unidentified funeral.

There has been a death in the family-

But no services are to be held.

Mom and dad don’t know how to address the elephant in the room.

They stare out into the depths of despair for hours on end;

Trying to pinpoint what went wrong; when things took a turn.

Why didn’t we do anything?

Why didn’t we know?

The daily newspaper will leave an obligatory blank space where an obituary would have been.

Evidently, no words can give their condolences to the elephant.

Remarkably, dad can make eye contact again.

Mom continues to make light of the situation- but she wears black.

Perhaps that smile is her struggling guise.

A concealer for regrets and denial.

Pictures of Innocence taken down out of devastation.

That little girl that once was, is no longer.

There is an air of uncertainty lurking in the crevices,

Numbing pain while the R word awaits trial for its sins.

Walking on eggshells in the meantime.

Waiting on justice.

 

rape wore me.

My closet is filled with non-brand name clothing.

While all the other girls wore Gucci,

I wore Rape.

Rape was never in my repertoire of labels to wear until

he gave it to me for our one-month anniversary.

To be fair, I never really accepted the gift, but he insisted.

No-he demanded.

I recall returning his gift every time it ended up at my feet.

But that was never a deterrent for him.

In hindsight, I did not wear rape. No.

Rape wore me.

Rape wore me to parties,

Rape wore me to family affairs.

Rape wore me to bed every night-

Rape wore me until it frayed.

Even though Rape was placed in my closet some time ago,

I scurried it to the very back hoping never to discover it again.

You can say my mind was a dormant volcano for the last two and a half years and

Until now, I never put my name in the same context with the R word.

How could I when the trend was never a trend?

In stores, no one looks for Rape; it isn’t the brand everyone raves about on the Red Carpet.

I mean, it couldn’t have been that bad, right?

Rape on others looks so much worse- so much better?

Who wore it better?

to be continued.

dad: a conversation.

Dad, depression is not your fault.

It is a chemical imbalance destined to happen.

It is not your fault that there is a lineage of faulty designs passed down before you.

You always tell me I don’t understand how it feels to be a parent,

And you’re right.

But the nights consumed by the demons are hard to cope with.

The bottle chose grandpa, anorexia chose me.

You will always see me as your little girl;

Because of this, I refuse to tell you why I had to grow up so fast.

I suppose denial is bliss.

If innocence is a virtue, where does that leave me?

When you attempt to make logic out of illogical situations,

I attempt to make my plea, but found guilty by reason of insanity.

Dad, depression is not your fault.

It’s that one monster we never found under the bed until now.

contagion.

Little did I know I was catching the contagious disease.

Feelings, as it were, are not an easy thing to come by and yet

It was easier this time around.

Unimaginable at best with a slight hint of hope.

As for the symptoms, they continue to intensify by the week.

What made me susceptible to such an ailment? Inheritance? Misfortune?

Underlying doubt awaits me in the midst of twilight before deep eagerness of dawn.

Reasons to rid myself of this infection persist; ineffective.

Its irremediable condition lay heavy on my mind,

Knowing the only antidote is acceptance of desires.

Sentenced to death by a triad of lethal injections-

Numbed with Personality;

Shocked with Touch;

Tortured with Anticipation.

Overcoming each dose only to endure the real test-

Uncaging butterflies.

 

 

 

writer block’s cousin.

Depression is Writer Block’s cousin that came for a visit and overstayed its welcome.
Frustrating at best with long periods of aggravation when nothing seems to go according to plan.
Where the pen is in hand but cannot write,
And my mind becomes a slave to the pile of crumpled up paper next to my bed.
Where my mind struggles to stay on one thought but fails to think all together.
The pen becomes the bane of my existence although I know the real problem lays far beyond the ink mark.
Where the words on the paper do not match my thoughts,
And the blood dripping off my legs do not align with my intentions.
When saying I want to get better just leads to another shot of reality and
Actually getting better has an expiration date nearing its deadline.
And yet, all I have to cure this raging epidemic is a faulty trial and error system that
Is persistently accompanied by a bevy of side effects ranging from minor headaches to death.
Writer’s Block is the cousin who does not know how to take a hint while
Exhausting all viable resources; freely making themselves at home.
And just like that, I am evicted.

mom: a conversation.

Mom, anorexia is not your fault.

Starving was not a scheme of being skinny-

But a way to feel worthy.

It is an outlet to feel empty and loved by anyone who risks it.

Nights consumed by insomnia and textbooks were not strives to get good grades,

But to keep the demons at bay.

You wished I would be more confident,

Little do you know I’ve found confidence in the blade, the purging, the emptiness.

Please know that when I beg you not to hug me, it is not out of hate, but out of shame,

That I could not be what you asked of me.

I know you hoped I’d be a nurse just like you,

But I’m still coming to terms with the blood soaked gauze pads in my garbage can.

I’m trying mom, I really am.

But it’s just so hard when all I have to look up to is a group of women on diets who are obsessed with looks.

When I am confronted with women who tell me to love myself but refuse to go to the bank without makeup.

Women who choose judgement as their drug and expect me to enable their addiction.

Mom.

Anorexia is not your fault-

It’s my drug.

my heart is not yours to take.

My heart is not yours to take, the glue is still drying.

Don’t you see?

This fragile little thing held struggling to stay in place with each inhale of desperation and exhale of undying hope.

My heart has been taken without permission-

stolen without consent.

Used recklessly only to be hung up to dry.

Violated at your leisure and my expense.

My heart is an endangered species on the verge of going extinct.

Where the price of recovery is unbearable.

My heart is a lost cause looking for purpose.

Wearing itself thin at any chance it gets in hopes of finding the buried treasure.

Finding the x in between each resuscitation only to lose sight of it in the midst of flat-lining.

My heart is not yours to take.

My heart is not yours.

My heart is not.

My heart is-

My heart.

cag(ed).

TW.

you speak in statements.

You speak in statements.

Irrefutable, egotistical yet utterly convincible statements.

The type of exclamations that not only etch your brand name onto my existence-

But pour salt and grind it into my flesh with each unleash of your whip.

Where the beginnings of your sentences cage me in,

And the ends shackle me down.

You speak in statements.

Unemotional, eerie and yet utterly sweet statements.

The type of proclamations that endow me an invitation to my own funeral.

And you- on that day of black dress and mourning, you continue to speak in statements.

Affirmative, repulsive, vague yet specific statements.

Those damned statements that unearthed a plot for my coffin containing the remanence

Of your accomplishments.

 

 

 

winter’s daughter.

I am Winter’s daughter.

On the exterior a peaceful, enigmatic and slightly intimidating display,

Far beyond the surface lay a dark, cold, eerie complex that never fails to expose itself around this time of year.

Cold to the touch is the soft skin coating my bones.

Bleak nights like the depths of my inevitable depression,

A limitless souvenir of former failures.

Whose presence creeps in the crevices of my mind, impatiently awaiting the merciless storm,

Leaving surrounding beings to fend for themselves;

A domestic war for survival-

A war on domestic terrorism.