nothing to write home about

sideblog to defiantlywhole. everything posted is my writing; anything inspiration is linked at the bottom of the post. do not repost; feel free to use my writing with credit back to this blog.

[expressivelywhole]

Fantasy: wake up at 6 eat breakfast, wash up, do my makeup dress up, slide into heels call a taxi to take me to the airport. Reality: wake up at 6 eat breakfast, wash up, do my makeup dress down, pull on sneakers drive out to my part-time job you know nothing about Fantasy: buy something at the airport to snack on board my flight, chatter excitedly to my seat partner about my plans finish off the complementary drink and snack start getting nervous an hour before i land Reality: shop around a little after my shift (what good is an employee discount if i never use it?) have a pb&j and soda for lunch go home, change purses, dress up, slide into heels go to my psych appointment to go over the results of my tests that you know nothing about Fantasy: Land in California see you waiting at the baggage claim run into your arms finally kiss you Reality: "It's likely not ADHD" but it is anxiety, a lot of it, and maybe even avoidant personality disorder, but that's a chicken-egg question, really go home, look up a couple books my psychologist recommended that you know nothing about Fantasy: catch an early dinner together get checked into my cheap hotel spend the night with you for the first time Reality: go to Great Clips get an undercut in Solidarity grab an early dinner talk about anything but the cancer Mom has that you know nothing about Fantasy: relaxing under your touch Reality: planning for my chiropractor appointment the next day Fantasy: feeling loved Reality: feeling numb High Fantasy: you propose. Low Reality: you don't think of me anymore. Painful truth: you know nothing about my life. and some days i still wish we were celebrating our one year anniversary.

"August 2, 2017" by Andi C.

[expressivelywhole]

The 181 dead lesbian and bisexual women on TV and how they died. And it’s lighter, happier companion piece; The 29 lesbian and bisexual women on TV who got happy endings. For every one of us who gets a happy ending Six of us have to die. It’s so common, there’s a goddamn trope. Bury Your Gays. Commander Lexa dies accidentally— Which, side note, When you kill a seasoned warrior with a stray bullet Moments after showing her happy with another woman You are telling the young gay girls watching That they don’t get a happy ending. That an ACT OF GOD will restore the status quo. Bury Your Gays. When the best representation you have is Glee, You know shit’s bad. Apparently Brittany and Santana got married? I wouldn’t know I jumped ship in season four. We have literally set the bar on the ground And you continue to bury us around it. Bury Your Gays. We have had a grand total of 383 reoccurring characters on TV in America. Almost a third of them are dead. Less than a tenth have gotten happy endings. And I am so. Tired. Tired on like, a cellular level. Tired of being told ‘It’s just a TV show’ That I’m overreacting That it’s not real. I am tired of being a gimmick to draw in more crowds— Come see the amazing lesbian! Tired of being killed when the novelty wears off. But when we are killed off, It’s not because she’s gay why does everything have to be about her being gay her gayness had no part in our decision to murder her. And with her, the young gay girls watching. Girls who had been toldThis is gonna be different Who had been assuredThis wouldn’t end the same way as all the others. Girls who had been hoping for a happy ending Finally For once Girls who had depended on this in an intolerable world To be their softness To be their safe spot And with the end of that So went their will to live. Bury. Your. Gays. I don’t know what hurts more That these young gay girls have died with their commander Or that I’m unsurprised.

“I didn’t even fucking watch the 1OO”, Andi C [ x ], [ x ], [ x ], [ x ], [ x ] (via expressivelywhole)

[expressivelywhole]

October 2, 2016 is when you ended things and didn’t tell me. October 20, 2016 is when I ended things and told the whole goddamn world. Things you missed in those 18 days: My renaissance faire costume, all fey and corsets and exposed skin. Applying to two jobs. Getting two interviews. Getting two seasonal jobs. Getting promoted my first day at my first job. Having to turn down the other job because the hours didn’t work anymore. The Carmilla movie was announced. Carmilla Act III was released. I bought both with my own money. I received my first-ever paycheck. My garage in San Dimas burnt down, and I couldn’t get any information about what happened. My girlfriend wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. Googling your name. Googling your name “+obituary”. Looking up your family on facebook to see if anything had happened to you. Messaging your sister. Seeing pictures of you with another girl at your sister’s graduation. (Did you ignore her too? Or did she give up on you before that?) You always had a way of doing exactly what hurt me most. I suppose I should have seen this coming, then. This time, I am taking no blame. This was entirely your choice. Entirely your fault. And I am not going to forgive you. Not now; not ever. I want answers, but I want to never hear from you again more.

“I should have know from that triggered joke that you were nothing but an asshole”, Andi C.

[expressivelywhole]

You were a wildfire, Consuming everything and leaving destruction in your wake. Sometimes, the ground is left scorched And nothing will grow there again. But this isn’t a poem about soft fictional girls Whose lives have been tied together by their creators. This isn’t a poem with the potential of a happy ending – A poem with a story I’ve already written. You see, I framed her ex off of mine. How’s it fucking feel to be compared to the man who obliterated me? You managed to do more damage In two and a half months Than he did in two and a half years. And he raped me. Of course, by the time he managed it, I’d already been there and done that. Took the sting out of it. You were firsts in ways he wasn’t. The first I was completely honest with. The first I made a real attempt. The first apology. The first want. I bought the book before things ended. I thought it was going to be – Fun. A story about almosts and not-quites But knowing there’s a happy ending To mirror our story of almosts and not quites And too much distance to speak of. I read it in a half hour. I read you in every peach, In every bruise, In every apology. They kissed the package. Two taped-over lipstick marks of their mouths Protected from the harm of travel. I almost asked your address, too many times. I almost bought ldr keychains So I could send one to you, My own taped over lipstick mark of my mouth, Just for you. Thanks for saving me the twenty bucks. I‘m glad they’re happy, don’t get me wrong. Lovely queer poets in love – The endgoal for us all. I just hate that I’m still Mid-book, Crying at my computer, Pressing this bruise until it bleeds. I don’t have a breath of green-eyed Irish spring to look forward to. I don’t have a bunny with mirrored aches To come sweep me off my feet And remind me that hurt doesn’t equal broken. I don’t have a happy ending, Because you were it. I’m never gonna fall in love again. So help me god, I am never going to fall in love again.

They said a line in (I’m Still Hurting) reminds them of me, so i cried at the entire poem, Andi C.

[ x ]

[expressivelywhole]

I hope you know what you did was abuse.

No, this doesn’t get any pretty phrases or artistic line breaks. This doesn’t get aesthetically pleasing layout. This doesn’t get pretty, or nice, or pleasing. Because that’s not what abuse is.

Abuse is rough and dirty and cold. Abuse is wondering what the hell I did to deserve it, so I know not to do it in the future. Abuse is shutting down when people play Oppression Olympics with me. Abuse is sleepless nights, uneaten breakfast, breaking down over small things.

Abuse is eighteen solid days of absolute silence with no warning whatsoever after saying you wanted to talk to me more often. Abuse is the silent treatment. Abuse is never giving me the opportunity to defend myself. Abuse is letting me believe the worst - do you know I was googling your name and hoping to god no obits showed up? Because it was the only possible explanation I had.

Did you realize you were breaking me when you decided I no longer deserved your attention, and so withdrew it completely?

“You and your words flooded my senses; your sentences left me defenseless. You built me palaces out of paragraphs, you built cathedrals...”

You would think I would know better by now. This is not the first time some silver-tongued gentleman has ruined me.

I hadn’t even gotten to the point where I felt like I could tell you the daydreams I had of Us. You never gave me the chance. I never got to tell you I was already trying to figure out how we would parent our children, who would almost definitely have ADHD, and in whom we would foster a love of the written word. With an English teacher as a father and a bookseller as a mother? There’s no way they wouldn’t.

“You forfeit all rights to my heart.”

For future reference. Do not tell someone you want to talk to them more often and then proceed to never talk to them. That is the silent treatment; that is abusive. If you want to share your life experiences, jumping off someone else’s; it’s better to say “I know how that feels, here’s my situation” instead of “you could have it worse, you could have my situation.” That is Oppression Olympics, and that is invalidating.

Also - literally never use trigger as a joke. Triggers are not jokes. Triggers are sleepless nights and uneaten breakfast. Triggers are shaking and feeling like you’re about to faint because of a passing comment. Triggers are shutting down to protect yourself from further injury.

Triggers are reactions to abuse.

    I hope that you burn.

[expressivelywhole]

It took me ten days to finally cry over you. Eleven to actually let go and sob. Eleven to start wondering what I did to drive you away. Eleven to try and figure out what I did wrong. Twelve to realize you were never going to care. Twelve to realize you probably don't even think about me anymore- You must not, to have gone eighteen without a whisper. Twelve to realize I'm nothing to you- And twelve to hate that I'm still in love with you.

I Just Want Answers, Andi C.

[expressivelywhole]

I had wanted to do a project Off a Trista Mateer poem: “. . . write a poem for every mile marker From here to California.” (that’s roughly 1750, by the way.) I had looked up cute LDR things And was hoping to see you when I went back to SD – Which was happening, by the way. Another thing in a L   o       n           g L   i      s          t Of things I never got to tell you. Eighteen days of silence does something to a person, you know. Makes them desperate. Makes them angry. And oh, am I fucking angry. I refuse to shed any more tears over you. Fuck you. Kiss my fucking fantastic ass. I am a Goddess And I deserve alms. I am a human And I deserve companionship. I am a woman And I deserve the motherfucking best. And as much as I wanted it to be, It just wasn’t Fucking. You. Maybe I’ll give that restaurant guy a call. Or maybe I’ll say yes to the contractor. Or maybe I’ll try to get back in touch with the girls on Her. Or maybe I’m finally done with relationships And I’ll marry rich like I always dreamed. And you Had better stay far the fuck away from me. Because I am a survivor. And I will burn you to the ground.

STALLED AT THE GATE, Andi C [ x ]

[expressivelywhole]

The 162 dead lesbian and bisexual women on TV and how they died. And it’s lighter, happier companion piece; The 29 lesbian and bisexual women on TV who got happy endings. For every one of us who gets a happy endingFive of us have to die. It’s so common, there’s a goddamn trope. Bury Your Gays. Commander Lexa dies accidentally— Which, side note, When you kill a seasoned warrior with a stray bullet Moments after showing her happy with another woman You are telling the young gay girls watching That they don’t get a happy ending. That an ACT OF GOD will restore the status quo. Bury Your Gays. When the best representation you have is Glee, You know shit’s bad. Apparently Brittany and Santana got married? I wouldn’t know I jumped ship in season four. We have literally set the bar on the ground And you continue to bury us around it. Bury Your Gays. We have had a grand total of 383 reoccurring characters on TV in America. Almost a third of them are dead. Less than a tenth have gotten happy endings. And I am so. Tired. Tired on like, a cellular level. Tired of being told ‘It’s just a TV show’ That I’m overreacting That it’s not real. I am tired of being a gimmick to draw in more crowds— Come see the amazing lesbian! Tired of being killed when the novelty wears off. But when we are killed off, It’s not because she’s gay why does everything have to be about her being gay her gayness had no part in our decision to murder her. And with her, the young gay girls watching. Girls who had been toldThis is gonna be different Who had been assuredThis wouldn’t end the same way as all the others. Girls who had been hoping for a happy ending Finally For once Girls who had depended on this in an intolerable world To be their softness To be their safe spot And with the end of that So went their will to live. Bury. Your. Gays. I don’t know what hurts more That these young gay girls have died with their commander Or that I’m unsurprised.

“I didn’t even fucking watch the 1OO”, Andi C [ x ], [ x ], [ x ], [ x ], [ x ] (via expressivelywhole)

[expressivelywhole]

The 160 dead lesbian and bisexual women on TV and how they died. And it’s lighter, happier companion piece; The 29 lesbian and bisexual women on TV who got happy endings. For every one of us who gets a happy endingFive of us have to die. It’s so common, there’s a goddamn trope. Bury Your Gays. Commander Lexa dies accidentally— Which, side note, When you kill a seasoned warrior with a stray bullet Moments after showing her happy with another woman You are telling the young gay girls watching That they don’t get a happy ending. That an ACT OF GOD will restore the status quo. Bury Your Gays. When the best representation you have is Glee, You know shit’s bad. Apparently Brittany and Santana got married? I wouldn’t know I jumped ship in season four. We have literally set the bar on the ground And you continue to bury us around it. Bury Your Gays. We have had a grand total of 383 reoccurring characters on TV in America. Almost a third of them are dead. Less than a tenth have gotten happy endings. And I am so. Tired. Tired on like, a cellular level. Tired of being told ‘It’s just a TV show’ That I’m overreacting That it’s not real. I am tired of being a gimmick to draw in more crowds— Come see the amazing lesbian! Tired of being killed when the novelty wears off. But when we are killed off, It’s not because she’s gay why does everything have to be about her being gay her gayness had no part in our decision to murder her. And with her, the young gay girls watching. Girls who had been toldThis is gonna be different Who had been assuredThis wouldn’t end the same way as all the others. Girls who had been hoping for a happy ending Finally For once Girls who had depended on this in an intolerable world To be their softness To be their safe spot And with the end of that So went their will to live. Bury. Your. Gays. I don’t know what hurts more That these young gay girls have died with their commander Or that I’m unsurprised.

“I didn’t even fucking watch the 1OO”, Andi C [ x ], [ x ], [ x ], [ x ], [ x ] (via expressivelywhole)

[expressivelywhole]

Everywhere I turn, something new reminds me of you. And I’m not just saying this because I’m lonely (even though I am) Or because I’m unmoored here. (even though I am.) Because this has been happening since November. And I was neither lonely nor unmoored then. It started With a poorly chosen movie at 2 in the morning. (I’m sure I don’t need to tell you which one.) And then, In January, It was House of Memories. (You were just too kind And I was too young to know.) A couple months later, Angelica. (there is no one who could match you for turn of phrase.) And now, Win Delacroix. (oh, too many times to quote.) I started shaking when I found your number again. (it took me less time than I’d like to admit To commit it to memory. I won’t be losing it again.) I wasn’t even going to text you until Wednesday. Get through the concert first. Especially with the two-hour time difference. But we spent the “concert” in the car So I sent something anyway. (The concert’s (hopefully) in the process of being rescheduled. If you were wondering.) (I’m afraid I don’t know anymore.) And I don’t know if your acceptance counts as forgiveness (And I don’t really deserve it anyway) But oh god does it feel good. Except now I’m scared. You have a life, of course. Maybe a girlfriend who talks to you about what’s bothering her. Who isn’t quite as damaged. Who isn’t quite as petty, Or as stubborn. But your silence Scares me. And I don’t know how to tell you. I don’t know how to tell you that night in November I realized I was probably in love with you. Still. After all these years. I don’t know how to tell you Even if you have a pretty thing waiting for you (and I really pray that you do.) (You deserve that kind of happiness.) (Though her intelligence is more important than her looks, Right?) (at least that much hasn’t changed.) I still want to be your friend. Because I miss you. The conversations And the jokes And the understanding. (and the kissing, And the fantastic sex, But approximately two thousand miles Kinda puts the kibosh on rekindling that part.) (It’s not that important, anyway.) And I know I (royally) Fucked things up between us And we’ll never have that ease that we did, But I still Want to try. Because honestly you’re the closest thing I’ve found to a future And I just want to have you in my life again. And yeah, I am really painfully desperately lonely, too.

“You push away anyone who could possibly care about you.” Andi C [ x ], [ x ], [ x ], [ x ]

[expressivelywhole]

“See, they fleshed out her character!” She says, referencing the episode in which we get backstory As the police are investigating her murder. I don’t look at her. Just nod. I don’t know how to say “A multi-dimensional dead queer lady Is not better than a one-dimensional living one.” I don’t know how to tell her This isn’t fleshing out a character. This is adding to the death toll. To the body count. I don’t know how to explain That when she says “this is better” What I hear is “I’d rather people know you when you’re dead Than leave you alive if unknown.” I don’t know how to make her understand We are dying by droves out there. I just want to see myself on tv Getting a happy ending for goddamn once. Instead of being used as a prop. As a political statement. So I don’t. I just nod. And when I start crying, I let her blame it on hormones.

“I don’t care if all people know about me is that I’m a sapphist suffragette i want to fucking live”, Andi C

[expressivelywhole]

The 158 dead lesbian and bisexual women on TV and how they died. And it’s lighter, happier companion piece; The 29 lesbian and bisexual women on TV who got happy endings. For every one of us who gets a happy ending Five of us have to die. It’s so common, there’s a goddamn trope. Bury Your Gays. Commander Lexa dies accidentally— Which, side note, When you kill a seasoned warrior with a stray bullet Moments after showing her happy with another woman You are telling the young gay girls watching That they don’t get a happy ending. That an ACT OF GOD will restore the status quo. Bury Your Gays. When the best representation you have is Glee, You know shit’s bad. Apparently Brittany and Santana got married? I wouldn’t know I jumped ship in season four. We have literally set the bar on the ground And you continue to bury us around it. Bury Your Gays. We have had a grand total of 383 reoccurring characters on TV in America. Almost a third of them are dead. Less than a tenth have gotten happy endings. And I am so. Tired. Tired on like, a cellular level. Tired of being told ‘It’s just a TV show’ That I’m overreacting That it’s not real. I am tired of being a gimmick to draw in more crowds— Come see the amazing lesbian! Tired of being killed when the novelty wears off. But when we are killed off, It’s not because she’s gay why does everything have to be about her being gay her gayness had no part in our decision to murder her. And with her, the young gay girls watching. Girls who had been told This is gonna be different Who had been assured This wouldn’t end the same way as all the others. Girls who had been hoping for a happy ending Finally For once Girls who had depended on this in an intolerable world To be their softness To be their safe spot And with the end of that So went their will to live. Bury. Your. Gays. I don’t know what hurts more That these young gay girls have died with their commander Or that I’m unsurprised.

“I didn’t even fucking watch the 1OO”, Andi C [ x ], [ x ], [ x ], [ x ], [ x ] (via expressivelywhole)

[expressivelywhole]

You look so wonderful in your dress When we got back from Ireland and told the girls, They took over. And it’s not like we couldn’t afford a wedding planner, But it was Nice. Keeping it in the gang. It kept things Intimate. Iris officiates, and that’s when you find out her name is Cassandra Park. Chey and Anais are superstitious, Keep us from seeing each other in our dresses. Keep us from seeing each other the day of. And neither of us are willing to risk their wrath. All that you are is all that I’ll ever need. In Ireland, Tierney taught us the Celtic wedding vows. She said, she’d be damned if she won’t make sure We do it right. I tell you, we’re the generation to get it. You laugh. I don’t tell you, I saw Tierney reciting those same vows at your mother’s grave. I propose to you with your mother’s ring. It’s not like there was a risk of you saying no. Not after everything we’ve been through. Even though you try to save me from yourself, There is nothing that will change my mind. You are everything I have ever wanted. They just fade out when you take a breath. We have faced Plenty of adversity. There are people who know my name, Who know my face. People who aren’t happy there’s another lesbian in the family. (No need to waste the energy trying to correct them; The people who matter know neither of us are lesbians. Bi- and pansexuality aren’t ‘real’, anyway.) My mother almost took everything from us, And even with how I hurt you, You stayed by my side through all of it. It was hard for both of us, But we survived it, And we came out stronger together for it. There will always be people who will hate what we are; But when I see you and your beautiful green eyes, None of that matters. We have each other, and that’s heaven enough. Lumière darling We honeymoon in Paris. I get the same suite we had when we first ran away. We hit the same sites we did our first time. We spend more time in the bedroom, but hey. We’re married. But we still spend that first night Out on the balcony, Sitting together with our drinks, Watching the city lights turn on in each other’s eyes. The first time we were there, it was 8 months into our relationship, And you dropped everything to run away with me, with no idea where we were going. As I watched the Eiffel Tower reflect in your eyes, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, Damn the consequences. I am So in love. You look so wonderful in your dress. Marrying you is my every dream come true. And it will be a privilege To spend the rest of my life with you.

“Enough for me”, Andi C [ x ]

[expressivelywhole]

You remind me of her, Sometimes, You know. She had big beautiful brown eyes – Much like yours, actually. She was the gentlest soul I ever met, And when we met She dropped me like a rabbit Threw me over her shoulder because I startled her by coming up from behind. It was the first time in a long time I was looking up at someone. She was a healer of bodies, of minds, of hearts. Of my heart. I had never been so in love before. She had beautiful long hair – She claimed it was red, originally, But I can’t see her with any other color Than cotton candy blue. I can still see The way it would fan across her pillow – My pillow – Our pillow. I can still feel Its silk as it slid through my fingers Pastel gossamer threads slipping free. I loved it almost as much as she did. She preferred to go barefoot. Loved the summer. Wanted to roam. She had already crossed the entire country And didn’t plan on stopping. Didn’t plan on me. I would have followed her anywhere, Would have gone anywhere she asked me to. Rings were too uncertain with our lives, But in another world, in another time, She would have been mine forever. I had never been so in love before. She would hold me when the nights got bad – Much like you do. When things hurt too much, When I couldn’t feel anything, When the tears just wouldn’t stop. She was there. She was Always There. Much like you are. She helped me finally grieve my mother’s death. But she wasn’t there to help me grieve hers. Losing her almost killed me – But I don’t need to explain that to you. I’ll never forget your medic’s face Never forget how she knew Before she even checked. There was just Too Much Blood. She was already gone by the time help arrived. And then you happened. And while losing her still hurts, I have never been so in love before.

“Steel Butterfly”, Andi C

[expressivelywhole]

It was the fourth of July And I was on your doorstep again. Last time, I had said never again And you believed me. Just like you did the last five times. But You touched me like I mattered And when you live in a world Where people only care About what you can do for them It was a breath of fresh air. We didn’t have morning-after’s. This was purely physical Friends Helping each other out. I got information from him And you helped me forget what I did for it. But this time, this morning, July fifth, I couldn’t leave. I didn’t want to. So I made you pancakes. Our mutual friend complained enough about how little you eat. And I remember everything she says about you. You kissed my cheek. With everything we’ve done, You’d think I’d be used to your lips on my skin But this was Different. Or maybe I’m imagining things. Reading into it and seeing what I want to believe. You commented on how this was Different. And I only hoped it wasn’t a bad different. I had to return to reality eventually As much as I wanted to stay With you And your ‘no pants are the best pants’ t-shirt. Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I’d ever done And this time, I didn’t try to convince myself This was the last time. I wasn’t willing to give you up anymore. It was back in the silence of my own room In my own world That I came to the realization. I don’t think anything has scared me so much. I wanted to hide from it, Wanted to deny it, Wanted to make it untrue, But if a morning after And pancakes And a kiss on the cheek Could change so much about this About us There was no getting past this. I’m sorry. I never meant to fall in love with you.

“Versailles at Night”, Andi C [ x ]

[expressivelywhole]

It was two months, eleven days from my eighth birthday. I was excited; it was a special day And that meant we were going out to dinner. It was a special day, and we were going to a special place Somewhere we went on that day Every year Since 1993. Somewhere we would continue to go for special occasions, And somewhere, Seven years, two months, and eleven days later, I would have my quinceañera. We had reservations for a window table So we could watch the sun set over the 10 And the city lights come on in the valley. And that weekend, We had reservations at Top of the Park, Out on the balcony, So we could eat and watch the concert After a long day at the fair. I loved that time of year. My parents were happy, We got to go to the Pomona Valley Mining Company, Kitschy restaurant that it is, And I got to spend a whole day at the LA County fair. We didn’t make either of those reservations. PVMC would wait until November When Dad came home After three weeks at Ground Zero. And the fair was closed for the first time since its beginning. Instead, we went to church. My dad was crying when he woke me up for school that morning. I stood on the edge of my bed And hugged him And was scared. My third grade teacher took me aside And told me it was okay if I was scared And needed to cry Because my brother was in the military. A month later, My dad would go on his first Emergency Response trip As a Disaster Action Team leader As a volunteer For the American Red Cross. He would be in New York when another plane Crashes in Queens. He wouldn’t see me in the Halloween costume He spent weeks making. He would meet the mayor of New York Who sent him home with a teddy bear for his almost-eight-year-old daughter. My stuffed animals would be featured in the newspaper. Sunshine made the front page of the San Gabriel Valley Times, In all her pretty pale yellow glory. My dad would watch the news he taped Every year Until our tape player finally broke. I would spend the rest of my public school career Fighting Against the somberness of that day. I was so angry That something so terrible Could happen on our special day. September 11th, 2001 was a day of shock And horror And grief For our entire county. For most people, it started as just another day. Some couldn’t tell you what they had for breakfast Or whether they brushed their teeth or took a shower first. But even to this day My mother can tell you the first words she said that morning. Because when her alarm went off, Mom rolled over And smiled at my dad And said, “Happy anniversary, hon.”

“Happy Anniversary, Hon”, Andi C

[expressivelywhole]

Your mother taught you You are a monster. You are only capable of destruction, You deserve no softness. People will only love you in spite of this, If they love you at all. You don’t deserve their love anyway, So it’s probably better if they don’t. The first is a friend. You’re living with your grandmother- Your mother’s died, you’re safe from her words, But never her influence. He’s a year older than you, Shows you his hiding places, Shares with you his treasures. It’s when the two of you are out, Away from parental gaze, That he gets hurt. It’s not your fault, not directly, but you blame yourself. You’re a monster. You never see him again. The second is a love. Your sister introduces you- Ulterior motives, but you don’t care. She’s beautiful And kind And smart. She knows what you are capable of And loves you despite it. You are gentle- Try to be. Through no fault of your own, She gets hurt. She dies in your arms; You’re a monster. You see her in your nightmares. The third is a soulmate. You stumble into her café Trying to escape the nightmares in your head— “Welcome,” she says. “I’m glad you stopped in.” You come back. You keep Coming Back. She has nightmares she avoids, too, A past she would rather not think about as well. But her family is warm and loving and welcoming And for a moment, you can forget you’re a monster. But then she gets hurt. And you are reminded. You leave- You can’t bear to hurt her again- But she follows. Because she loves you. You— All of you, not in spite of anything. She promises not to leave, not ever. Not for anything. You see her Every morning Every day Every night. The next three come in over a span of six years. A warrior, A princess, A miracle. And you love them. They get hurt, but that’s life. They don’t call you monster. They call you Daddy.

“For My Prince”, Andi C