I grew up in a house of closed doors and retreating footsteps, so light I wondered if anyone was even there. A house of ghosts, defined by a thick layer of dust on the couches, and doorbells that were never answered.

I grew up in a house of silence, the only signs of life: coffee mugs in the sink, and leftover crumbs on the kitchen counter. Silence so palpable it wraps itself around my throat until it becomes comforting. The microwave cannot reach zero here.

Birds chirp incessantly on Sunday mornings, and the weight of their music sits heavily on my chest. Plants reach for a slab of sunlight trickling between dusty window shades. I can hear their leaves straining, and I want to tell them to stop.

A patch of sunlight reaches the floor, and my cat purrs loudly and unforgivably in it's warmth. Sitting at the edge of my bed, there are hushed footsteps down the hallway, a door softly shuts, the silence is broken.

My throat tightens, and I shrink away from the light. To be unseen and unheard here is to be safe. There are five ghosts in this house, and I am one of them.

I thought a single line of white dust up your right nostril can numb away the pain
That countless nights of drunken stupors could make me forget
That constantly telling myself I'm just experimenting and not suppressing
Hoping one day I'd forgive him but only finding myself regretting
You see I'm not addicted to the substance
I'm addicted to blame, blaming him for the pain
I'm addicted to the anger, the anger that he triggers when i realize I'm turning into him.

Always intoxicated on some other ailment. Intoxicated on the lustful idea that we could be the perfect pair
but now all i think is how i wasn't good enough, how K & L are your legacy, and I'm just a girl who you once said you loved, but don't bother to acknowledge.

You see dad, I denied my anger for so long
Said it was all in my head
but now i realize, I forgive you, because the more hate i fuel the more hate i feel

Is it too late?

you stole the song off my breath,
you stole the sweet off my smile,
i'll hit this blunt until there's nothing left
and stay hollow here a while,
and there's nothing left
between the forest and the fire,
so i'll watch it all burn down
and just pray the flames grown higher.

do you think that they remember me?
the girl with doll eyes who gave into them endlessly
and covered up their lies.
i was a child,
too small to reach, yet still to big to cry.
sometimes the lesson doesn't teach,
sometimes the phoenix doesn't rise,

and the ash remembers me
as the one who got away.
i try not to think too much,
and there's just not much to say,
and if the sky were to fall down,
how much would it weigh?
on my shoulders, getting older,
but as young as i was that day.

for now, i'll just get high,
stare into the wall,
sink into this place where
there's nothing left at all.
time moves faster every day,
and still i feel so small,
trapped inside this place where
there's nothing here at all.

sometimes i wonder when i cry, does god listen
but maybe i should quit crying
go back to rutland, where we all suffer
where we all ache bullet wounds
named after our mother
where we all love snow and
it often rains
so when the sun does come
it's a subtle pain
warmth unfamiliar
unaccustomed to change,
unprotected from the elements,
we are all one in the same-
the sisters and brothers
from the other side of the tracks
who got unlucky and missed the train.

sometimes i think god just went blind
or maybe he forgot our names
but at least we take cover in
the trauma of one another,
our broken bones
and broken veins

sometimes i wonder when we cry, does god listen
if we can ever heal in the arms of each other
if we shattered the sky could we
stop the rain

Spent the last few years
Living in disarray,

Always chasing safety,
Hoping I'd make it someday.

But safety only
Goes so far,

When I'm always
Going to war
With myself

And all I leave are
Scars.

Stuck in a dreamscape
Battlefield that makes it
Hard to go to sleep.

Post-traumatic stress
And nightmares eating me
For days,

Sometimes,
I just want to scream
And disappear for days.

Some days, I wonder,
Is there an end to
This storm?

Is there a better way to cope
Or will I have to suffer
A little more?

I was raised in my father’s ill-timed
           old ways: as a man saying how he feels,
           was like ash in his ashtray. And I had
           smoked up a few reasons of not finding
           certainty; but instead finding answers in
           all addictions as a troubled youth.

I remember looking for a quick fix,
          like a constant broken clock—
         without a lot of time.
         As it felt better not to admit to why I
         was crying secretly at night, and instead
         going around faking all of my smiles.


As I never once felt like I could fit an
        ounce of myself in my family, and
        sometimes the thought of being a
        mistake would be a thought I’d accept
        so gladly.
“I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a ******,
           I’ve been an idiot, I’ve been a coward,
           and I’ve been less than a good friend,
           Feeling less of myself most times, in
           saying I don’t amount to anything”—
           were all of the things plaguing my head.

I’ve been so sick of love,
          pretending to have known it as much
          And to my luck, I’ve been unlucky enough
          to know the way I lived felt like a vortex,
         cos it always ******.

Sprung out on how I forced my appearance,
        sitting on bottled emotions, ignoring
        how I’m really feeling— all thought
        to show a man in their great zealous.
        Such a lie it was; and a door to the
        knowledge of depression, that I tried to
        hide so well, with years of experience.

Cause I was taught,
          “real men don’t show their feelings”
           Still what are these feelings, I’m feeling?

Feeling sad, depressed, a mess,
          who can’t confess that sometimes
          he's a mess and not always at his best.
          Still, self-perfection isn’t what the
          whole world expects. And unless this
          boy chooses not to digress from tackling
          the feelings that have him compressed; that
          boy will only be a boy who still sits in their
          mother’s nest.

Cos no bird will truly soar where it rests—
          so would I; never be a man in this crazy
          world, by just covering up all of my sores
          in my heart with a bulletproof vest. I
          already swallowed up those bullets; choking
          up on all of the words of, not saying
          what’s beating at my chest.

Today, today marks the day,
          I threw out that **** ashtray.
         Cos the ash in that tray, made me feel
         like, the *** of the day. And I refuse to
        do the donkey-work, of pretending that
         I’m always okay.

        No, I'm not okay, because I’ve spent
        my life being burnt by the scorching
        ash, in that old ashtray.

                          It’s time for healing.

the nightmares keep
me up at night
almost every night
in March

i get to relive
the trauma
over and over
that month

i awake feeling
my chest tight
stomach turning
counterclockwise

my mind focused
on that first night
why it all happened
what did i do wrong

i was just a child
i remind myself
as i *****

i hope one day
i like March again
like i did
when i was 6 years old

'k Zie u daar nog liggen
in uw doodsbed
Uw laatste woorden ben'k vergeten
en gij zijt blijven leven

Maar 'k zie u daar nog liggen
een schaduw van de vader die ik kende
En gij zijt blijven leven
maar de schaduw is gebleven

'k Zie u daar nog liggen
met ogen die het einde zien
en handen die *** grip verliezen

En gij zijt blijven leven
maar 'k zie u daar nog liggen
in uw doodsbed