I hold these superstitions dear to me
knowing they're nonsense and choosing to ignore that reality
I step cautiously over the cracks in the sidewalk on good days
and on bad ones I stomp on every one hoping you feel the pain that I do
I know you don't deserve it mother, but my feet land on them still
I still throw spilled salt over my shoulder
hoping that maybe this time some luck will come of it
and I avoid walking under ladders if not for safety's reason than for those years of bad luck
Believe me when I say that I know these petty rituals won't affect an invisible force like luck
But I wear my night shirt inside out and backwards thinking that somehow it will cause snow to appear
These superstitions of mine may be childish
It may be downright insane for any sensible young woman to believe in such a thing
But I hold onto this childish hope that maybe
just maybe
If I do enough of these superstitious acts
that my life will finally turn around
and for once I will be lucky....

I don't think I can have children
I've always thought that I was infertile
It never really bothered me
I never wanted to go through that pain, those long nine months of probably bed-rest if my family's history of pregnancy is anything to go by--
My mother wasn't supposed to be able to have children
My sister is infertile
The girls in my family don't typically do well with pregnancy
So I was never phased by the idea that I wouldn't have my own flesh and blood running around
I'd have much rather adopted or fostered children who need homes and love
But when you
after years saying you didn't want your own kids
admit to me that you want your own flesh and blood children
It crushed me
I don't think I can have kids
Never really wanted them before
But I would do anything to give you that wish

A suburb of hell I live in
Across the road from the picture perfect family
Small, yappy little dog who is walked every morning and night by loving husband and father of three
Next door the father who left his family to live with his gay lover downtown
Three young boys and a wife who will never understand
Behind every door is a secret
The Wilsons live a sheltered and abusive life
The man of the family is powerful
The cunninghams across from them are timid and smile to hide the bruises on their arms
Father knows best after all
My door hides the racist, the Republican, the conservative, the homophobic
My door hides the yelling of a bipolar mother off medication
The alcoholism of a child too young to drink
And the silent watch of a father trapped in a loveless marriage
Every house in this suburb of hell tells a story
None of which are happy
Yet you see my neighborhood and call me privilaged
If only you knew.

And if I come back as a ghost
I will haunt you every day like you haunt my memories

My hands are a mockery of what they create
Slit cuticles and short bitten nails
Somehow they still create beauty in ink
Maybe they can because they wish themselves beautiful
I try to treasure my hands
To treat them to sophistication as they deserve
But my job
My work
My habits
They prevent my hands from being anything more than peasant rough calloused
But I have learned those with hands like mine haven talents
Gifts they can give to the world
And so I have learned to love them instead of apologizing for them

I asked and you answered
One thing on your bucket list
An act I have since put on mine
Go to a castle
And sit on the throne

I was three years old standing barefoot on the screened in porch in the summer heat
you had a beer in your hand with condensation wetting your skin
I asked and you answered
My first sip of alcohol fascinated my three year old self
Bubbles

I was six and wearing a white dress walking next to a boy in a suit down a church aisle
Eyes fixated on the moment I would grow in my faith
First communion came with excitement to me
I tasted church wine for the first time
Genisis

I was twelve and at Christmas dinner with extended family
table set makeshift bar locked eyes with mine
You poured me a glass of red
a special occasion you said
Acceptance

I was fourteen then fifteen then sixteen
Every week a glass of wine with dinner
A beer in the summer
it complemented the steak
You taught me to drink at home to know my limits
To protect me from going crazy when I left home
Normality

I was eighteen and a two-time college dropout
The wine on the counter and a constant supply of liquor comforting
A stressful day ended with a numbing to my feelings
A glass away from silence in my head
and an easy night of sleep from being mixed with my medications
Routine

I was twenty when I realized a drink would turn into a few
and a few would turn into asleep on the floor
or vomiting and sitting in the shower for hours
I was twenty when I realized it took more to get me tipsy than it used to
that I needed to drink and when I did I wouldn't stop
because what was the point unless you were drunk
I was twenty when I started to jokingly call myself an alcholic
I was twenty when my friends dropped the joking part
I was twenty and tipsy and unable to legally drink and I had already become what everyone else in my family denied being

I blame you
the three year old with a fascination of forbidden things
the six year old who had an intrigue in the taste of communion wine
the twelve year old who accepted the drink from her grandfather's ***** breath every holiday dinner
the teenager who let herself drink at home in the presence of her parents who thought it would help prevent the inevitable
the eighteen year old who learned the hard way life was a much crueler teacher than school and accepted the easy access to numbness
I blame you for the twenty year old I have become