Edges

Edges

It is not a shiny thing, a room full of coffee cups and the shakes and the voices of people telling all the same story just wrapped up a little different. it isn’t easy. they come in and out and you pray to the higher power you created or discovered or whatever to please, please don’t let that be you just for one more day. just today. you white-knuckle that shit at first, though. you’re the one in and out, the one who makes the people with more than a few days remember. really remember how it felt to not know how to feel. and the ones with the time, they thank god it’s not them, and they do what they can, and they hope that you get it before you die. these people, these people with time [that you think must be lying, cause who can go years...

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Six

Six

It makes it impossible to forget- That one day You have to address it. There is no positive spin. It’s making an effort- Wearing her dress And her emeralds And washing your hair In the middle of the week [Although you never do that.] It’s people who know Saying they’re thinking of you And facebook posts And memories And old photographs And maybe tiramisu. And probably tears. It’s the day The world ended But also Kept turning, Which is still baffling. The sun stayed put And the earth kept spinning But you can remember The day it stood still. But also it’s every day. It’s every day I see her picture, Wear her ring- Especially the days I never say her name. Melissa Is her name. Mommah. I miss you. It’s been six...

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Twenty Five

Twenty Five

A year ago today, I published a poem along with text messages from my father, outing him as an abuser and an alcoholic who refuses to take responsibility for his actions. I was always there for him and remain unappreciated. I have forgiven him for what he has done to me. What I cannot forgive is what he said about my mother. And I learned from him, and took a step forward, and haven’t spoken to him since. Read “Father Dearest” here. I’ve spent a lot of time in the rooms of AA. Try as I might I couldn’t get my head around a higher power, and around having to give up drinking for the rest of my life at the age of twenty-three. I viewed it as an ending and as a compromise of my ideals. I first entered AA in January of 2014. I went to meetings, went to...

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Mister Nice Guy

Mister Nice Guy

I shouldn’t be scared. It’s the middle of the day; I’m surrounded by people. But there’s two men On this train That make my hair stand on end And the thing is, You just can’t really trust people. You just never know. Man number one Is stood to my left on the platform, As I absentmindedly sway To Frank Sinatra’s voice In my headphones. I keep catching his gaze Out of the corner of my eye. My peripheral vision is 20/20. He’s close enough That I can smell him- Stale cologne and booze And fear. No wait, That last one is me. I look straight ahead Because this is the type of man I am used to. This stranger With his extra-large eyes And overstated sneer, His nearly imperceptible nod Is familiar to me. I know him; I’ve met dozens of his comrades. But now there’s another....

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The Price of Objectification

The Price of Objectification

I am what you see. Just looking for attention With my painted face And single dimension. Obviously Trying too hard To be artsy. I am what you see. Once a man told me I had dick sucking lips. My then-boyfriend laughed At his hilarious quip And I felt my identity Fall away from me, I lacked the audacity To even plea For a longer look, A second chance. I am what you see. I wear a skirt Because I want you to stare And I shave my legs So I’m not embarrassed By the looks I’ve come to expect. Smiling makes me a flirt Although it’s only politeness I try to assert How could I be an introvert? I am what you see. I can’t fool you In my t-shirt, Sweatshirt, I’m only good for one thing: My sexuality, Both prized and shamed, Is what you seek. Use me up And throw me away Shout...

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