My mamma told me artists are born full, or starve forever.

Joyous lives are pre-selected.

Choose wisely, while I drink away the memories of the stories I didn't write.

Why is it so hard to write about the ones we love, while we're loving them?

Why does "joy" feel taboo on my tongue?

I want to express myself, without defending my pain.

You spend your entire life surviving a monster,

only to wake up an imposter.

I identify as such.

Refusing to commit because I'm still digging.

Or climbing, or relearning how untrue her words really were.

How she never found herself.

Or maybe, like a blind date, she got there, didn't like what she saw;

and drove to the liquor store.

And here I am, addicted to nicotine and self discovery.

Afraid to admit I might like who I am.

shes sighs at the table and signs the paper

she hugs me

and tells me it's going to be okay

"5 minutes" the lady in the suit says

tells me she loves me

and that she didnt mean it

straightens my clothing

"it'll just be a weekend or two"

an unplanned lie

the woman walks in the door

"i love you, Sweets. make sure she goes with her brother"

she says to me, then my social worker

only 2 visits afterwards

im 17 now

it's been 9 years