Eileen

Eileen

An open letter to my husband’s mother, who was taken from us too soon. Eileen, You’ve never met me. My name is cici, And I’m marrying your son. I want to say thank you. You created My perfect person, My other half, My missing piece. It’s because of you That he exists And that he is the man I know and love. I see your kindness in him, Your gentleness, And giving nature. I picture you Only with the big smile I’ve seen in your photos. We are far away, But I feel close to you. I want you to know The reverence I feel For you and your family. I’ve never been so accepted And treated so wonderfully In all my life. Relationships are complicated But ours is quite simple, really. I am beyond grateful For your impact In all of our lives...

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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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Pictures

Pictures

The following is just a quick little poem dedicated to my partner, Si. I am reaping the benefits of his secret photography during our time apart.   He likes to take pictures. He has one of those Fancy cameras With the lenses You can take on and off. He takes pictures When people aren’t looking All people, Strangers and friends alike. Rarely, they catch him, And he looks away. I take pictures Of him taking pictures All of it, In secret. I show him later Or not at all, Keeping the memories for myself, Like the faces he makes When he thinks no one’s watching. He takes pictures Of me, sometimes, When I ask him to, Like when we travel. I used to hide from the lens But now I try to see myself Through his eyes. He makes albums Of his pictures, His people-watching...

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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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