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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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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