i wonder if the attachment and obsession i had with the person
i dated for two years was because of the loneliness i felt being with my family.
if i felt full and secure with my mother would i have been with that person?

I eat from a white bowl.
I don’t know where the strawberries come from.

Sometimes Mom quietly cuts them for me
at three in the morning,
when she’s getting ready for work
and I’ve stayed up all night, never explaining why.

Sometimes I eat them with Dad
at a Denny’s near the highway,
after spending the day at a gun show.
They’re fresh, getting away from the smoke and noise.

Sometimes I imagine eating strawberries
with my guardian angel
at no set hour, in no particular place,
because I believe that heaven comes
from strawberries in a white bowl.

If you're late,
there's no hurry.

If you're not ready,
just take your time.

If you're holding on
to the tiniest hint of resentment,
I'll understand.

No matter what,
I'll meet you there.

Just promise me,
you'll give me a chance,
to call you mom and dad again.

Dear _,

I’m writing this more for myself — a bold attempt to  let go of things carried quietly for too long.

Life. It’s hard, harder still when I’m tired, or hurting myself. On these hard days, the feeling of alone superseded the need to show up. But for the pieces of family that still matter to me. — for those who try their best to show up, for the memory of people we miss… In a world made of struggles, I never dare to ask for perfection.

A humble, tearful cry. I don’t want to feel invisible. I selfishly ask for love that means something more than shared dinners once a week.

You let her send me away.
Packaged like a problem,
stamped and shipped to stone walls and strangers.
She smiled while sealing the box—
said I’d “thrive” there.

You nodded like a marionette.
String for a spine.
Silence for a mouth.

I was eleven.
She was already calling me a burden,
a shadow,
a stain on her perfect white tiles.
She called her children light.
She called me that girl
Like I was mould on the corners of your name.
You let her bleach the love out of you.
Now all you wear is her voice,
and it doesn’t fit right, Daddy.

You used to tuck me in with your rough hands,
tell me stories in a whisper only I could hear.
Now you only whisper to her,
when I walk in the room
And she slices me apart with those sugar-coated teeth.
She cuts me with compliments,
leaves me bleeding in apologies.
And still—
You nod.
You nod like a broken clock,
ticking to her every word.

Your house is full of sunshine now,
but it burns me.
Her kids gets smiles,
presents stacked like towers,
laughter as loud as fireworks.
I get a one-word text on my birthday.
Happy.

She breaks me, Daddy.
She breaks me with a voice that drips syrup
when she’s sweet to them
and acid when she speaks to me.
Her eyes scan me like a mess she forgot to clean.
And you—
You just stand there.
Are you made of wax now?

She hates me for breathing.
You hate me for reminding you I exist.
Boarding school is her win.
Her exile.

You said it was “for my future.”
But I know it’s because I didn’t fit her furniture.
Because I looked too much like your past.

And I swear—
Everytime I come home,
your love is like a museum exhibit.
Do not touch.
Do not ask.
Do not remember.
But I remember, Daddy.
I remember when I was the light in your eyes.
Before she turned them to mirrors.
That only reflects what she wants to see.

So go ahead.
Tuck her kids in.  
Call them angels.
Give her the keys to your spine.
Build your kingdom of pretty lies.
But know this—
One day, I’ll stop knocking.
I’ll stop writing.
I’ll become the ghost
You were too weak to hold on to.
And when I leave for good,
You won’t even notice the silence.

Daddy,
you let her **** me with words,
and you held the knife.

There are days
That are good.
The yelling
is minimal.
The food is eaten.
Arguments
are
but
a
spoonful
             and there is
                  very
                    little
                       crying.

Then there are
days like today.
When you
              yourself
                 don't feel too well.
                    the doctor gives two days
                      of sick leave.

At 4:30
My little autism
walks through
the door.
With smiles,
taking his clothes off
to jump in the pool.
            It only takes a second
            to change the
            whole atmosphere.
            The once smiles
            are now full of tears.
     and no matter what it is
I'm feeling that all gets bashed
against a wall.
Along with my
anxiety it's the splash back
        blue paint down the hall.
                         You see.
                          even as
                          an adult
                          I have
                          trouble.
                         Digesting
                         my own
                         emotions.
       He paces back and forth
       clenches his fingers.
        back
        and
        forth.
        Back
        and
        forth.
    How do I expect my young son
        with autism to tell
me what the root
issue of his tears stem from.
             I was ready to
smash my face
through bricks.
              The repetitive
              questioning,
              repetition of words
             can be a lot even
             for a nut such as myself.

But it's not about me
you,
or my fiance
hearing it all.
It's not even about the fly
crawling on my leg.
               It's about him
               everything has to be.
               Who else is going to
               turn the rain on
               at night for him to sleep?
               Who's going to rub
               his little back to soothe his
               blue nerves to be
               green again?
               And who will receive a
               freshly picked flower
               each afternoon?
                
                        Me.

He finally felt better
once he got the words
out of his belly.
Telling me what provoked
these extreme outbursts.
           I was so proud of him.
        
Now it's," look at that cute cloud."
"Hey, check out my shadow!"
a freshly
plucked
flower.
With autism,
a bipolar mommy
and the sun—

Getting ready
to
nap.

Here, men bore infants—  
Banners across the poles.  
A crown he deserves.
The lady must bow!

She works 9 to 5,  
As he stays at home.  
Nine months of scrutiny—  
Bless him! How did he hold?

Give him some space,  
Hold the king high!  
Oh, the cramps he must face—  
Could she ever now?

Give her a veil, for she must cover.  
Oh! He looks after the kids—  
God’s descendant! A throne we must give.

Let him cry, for he feels pain,  
But the lady must not.  
How thick her skull must be!

Give him some space,  
Let her take care of the kids.  
Sick he must be—  
Of all the chores he did!

Ahoy, Utopia!  
Roles reversed,  
Here everything would change—  
For nothing, or for the worse.

ten years,
too late.

ten years—

and there's
no debate:

i will do
everything

to not be

like you.

i'm no saint,

but i know
when enough
is enough

and to draw
a line,

before it's
too late.

people come
and people go;

and i've come
to terms with
forgiving

and letting
go.

but in the midst of
it all, i hope
to be better

than to
risk it all.

because impressions
are forever,

and

i've learned
to forgive you
and move past it

rather than fall.