No More

What will it take?
How many more?
I ask you, I beg you, beseech and implore,
We must change.
What are you waiting for?
For it to happen to you?
To see blood on the floor?
It is time, long past time,
That we settle the score.
I can hear them,
Feel them…they knock at our door.
The unavenged dead.
Crying out as before
Their lives were ended,
And we did nothing.
No more.


It’s 2:33 a.m. I turned 26 yesterday.

Now I’m rocking back and forth in my bed trying to drown out the sounds of my mother’s emotional breakdown.

How dare she have children when she is still a child herself in her 60s?

Between her and my meth addict father, if I didn’t have my brother I would have lost my mind. I might’ve fucking killed myself by now.

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I am a piece of shit. I should stop trying to pretend I’m not.

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Am I just feeling sorry for myself? I really am broken, but should I be trying harder?

I’m learning that even those I’m close to can only care up to a point. They just don’t get it, and that’s the problem.

I need understanding, that’s it. I don’t need pity and I don’t need to be handled with kid gloves.

Just try to understand. Please.

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Keeping vigil over a dying man of 95.
Regretting the stories I never heard and marvelling at the years he’s been alive.
Eyes half open but we don’t know what he sees.
His labored breaths quiet as the medicine kicks in and I’m relieved.
I’ve never been here before and I don’t want to be.
I keep thinking about me and the future and if my life will be half as long or half as full and it scares me.
But this isn’t about me, it’s about him.
He’s so worn and thin.
And I never asked him questions I knew would hurt and now I’ve lost my chance to ever know.
But if I had the chance to, I doubt I would; now as I watch him go,
I can imagine the sad look on his face and I couldn’t put it there.
Even if all I know is her laugh and their daughter’s red hair.
Some memories don’t need to be shared.
I guess all that matters now is he knew I cared.

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NaPoWriMo, Day 4: A Poem About Love

I don’t know it like I want to.
I don’t know wordless glances filled with meaning
Or lips meeting in perfect trust.
I know what I wish I had.
I just don’t know how to get there.

NaPoWriMo, Day 3: A Poem of Fourteen

I’d like to think I’m interesting and reliable.
Mostly I am just reliably uninteresting.