I don’t know. I guess it just felt like it would be safe here.

You never really think something you’ve dreamt up could happen to you

Right where you are

Right now

You never really think something you worry about

Something you’ve had nightmares about

Yeah, you never really think that’s going to happen to you

Until it does

Sometimes you still can’t believe it

Like the scene you’re watching is from a TV show where the writers aren’t very sensitive to the audience.

They add a lot of gore

And - I guess - sexual horror

You never really think it’s going to happen to you,

Until it already has or it’s happening right then and there.

It’s a way to protect yourself.

When you’re afraid, you tell yourself it isn’t the time

Now isn’t the time you’ll die.

You don’t pass out, not here.

You haven’t before, right? You’ll be OK.

And yet, you wake up with the sound of an ice-cream truck playing

And you’re rooted in consciousness

Grounded by the sound of screams of pain

Crisis changes things.

At first you feel like you can handle it

You can go for days without sleep

You stand for hours without relieving yourself

Relief sounds like medicine for the weak, so you don’t seek treatment

Instead, you bury yourself under the weight of bodies a social virus is terrorizing

And you wonder when your body will be on the cart next.

Every year the neighborhood has a garage sale.

The HOA picks a date, pretends to vote, and reminds people to bake some kind of goodies for

The would be clientele

They forget to say the clientele are mostly nonexistent as there’s no one who lives outside of our

Community who would visit here

Unless they’d been before. Unless they anted something.

People don’t come here unless they’re seeking something their God won’t give them.

And then?

I think they assume they’ll find it within our city limits.

There’s recompense here for those who search

But what they find isn’t exactly the key to salvation

I’m not really sure what door it opens.

I know they find answers, here. I just don’t really know to what questions.

Because surely, this isn’t something your average Joe chooses on their own.

I’ve asked questions before

I never find any answers

But maybe I’m not asking questions that answers exist for

Or maybe no one wants to hear them out loud.

The grass smells sweeter than the grilled peaches on Uncle Dawson’s patio.

It’s making me sick, and before I realize it, I’m wrenching the contents of my stomach into the sweet fresh-cut grass someone had taken a lawn mower to only yesterday afternoon when the heat broke.

The ice cream truck’s music is like cool icing on the cake, except it makes the bile in my throat hot and suddenly I’m wrenching again before I can find enough visible stability to get away from the vomit in the grass and stumble past the fire pit I’d fallen near.

It was late when I’d fallen asleep in one of the wicker chairs arranged carefully by the fire pit near the shed in the backyard. The farmhouse wasn’t that far away, but far enough the upstairs windows were left open without a lingering fear the smell of the fire and smoke would reach the thin screens. You’d think the AC would be turned on to full blast during the summer, especially here, yet it was carefully turned off in the evenings to preserve energy, money, or something.

The humidity, after all, is a southern secret to soft and beautiful skin throughout one’s life.

White curtains billowed visibly behind the screens on the second floor, masking only the delicate details of those who passed by them from the inside. Guests and family alike had spent time in the carefully placed

—-

Two six packs later, an empty box of cigarettes and a pungent, sweet after-essence of marijuana lingered over the fire even though it’s 2 in the afternoon the following day. It smells, and the sweetness on the air isn’t reminiscent of anything I’ve ever smelled before. Except for the time the curling iron was so hot I didn’t even feel my skin sizzling until it was burnt off, layer by layer and too far too fast.

I’m not brave enough to look through the smoke to see who is still here. Instead, I’m weak and fumbling for the shade and cloud cover provided by the treeline only so far away.

Somehow it’s quiet - except for the crackle of a distant fire, the acrid smell of vomit, smoke, and sweet yet burnt flesh permeating the gray afternoon. And I sit on the ground, nestled in the fallen leaves beneath a towering pine tree that’s acted as a guardian, witness, and security officer for far too many scenarios.

I sit there in the sweltering afternoon, beads of sweat dripping down my back like droplets of blood down my legs.

I don’t know if the police will come. Sometimes they don’t make it into the city fast enough. I know we’re far away, but it would be nice to believe there’s someone coming.

The screams are still louder than sirens I can hear in the distance, gently crying like infantile wails of desperation.

I don’t know if they’ll make it.

(Author's note: bold words signifiy a new page)

We’re encouraged to dig deep

To harvest old feelings

And create something of meaning with them

Asked to provide personal insight

Into something I’m convinced no one really understands

At least, no one wants to admit to understanding

It’s part of group therapy, offered Monday through Friday

9-5 as if it was a job

But at least a job would have paid us.

This doesn’t yield anything worthwhile.

Mining away at my own psyche isn’t going to do me any good

I won’t find any minerals or jewels

Not because I don’t want to try

But because there aren’t any.

Therapy isn’t what you’d expect

I was skeptical at first

Refused to say anything worth their while

Or mine, for that matter.

Then I was kindly processed into Group therapy, instead.

Placated with coloring books and pens, as if filling in mandalas

Would soothe the sins of the past.

Sometimes therapy is like that.

And then sometimes it’s like this.

The world goes quiet as you turn around, as you face yourself

You prepare to dive in, and hold your breath

Because once you’re inside, you’ll be staying there for a while.

I’m on the fence in my conclusions on the efficiency of the “this” variety.

Maybe because I don’t want to dive inside

Or maybe because I know I’ll need to stay once I do.

You can totally fence part of yourself off like that

Draw a line between you and the deep end

Who cares if you don’t want to swim down there?

What good do murky water and mysterious secrets do you, anyway?

Usually I’m happy with my pacifier and my pens

Content to pass the time until I can go

Gabriel, where are you today? Sandra asks

Her voice is soft and she means well but the way she blinks

Purses her lips and stares

Sandra wants me to confess I’m staring at the deep end.

I don’t, and I won’t.

The rest of the group has looked to me Expectant

I don’t have anything to feed their appetites though

So I shrug a shoulder

Shrug Sandra off

And leave without another word as the clock hits 5.

Therapy isn’t what you’d expect

Not because it’s not therapeutic per se

Not because there’s no “real” doctors involved

Not because it’s mandatory

Therapy isn’t what you’d expect because sometimes it feels like it works.

Sometimes you find yourself believing what they’re telling you.

That alone is enough of a headache

I’ve been in therapy since puberty.

Hi, you’re old enough to reproduce

Learn about your body and become equally grossed out about yourself

As we are you.

Our church provides not-so-optional programs to members of the parish

They’re pretty welcoming, hosting welcome-to-the-club brunches

The whole group is pretty welcoming, but then again so is a Venus Flytrap.

Get too close, and you’ll be swallowed whole.

Boys and girls don’t mingle during therapy

Lest our imaginations tingle

Rather, lest their imaginations tingle

Nothing of the sort for the girls.

Who knew after 11 or 12, they’d be whisked off to womanhood

Destined to serve God, their husband, and their father proudly

Taking a step back, saying 11 or 12 is too old

Surprised?

Girls get to give their goodies to God, Daddy, and future-man-du-jour

as early as 4 or 5 around here

My father wouldn’t have wanted this.

But what he wanted didn’t matter

He wasn’t a child of God. He did not believe in Christ. He deserved to burn in the fire.

Nice line, right?

I wonder if that’s where my old man is

In Hell

Might be hot, but could be better than here

When he didn’t reach for the bible the way mother did

She questioned him

She doubted him

Finally, she did the damn deed with a single shot double barrel

Claimed defense of her religion

Of her Lord and Savior

All because daddy wanted to use a condom.

Isn’t that funny?

Teachers have always encouraged ‘safe sex’

Abstinence, at best

Condoms, at worst

So why is it when Daddy wanted to take care,

Mother took care of him?

She’s waiting for me now, sitting in the passenger’s seat

As if she’d drive

Not in her condition, no way

We’ve been waiting she says, her tone very flat

I would have driven myself but there’s a parish meeting tonight

One we can’t miss

So my attendance is mandatory by way of freight train

All the while locked stuffed into an SUV

Loaded with each and every one of my siblings

How was therapy? He asks, and my siblings quiet down

Waiting to hear what I have to say

I’m sure they have no idea this stuff is bull shit

I do

But I can’t say that here

Not while my sisters wear white

Instead of telling them this is wrong

Instead of telling them to wipe the eagarness off their faces

Instead, I tell them ‘good’ before falling silent

That’s good enough for my mother’s husband today

Appeased, he turns his attention to the road

To my mother

To my sisters

To anyone else but me

Abraham isn’t my father

He isn’t my step father

I don’t really know how to describe how the church implemented him

As a father figure in my life

But here he is

Fertilizing my mother and populating the earth I walk on

He is however

The light of my mother’s life

He showed her the way to the heavens

And she showed him the way inside her

Can’t argue with that logic

Once upon a time my mother led her own life

Uninhibited by God, her duties, and birthing God’s Warriors

I remember she wore her hair down

her clothes neatly pressed

the perfect picture of capability

until the day she didn’t anymore

My father was mad

Downright pissed, actually

Wouldn’t you be if your wife decided to quit her job

Without telling you

Without consulting you

Wouldn’t you be angry?

He wanted to make it work by pleasing her

He took extra shifts

He took extra drinks

He wanted to make it work, at least I think he did

And then he took extra pills

And I stopped thinking he wanted to make it work

Oliza, my mother, was beautiful

Honey eyes with gold hair

But the honey dried up

And her golden hair faded until

She was no longer beautiful

Inside or out

I look a little too much like my father

Which is why Abraham glares at me so

Like he’d ever admit it though

Instead, he says it’s because I need to be a man

Ready to be the spine of my family

Ready to be the protector of innocence

I’m 18 already, right?

All things aside

Abraham doesn’t mistreat me

but then again, I’m not a little girl.