Thoughts...

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My brother is eighteen when he enlists for war with a smile on his face. Mom adapts to his time so she will never miss one of his quick phone calls. I stare at the stranger who has my brother’s face and wonder what he’s seen.

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i always say i lost you in pieces, but i have begun to forget you in them aswell.

like the smell of your skin as you pressed in close. or the feel of your palm in mine.

but bigger things too, like how you took your coffee and which side of the bed you liked. which didn't feel big until now.

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my first kiss tasted 

like beer and his beard burned

each time our cheeks grazed.

my second kiss ghosted

over my lips. their pressed

so delicately as they glided.

the third time was forced

in a drunken stupor; tongue prodded

uncomfortably and erratically uncontrolled. 

the fourth time i hoped

it would be better, but felt trapped

in his bed as he snored.

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you're supposed to tell funny stories to your kids,

but all i have is a handful of blanketed tragedies

crying out for the warmth of their mother after being removed

from her body heat too quickly,

before they had the chance to bond.

which might explain the self inflicted wounds,

the cutting and the biting,

the starving and the puking.

because happiness is just that breeze

in the middle of a hurricane,

when you think it's over,

but then your house is condemned,

and the barbie you got from your alcoholic

mother after her husband

cut you with the metal clipboard

instead of her because you came in between

their crashing bodies

ends up floating in three feet of water

in the room you shared with your two year old half-sister

because there was no way to fit five kids in a two bedroom comfortably.

i don't know what happens after the storm,

but i do know, 

there isn't enough time to make up for my lack of

funny stories.

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Alien

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Violence

The first time he hits her, I'll tell her to leave him,

and she will, for a while at least.

Until he comes back, a week or so later,

saying his apologies, grovelling at her feet.

She'll open the door. She'll let him back in.

The second time it happens, I'll bite my tongue so hard

because the "I told you so" is there, but she doesn't need that.

She needs a hug and a cup of tea, but mostly a place to stay.

The third time he does it, the bruise from last time will have just turned yellow,

barely visible under her skin, yet we all know it's there.

He'll kiss her after, whispering how he'll never do it again.

I won't even bother to try and stop her, because I know it's futile.

The last time he hits her, she'll smack into a table,

making her blood puddle onto the floor, and he will be still for a moment,

but the sick part is, it won't stop him.

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Welcome to Womanhood

The summer I turned eleven

I got my period 

for the first time.

I didn't tell my mom.

The next day,

on a car ride home

from an amusement park

I was molested by a man

who my friend's mom called

friend.

When I told her what happened,

she said I was

"Asking for it."

The next time I got my period, 

I asked my mom for pads

and when she asked me why

I didn't tell her the first time,

I thought,

"Would you have believed me?"

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I made 

a mixed CD

which I sent to past me

so maybe she would see what I

did not.

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It's four 

in the morning

and the only thing 

on my mind

is 

you

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Teeth

When I think back on that night

all I see is teeth

smiling down at me.

The same teeth that bit my lip;

the ones that left a bruise on my neck.

In the morning, 

I had stubble burn on my face,

but looking back

all I see is teeth.

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One-Night Stand

The muffler rumble of your snores

woke me up  as you panted exhaust-filled-

morning-breath onto my collarbones.

I tried to shift my body from under yours,

but your stubble scraped

against me with the heat of an engine.

When I tried to remove myself

from your seat-belt arm,

you stirred and strapped me in tighter.

Before I could formulate a plan,

your eyes opened and sent me a smile

as bright as high beams,

and I was facing the collision head on.

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Even though your lips

were the first to touch

mine,

it's your hands 

I can't stop feeling

in my hair.

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Sleep Arrangements

There is no feeling

quite like the way your body

fills in the space next

to mine as we lie in bed

after a long day apart.  

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Sunday Morning

My hand,

slow and easy,

on the knobs of your spine

as I explored the hills of your

body.

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First Kiss

He wore a green jumper

with the word 

Irish

written in plaid,

and I had never wanted anything more.

We exchanged pleasantries

but he warned me

he wouldn't remember 

my name.

Later,

when my mouth 

had unconnected from his

he whispered it,

moaned it,

right into my ear.

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I sat,

cigarette hanging like the condemned 

between two red lips,

and pondered what death felt like

with my next breath.

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Groundhog Day

This is for the days when your biggest achievement is going to the bathroom. For the days when you can’t look in the mirror because you know the person who will be staring back is a person you don’t recognize as you. They’re a person you no longer want to be. This is for the days when you sleep until 5 in the afternoon and when you wake up, all you want to do is go back to sleep. Those days when your best and closest friend’s voice grinds on your nerves so much that you have to remove yourself from the situation to stop yourself from saying something you’ll regret later when they’re mad at you. Or hitting them in the face. Because even though you’ve never been a violent person, on these days, you could kill someone without even thinking about it. These are the dumb days that you look back on and think, “What a waste.” But when you’re in these Groundhog Days, you look at everything going around you and think the same, because these are the bathtub days. The days you wonder if drowning is really a euphoric way of dying like you read once, and you hope you get some encouragement to resurface when you wash the shampoo out of your hair. This is for those days. Those days when you don’t know what’s worse: that it won’t end or it will end too soon, and then you’re forced to face those people you’ve been avoiding—those dishes in the sink that have piled up and smell like rancid fish. And those people don’t always get that avoidance isn’t a choice, because who would choose to be this way? These are the days you want to offer to switch bodies, but wouldn’t want to put this on anyone else because this is your own personal Hell. This is for those days when everything bubbles over, and there’s a mess of emotions on the floor and you just don’t know how it got this way because you just tidied up yesterday, putting all those feelings away. And it sucks, because it normally happens when people are over, and then you can only offer them the taste of sadness with a side of remorse, and garnished with a bit of fear that they will leave you a wracking mess on the floor, because you’re not their mess to clean up. This is for those days because one day you’re going to wake up and take a shower instead, and laugh with your best friends. And you’ll go out and do something—falling back in love with the world. You’ll make your friends a meal and do the dishes after. You’ll keep yourself together. And hope to have less bathtub days in the future. This is to say that either way, you’ll be okay.