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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You’re Not Decent [Eve]

You’re Not Decent [Eve]

What if you woke up one day with no knowledge of who you were? This original short story explores how we would feel about our bodies without societal pressure- if we didn’t know our ‘flaws’ were flaws.     I’m not exactly sure where I am. There’s a draft coming in from the open window, the sun is shining. I see dust particles shimmer through the air as I throw back the covers. I think I should be afraid, but what I feel is more wonder than terror. I jump back in surprise when I pass a window. But it’s not a window, it’s a mirror. I don’t recognize me. Who am I? My hair is disheveled, messy ringlets fall out of what’s left of a ponytail. My body feels cushiony and soft and warm. I am pleasantly fuzzy- the sun shines across my hairy...

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Trustworthy

Trustworthy

Maybe it’s an age thing Or a woman thing Or an addict thing But it’s a ludicrous thing To not know Your own mind Or to lack confidence In your opinions. I’m always Looking over my shoulder. Always asking What someone else wants, Or feels, or needs, Or double checking That I’m not bothering them To the point that I’m sure I am. I’m conscious of The way I eat: How and what and when. I worry about taking up space- How close my chair is to the table, I cross my legs on the metro, I avoid an occupied kitchen, Offer to sit in the back of the car, Even curl into a ball in my own bed. Where do I want to go? Anywhere is fine. Am I hungry? I don’t know- are you? I want to contribute without pressure, I want to help without demand. I concern myself with the needs of others,...

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Ink

Ink

Friendship, It says. It means more to me Than that. As the needle Tore through my skin I was reminded Of how far removed I am From the razor blades That once did the same. My body is the map of my life. The scars are a part of me, An outward symbol Of an inner pain. The stretch marks Are the proof Of my healing, My bodily acceptance, The embrace Of womanly curves Over wantonness And starvation. The stains On my fingers Are from my mind- My words leaving marks On the page And my hands. My hair Is an ode to my mother, The long waves Reminiscent of hers. The ink in my skin Is a badge Of a new phase And an old love. And my body Is my art, And my canvas, And my brush. [the arrows are the Native American symbol for friendship, a tribute to our Cherokee...

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Twenty Four

Twenty Four

It’s been a hell of a ride. 24 years have brought me Hardships and beauty And a new perspective. I honestly wouldn’t change a single thing. If anything in my life had been different I wouldn’t be who I am. And I have to say I love myself. I love that I can grow And learn something new about myself Or about the world Every single day. I love that I can empathize With so many different people With so many different experiences. I love that with this fresh perspective I’ve become less judgmental And more genuinely accepting. To me, Challenges are just that. I know absolutely That there is nothing I can’t overcome. Nothing will ever break me. My hardships Are accomplishments. I’ve survived sexual, physical, mental, emotional, verbal, and financial abuse At the hands...

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