She kicked me in the shins;

stepped right on my toes.

Hit me with a baseball bat;

shot me with a bow.

Poked me with a poker;

sliced me with a knife.

All which made me wonder?

“Why’d she be my wife?”

She threw out all my clothes—

shoes & belts & “Rover.”

So I had to finally ask:

“Does this mean it’s over?”

Copyright 2020

I listened to the world go quiet

I felt the horror with people huddling in the night

Whispering prayers hoping for God’s light.

Banks so happy their misdeeds are staying out of sight.

Quiet words and missed days

Blurring together forming a haze.

Clicking buttons,

Whirring fans,

Walking around the city is banned.

Terror of germs has arrived

From a bat it was derived.

Lies of a weak flu

When those who are safe are few.

The Earth, she took a gasping breath.

The humans now visited by death.

Now I watch my country burn.

Night after night sleeping on a razor’s edge.

Hoping and waiting to see if my town remains intact.

An argument over the color of skin.

What if a person were to have feathers, scales, or fins?

Why does the news act as if we’re in the days of Huckleberry Finn?

What century do you think we’re in?

Brown, Garrison, Douglas, and Stowe

Is this the boat they would get in to row?

Remember we must reap what we sow.

Shall this be something we keep or throw?

written in June 2020

#poetry

Sometimes I think about all the sensations I'll never feel.

Her shaven legs against mine. The warmth of her soft hair in the sunlight. The small of her bare back as I embrace her close. Her delicate fingers brushing mine as we walk. That long-craved kiss, smooth and lingering, with a hint of mint chapstick. The tingle after seeing her silhouette through the shower door. Her generous, round breasts pressed against my small ones. Her sweet vanilla smell on the sheets.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy. I wouldn't change anything about the life I share with my boyfriend, my partner, my love. But sometimes I think it's good to grieve the parallel self I'll never know.

The little boys deserved death.

They mocked while he walked –

“Baldy! Baldy!”

They jeered and fleered

and laughed

while he warmed his great heart to

burning with imaginings:

children screaming, children bleeding,

children wailing for lost limbs.

He fantasized the example made,

or dreamed, or hoped, or prayed,

or cursed (which most translators prefer),

and God heard Elisha, and

“Then two she-bears came out of the woods

and tore forty-two of the boys to pieces.”

(That’s the Good News Translation.)

I didn’t understand. How could I? For years I have asked myself why? How could someone do that? But for years I had no answer.

In my pocket, I had a half eaten Twix bar, a ticket stub and my uncles credit card. He would be furious when he found out that not only had I run away in the dead of night, but that I had also taken his credit card with me. I couldnt very well get anywhere without money, so I had to. Well that’s what I kept telling myself at least, my conciousness said otherwise. I still hated Momma for dumping me with Uncle Jerry when she met the so called “man of her dreams” Rodney Hunt. I still remember that blistering, hot summer night when she came home and told me that she was leaving. “But why Momma?” “Because I have to go look for a new place to live!"

"Your leavin' me all alone here?" "No baby, I'm gonna come back and get you when I find a place." "I don't want to be here alone Momma!" "Your not gonna be alone Kelci, your sweet Uncle Jerry is gonna watch you until I get back." "I don't like Uncle Jerry, he cursea to much!" "Well yes honey, that's what happens with drunkards." "Huh?" "Oh nothing baby, Rod and I will be back as soon as we can!" "Your going with that man?" "That 'man' is gonna be your new daddy pretty soon!" "But I don't want him to! I want my old daddy back, I like my old daddy better! Get him back, I WANT HIM BACK!" Momma had smacked me hard then, I yelped and brought my grubby hands to my injured cheek. "Dont you ever and I mean EVER, talk about that man, I hate him for leaving us!" "I'm sorry Momma!" I sobbed, the tears flowed down my cheeks and onto the ground, forming a puddle of pain. I watched as the hard lines that masked her aged face slowly meltwe away into the sweet face I had once loved. " It's okay baby, its-" The shrill call of a waiting taxi driver broke through the moment between us. Her head snapped to the door, then back to me "I've gotta go Kelci, but I swear that I'll be back soon for you!" As a naive seven year old, I believed her. Eight years passed and she had never come back. My aching for her turned into hate every time the door bell rang and it wasn't her. Everytime I sat by the window and waited, hoping that the next car that passed would be her. But it never was. I hated her for leaving me with Uncle Jerry, a drunk old man who lived on the couch surrounded by bear bottles and burnt out memories of his past. I hated her for leaving me with a man who made me get a job at the age of nine just to feed his compulsive desire for alcohol.

So here I was, a fifteen year old adventurin' out to find her and get revenge for the life she left me in. A life of broken glass and hollow promises.

This is a letter from me, formally requesting you to ease up and stop controlling every aspect of my life. You may argue that you do not control every aspect of my life, but there is 15 years of data that would refute that argument. Ever since I was a child, you have planned out my life: where i go to school, what sports i played, ect. As I’ve grown up, the logical parental response would have been to loosen the reigns and allow me to start making some decisions for myself. This, however, has not been the case with you. The more I’ve grown, the more you’ve tried to shape my life. You told me what sports to play, who to be friends with, and how I should do in school. It got to the point where kids would exclude me from things because of how restrictive you were. I had to grow up in an environment where the only goal in sight was going to a prestigious college. Never once did I have a day of rest. I was signed up for summer camp after summer camp, and pushed into sports that you thought were beneficial to me. Not only that, but my grades had to be perfect as well. B’s were unacceptable, as were any grade under 100. You even asked me to get extra help in French when I had an A minus in the class. All the while concentrating on these aspects of my life, you showed little to no interest in my social or mental well being. You didn’t and don’t care if I have any friends, and part of the reason that I only have 3 or 4 is you. I grew up shy with poor social skills and you made little effort to help me. Part of the reason my mental health has gotten worse over the years is because I had to deal with real social anxiety all my life, while you simply wrote it off as “being shy.” As I began to transition from middle school to high school, the pressures mounted. No child should have to be sent away from home if they don’t want to, and that’s exactly what you did. Your obsession with summer programs is part of the reason I’m writing this. It wasn’t only that though. No kid should be subjected to the amount of standardized tests that I was. I’ve taken them so many times, that they’ve lost all meaning. At this point in high school, I have no energy to do anything of my own volition, all I do is what I’ve been told to do my whole life. I get good grades, I participate in varsity sports, I join clubs, do community service, and it’s still not enough for you. School is honestly one of the worst parts of my life, and now you want to carve out major parts of my summer to have me go to more school. You’re taking every last part of my life away from me. When I talked to the college guidance counselor, her exact words were, “oh you poor dear.” Even she could see how damaging you were. Everyone can see it but you. My friends’ parents talk to them about me and even mom thinks what you are doing is too much (although it’s unlikely that she’d tell you). I truly don’t think you realise what kind of irreparable damage you are doing to me, but I am here to tell you. If you could for once let go of your pride and listen, then maybe you’d see the error of your ways. I know you think that what you make me do is slightly difficult for me and that at the end of it all, I’ll be accepted to the school of my dreams and be forever grateful to you. That’s not it at all. Every day that you make no effort to change or listen to me, you cause a bigger rift to form between us. I may forgive, but I never forget, and every day I resent you a little bit more and more. So it’s up to you, keep going the way you are, and make my life a true living hell, or maybe listen to what I have to say and think of me as an actual person rather than some project that you can work to your liking.