i. and as a good catholic girl, i asked him; and he said no,

he's never smoked a cigarette but i could taste the alcohol

on his lips. but his eyes held a lifetime i've never lived and

i just wanted to at least scratch the surface of some sort of

rebellion; instead, i fell victim to my unbecoming and his

collecting of my heart like it was a trophy worth collecting.

ii. one night he promised me something worth believing and

foolishly i started bleeding out all the truths my life's been

bandaging (learned about scars i didn't even know existed

'til the words fell from my lips); so then, he asked me

to write him something for his birthday but my response

wasn't satisfactory, but i only knew that 'cause he watched

the color from his eyes fade in mine; i told him, i could

write you birthday poetry, but that's for you to keep. funny,

when tombstones are meant for people ts the others that

get to read.; he doesn't understand the scatterbrain that

an author's mind becomes, since everything because nothing

and nothing always becomes more than it's supposed to be; 

so instead, i wrote this poem about us instead.

iii. my parents grew to like him from the poisonous lies

i continued to feed them; they'll never know of the toxicity

until it becomes one of our fallings; and he was the genius

that i could never catch up to, but t his friends he was just

the playboy dating the nerd who somehow became pretty;

yes, high school's truly like that.

iv. if i chronicled all our dates, who would want to read such

a doomed love story?; star-cross lovers still love each other, 

they don't go being the ruining of one another; so no i wouldn't

want to share our journey anyway, there's so much misery and

heartbreak; remind me, why i even desired to stay?; then i

remember the way his skin felt under my fingers and how the

gold tears trickled between our lips are as kissed and i remember

there was a reason; it just wasn't a very good one.

I was an angel

So lovely,

So pure,

So innocent.

But years of pain on my shoulders weighed me down.

No hand guided me.

No one bothered to pull me above the water.

I let myself walk in the rain.

Hoping others would be happy, if I was the one in pain

Me as their walking stick

And them as the one I carry,

It was my job to keep them happy

It was not my task but I was too blind.

I was so concerned about how others felt,

So caught up in everyones elses happiness,

It seemed I let my own smile fade.

I save anyone, but who saves me?

No one saves me.

I am a sinner.

I am a demon.

I am a devil.

I’m a dying saint.

Whatever you call me,

It all means the same.

I used to be Free!

I used to fly!

No one made me this way...

Was it that I was too nice???

I cared for everyone!

I held their hand!

I walked through fire,

From my own commands!

I saved others,

Who couldn’t save themselves,

So why did I break??

I guess I was overwhelmed???

Does this make me the bad guy?

The reason I am broken???

Was My kindness my weakness...

Was It all so unspoken???

I don’t understand.

If I was so kind,

Why was my happiness,

The one thing I couldn’t find.

Maybe It is my fault,

Not all people clearly see.

But If I cared so much for everyone...

Why’d no one save me?

If only your life was free of pain

If only you could do it all over again

If only people treated you better

If only your youth was full of laughter

If only you could have fulfilled your dreams

If only they hadn't destroyed your esteem

They say life is tough

that it's make or break

but what if it just breaks you?

what then?....

I have a photo of you aged five. You are seated, hands folded, a failed attempt at a smile on your lips, your eyes full of fear. And tears. Next to you, your three-year-old sister’s face is alight with a beautiful smile for the camera. The photo, almost a centerpiece on my dresser, is an 8x10 black and white; it is surrounded by joy-filled pictures of my son and husband. The contrast is stark.

I found your photo in the attic not so long ago, in a box full of old albums I inherited from your great-aunt Deenie – my favorite of all the old ladies that peopled my childhood and young adulthood. I long suspected she was the only one that ever treated you with kindness. But, unfortunate for you, she was far away in Chicago; before you came along she had already become an infrequent visitor, having escaped from the tentacles of meanness and despair that choked the hope and joie de vivre from your little soul before this picture was taken.

I have your eyes.

Every time I gaze upon your five-year old face, my heart squeezes. So young and already you wore a look that said, I want to please you, what am I doing wrong? Why do you hate me so? Love me. Please.

I love you.

Your sister, whose mind was never whole when I knew her, looks so happy – the unfettered joy of childhood. The contrast is extreme. I wonder when you lost yours; if, indeed, you’d ever had it. Was your mother’s hatred, disappointment, anger inflicted upon you from the moment she knew you were inside her?

Or did it grow with her belly and only show itself when you burst crying into this world?

Or was it a slow and steady descent? Did it take her by surprise that she had no love for this child of her womb? Had drink already fogged her brain, distorting reality so that somehow you were the cause of all her travails? As if you had asked to be born.

You never asked to be born, indeed, you spent all the time I knew you, ready for death, open-armed. You did the best you could.

Even as an adult, you still sought to please your mother; to feel her love. Months before your death, she was still sneeringly narcissistic, compelling you to apologize to me, your pregnant daughter, for her malevolence.

You died six years younger than I am now, still feeling unloved, despite the world of love that surrounded you.

Twenty years later, she died alone.

I’m floating on a blue green ocean

Of tears,

I'm broken in the vast expance

I'm overcome by the salty tears

The moan of my heart

Water like a Rembrandt

The oil of my soul

I've awoken to the sunrise

Totally broken

Always breaking

I'm soaking...

Washed up in a moment

I totally don't cope man!

I lost all hope in the plan...

It's rare for me to be sober

I'm so over him in the mirror!

His red rose eyes

All his masks,

All his disguise,

Hiding from his own suicide.

the vase fell, i remember. life could be divided sharply with before and after periods.

how come vases are made intentionally to be so shattery.

shattery. in my dispair i invented an adjective, just for vases,

“oh boy, this one has beautiful blue and black artwork. and its shattery! i will buy that this intant!”

shattery vases.

shattery ming dynasty reproduction vases.

shattery ming dynasty reproduction vases that i will get in trouble over..

what will be the punishment?

vivisection?

flaying of the scrotum?

being instantly frozen in frozen nitrogen, then tested if i am shattery like a ming vase reproduction?

i close my eye and imagine the vase. it fell. fell down. fell further. now!

freeze this image!

the vase is just touching the hardwood.

it has not shattered. it is just resting upon it. well, the neck isn’t touching even. not yet.

now , let’s examine the wonder that is a shattery vase.

why not, life is going to drastically change in less than a second from this point.

so Mr. Ming. He’s now touching the ground. a milisecond later, the area that is touching, is now a broken mess. it looks almost liquid. the full force of the crash occurs here. and so it is the most shattered. the round edges seem to sink into the floor, as they curve upward , the vase sinks into the flooring. but now, as some of the force is absorbed, and the angle of impact is more perpendicular, the porcelain takes on the more solid flaky quality. shards form and climb higher, growing in size towards the opposite apex. finally, the last vestigrs of the vase as it was, as well as my life as it was, are no longer recognizable. history is made. the sack of rome, the black death, the 2016 election, the vase.

history is broken vases. rarirty of fragments. chrystal and porcalain, now just sharp reminders of what was, never to be again. because of the stupidity and carelesness of man and the shattery nature of reality.

i will now be left with the shards.

i will not pick up the pieces.

i will drive my face through them, or eat them. let the shareds cut me in the pattern that they now form.

i deserve it.

deserving, is what shattery people feel.

They be loving someone and im another story

tried to clear my head, make my mind like Dory

the person i became met the person i was molding

head lifted high but my knees kept on folding

tumbled to the ground, rock bottom became solid

scrutinizing eyes marked my soul squalid

burned all my mask so i can see purely

far gone ego, untroubled prematurely

God saw what he created and trembled in sorrow

said that he would fix it but left it for tomorrow

(to be continued...)

watch her spiral,

watch the glow of her eyes be replaced with tears,

watch her hopes and aspirations go right out the window,

watch her mind grow weak,

watch her school assignments pile up,

watch her take it out on herself,

struggling to understand that this isn't her,

watch her replace aspects of life with sleep,

succumbing to the rapid thoughts pacing and racing inside her head,

watch her live on,

dead inside