Knife to the heart

“Hey cuz, hows it going?”

The boy I grew up with
and imagined worlds outside our own.
Pirates and soldiers
cops and robbers.
He would always stick up for me
find a place for me.
He made sure I belonged.

Six hundred and forty four miles away
he impaled your heart
and bled the life from your body.

Lifeless, empty, and pieces of you burned,
he buried you in the backyard.
Like you were nothing
trash in a landfill

He forgot
you were a father
a husband
a son
a grandson
a cousin
a friend.

I hope it didn’t hurt
I hope you weren’t scared
I hope you are at peace.

Just know that we love you,
no matter how they paint the story.

 

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When the light leaves your soul

Little sacs of flesh and blood
stuffed into clothes
supported by bones.

Someday, our bodies will lay lifeless,
full of air
no electricity,
energy drained.

People will wonder,
what was it like
to die?
Did they know their light
was being snuffed?

They will say goodbye
to your lifeless carcass.
They will kiss your hands,
and leave trinkets in your casket.

But you’re already gone;
you left with the light.
Lucky you,
the struggle is over.

 

Sister Catherine’s Orphanage for Difficult Children

When he tells me,
“You’re overeacting”.
It’s like he scooped up my feelings,
crumpled them into a ball,
and used them to pratice
his free-throw shot
from across our bedroom.

When he tells me,
“It’s not as bad as you think it is”.
I know he’ll never understand.
He will never feel the ocean of anxiety,
the hurricane of guilt,
or the tsunami of responsibility my mother puts on me.
I am the glue holding the jagged fragments of her happiness together,
fumbling with each piece,
slicing my fingers on her sharp edges
as I try to find a way to put her back together again.

When he tells me,
“Everyone argues with their mother”.
I try to forget the time she called me a fat pig,
or accused me of doing nothing but hurt her
since the crown of my newborn head
emerged from the incision for my c-section.

I try to forget the time I accidentally left my lunchbox
on the front porch in the fourth grade.
Our dogs were grateful for the mid-morning snack,
But mother ignited fury in her eyes,
raised her fist clutching to the keys to her car,
and drove them into my abdomen,
trying to find the ignition
that would turnover my engine
and make me the daughter
that she always wanted.

When he tells me,
“You’re being dramatic”.
I try to forget the time my tiny body
was escorted in the backseat of
our rusty Toyota
to the front steps of a building
I had never seen before.
It was so dark outside,
the streetlights struggled to illuminate
any shade of hope.
“This is Sister Catherine’s Orphanage for Difficult Children”,
my father explained.
“You’re too much to handle,
and we can’t take care of you anymore”.

He turned around,
and followed the damp walkway
back to his car.
I cried and pleaded for forgiveness
until my lungs gave out,
earning myself a second-chance
and rescue from the pseudo-orphanage.

When he tells me,
“Just try to sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning”
I try to convince my body to forget
all of the bad things
that happen in the night.

When he tells me,
“I can’t be with you anymore, you’re too much to handle”
I remind myself that nobody
will ever want to keep me.
I am too complicated
and slippery to hold on to.
Maybe I will ask
Sister Catherine
for a place to stay.

Farewell Disappointment

Fueled by diet pills and tiny bites of breakfast,
she decided to fill her coffee cup to the brim.
3 servings of liquor
to assist in deciding if he loved her or not.

Why would he?
Lately, she had been giving into hunger,
and her bones were consequently covered with
soft and disappointing flesh.

They forced themselves
to admit that they loved one another.
But kept their lips sealed
after the initial confession.

She dropped him off at a plane
that took him to the other side of the world.
“Goodbye,” he said.
That’s all he said.

She understands now
that she is not worthy of love.

The liquor crawls down her throat
and convinces her to hurt herself.

False Reflections

Today:

I am soft.

The flesh hangs off of my arms and dances freely every time I make a move.

My thighs rub together and I swear I can feel the floor boards buckling underneath my feet as they struggle to support my mass.

I look in the mirror only to find disappointment.

I should’ve have eaten that meal. I’ve ruined it all. My deprivation and drive have been wasted.

Yesterday:

I can see my ribs, and boy, my wrists are looking extra narrow today.

My hip bones protrude in front of me, and announce my triumphant entrance into the room.

My thighs exhibit self control, and my flesh is motionless as I float along the floor.

I think I deserve to eat.

Black as Coal

Bright blue day: I am strong enough to move mountains. My accomplishments come effortlessly and fill me with satisfaction.

Grey day: I am crushed by a mountain of guilt, sadness, and anxiety. It pushes down on my chest and wrings the life from my bones.

Steel blue night: My head is full of silence.

Mean red night: My head is empty. It echoes my failures from the past. They bounce off the walls, never fading in intensity. These reminders get louder and louder until my chest tightens and my skin perspires.

Yellow day: The sun blinds my eyes and the cicadas entertain my ears. I can smell the moist soil and each blade of grass it provides with life. Nature tunes into my frequency, and calms the waves that crash around in my chest.

Florescent white day: The sky has no color, and the birds sing of irritating nonsense. I can feel the grit of the earth beneath my bare feet – each unforgiving granule of sand. My ribcage harbors lighting strikes and hurricane winds. I gasp for breath as I struggle to keep my head above water.

Triumphant violet night: I fight off the Mean Reds and reward myself with healing rest.

Black as coal night: The Mean Reds win. I follow Red’s instructions and gather my tools for self destruction. I poison myself with liquor so I will be brave enough to follow Red’s commands: purge that meal, take these pills, bring this pen, paper, and straight razor to the bath tub and write an explanation.¬†

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first time I wanted to die.

I was six.

My little mermaid comforter was pulled up over my head

I could taste the salt on my lips.

My tears had dried. I caught my breath.

Two rounds of beating.

Number one: Dad had beat my brother and I for fighting.

Number two: I knew I needed to stop crying, but I couldn’t find the kill switch. This meant I would receive another lashing; “something to cry about”

I would eventually learn how to cry without making a sound.

As I ran my fingers along the raised welts on the back of my thighs, a soothing thought infected my mind; “I’m going to kill myself”.

It was a relief. No one loved me. No one cared if I was sad or hurt.

None of that would matter if my fragile body was placed in a miniature coffin, burried, and forgotten.

Suddenly, I realized how sad my first grade teacher would be if I were to take my life by stringing myself up with the vacuum cleaner cord.

I’ll wait and see if it gets better.