ve boyfriends,” Lisa announced, almost apologetically, nodding to include me—in case he missed the plural. Undeterred, he swiveled my way—as if he needed a second opinion—and asked me,
“What do you like about football?” He sounded somewhat condescending to me, so I did what I always do with condescending males—I played the ‘ditzy-girl’ card, “The costumes,” I answered.
“The uniforms,” he gently, fatherly, corrected—before rocking back a little on his heels and sipping his drink.
“And the hats,” I updogged, but before he could digest my reply, David, Lisa’s man-friend, arrived on the scene.
“Sorry to be so late,” he said, giving me a little, jiggly, 4-finger wave, shedding his coat and giving Lisa a smooch on the top of her hair.
The salesman wordlessly took his leave.
It’s a night on the town—let the 3rd-wheeling begin!
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Songs for this:
Diamond Dave by The Bird and the Bee
You Belong to Me by Vonda Shepard
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And a Christmas Playlist - because the big day is 8 days away!
http://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_24.mp3

Today, my professor walked out,
then back into the classroom
When I was young, excitement embodied my soul
like an embellished Christmas tree of happiness
At that age, I would have created an eminent fabrication,
such as walking back into the room
eventuates a new beginning
or maybe she was melancholy, and walking in
and out of a room eradicates her unpleasant mood,
like when you move the furniture around your house,
in order to adjust a grim, atmospheric emotion

This would have been joyfully amusing when I was young
Thoughts cascaded from my head and blossoming heart
as easy as a raindrop breaking apart
when slamming the ground
this was a lifetime ago
before He jumped off the father train
before I spent all free time vacuuming up
the pieces of mom’s fragmentized heart
now, here I am, nineteen years old
executing endless labor to
keep our house from running away
attempting the role of a second mother
to a younger, disconsolate girl
repeating the same thing every day,
I watch time go by faster than the petals fall off roses

when I was young I would have written this poem
with exorbitant talent
and an eagerness that encompassed the room
with remarkable vibrancy
but I am nineteen now, sometimes I’m fifty
and all I can see, is that my professor walked out,
then back into the classroom

"Your mom got ****** and said 'oh ****' there's you for an ugly daughter."
"you're more of a man than anyone could be"
"******* ****"
"I hate you"*

i look at myself in the mirror for one last time.
i recall those words, those insults you used to chime.

walking away from my reflection, while a tear rolls down my cheek
i cannot help but to think of all the times i used to be so weak.

crossing the room as i gather up my strength
to breathe deep my final breath.

reaching my destination
I pick up the gun in anticipation

putting my finger on the trigger and the muzzle to my head
i  try not to think about what it's like to be dead.

i close my eyes, whisper a silent goodbye
as the breath leaves my body and I become lifeless and die.

life gets so busy
and hard to control
so you continue your absences
you’re on a streak, on a roll

5, 6, 7, 8
does this effect my fate?

I know the answer, I know the truth
i always say I’ll work on it
ive said it since my youth

it becomes a hassle
a tough way to live
but you chose this life,
“oh what I’d give!”

but now you’re stuck
hanging by a thread
and your time is consumed by this
and the thoughts in your head

you can’t remember the last time you went to get coffee with your mom
or the last time you held sand in your palm
by the ocean waters, feeling the breeze
but now you’re here, killing yourself for your dream
and all you can do is remind yourself to breathe
and think of the things you want to achieve

push past your body’s limit
and start a new day
with affirmations
that don’t feel the same
as when you started to say them
you recite them anyway

scrunch your toes in your sneakers
and ballet slippers
my contemporary socks
and **** in my stomach,
under my tights and over my liver

the baby pink
so soft and sweet,
your teachers tell you “better turnout, is what you need”

sing to the radio
in your mother’s car
she takes a risk
and drives you so, so far
but god knows
your feelings are tightly kept
under your bed
in a glass jar.

they rot and rot away
until you open them up
and spill them into your notes app
or onto a blank sheet of lined paper

The first time I took notice of a magazine, I was in elementary school. I could barely distinguish my S's and my R's. I was only a little girl when my mom gave me my first magazine and told me it was her Bible.

They all started the same way- a supermodel here, a ****** washed out athlete there, and a divorce that made the headlines. I thought to myself that this was normal. That hurt was something that happened nonchalantly, that every beautiful person starved themselves for one reason: to fit in. For publicity. For the money and so-called beauty. For love.

I was in middle school when I realized that all those magazines I picked up over the years were nothing but full of skinny, beautiful woman. Page after page of flawless skin, of perfect hair, and hourglass figures. It was the same year that I realized those women didn't eat. That they hurt themselves on the outside, so they could feel beautiful on the inside.

And I thought to myself, "I want to be exactly like them."

It wasn't until high school that I realized I would never be like them. No matter how much I followed the magazine celebrities like a dog, I couldn't do what they did, follow their actions, or say their words.

Women who aren't women are told they don't matter. That if we don't listen to the men in our lives, then we have no purpose. And if we deviate a fraction of an inch from the chosen path, then we get ostracized.

We get makeup thrown into our faces, and pills to make us thin shoved down our throats, and are forced to wear clothes that show skin- but when those clothes get ripped off, it's suddenly our fault for being skimpy.

The year I turned fifteen, I realized I didn’t need to be a certain way to be okay. I didn’t need to pop pills, or shove a finger down the back of my throat, or skip meals and deny it when asked. I could dress how I wanted, whether that be a dress or trousers, was up to me.

I was barely sixteen when I realized that the magazines lied, that they airbrushed real women into dolls, and that the media didn’t care about real people dying as long as that famous child celebrity lost 10 pounds. That they preferred a 10 day marriage over a civil war or a crackdown. That a man dying of a sudden heart attack was more important than a young girl getting run down.

I was a kid when I realized that the people I looked up to were nothing more than plastic and Photoshop.

That I was nothing more than a scratched up record player waiting to be glued together with a bit of cover up and a bottle of mascara.

Your death came as a surprise, it certainly wasn't foretold.
If you hadn't died, today you would've turned 76 years old.
I learned that you were terminal shortly before you died.
When your life ended, people were sure to be misty-eyed.
If you were still alive, I'd be spending your birthday with you.
When I say that you had love and respect, it is certainly true.
If you hadn't died, today you would be eating your birthday cake.
When I found you dead, it was almost too much for me to take.
Your death was upsetting, painful and very hard for me to face.
Happy Birthday, Mom, you died and you went to a better place.