The Suburbs Pt.1

I live in the suburbs and all of the houses look exactly the same, except for mine.  My home was the first one built in this complex.  It’s not as modern.  It’s pretty old and a bit…abandoned-looking.  When we first moved in, the outside was painted a sky blue but now it exhibits a depressed grayish hue as it squats on the overgrown forest that was once our lawn.  It really sucks, walking from the driveway to the front door.  You can’t even see the concrete anymore, the grass and weeds have sprouted to knee-length.  By the time I get to my door I’m frantically scratching at my legs which have been devoured by mosquitoes and violated by roaming crickets.  Sometimes the gutter gets unhinged from the roof when it storms, and I swear all you can hear at night is the cheap plastic clawing against the window.  God it’s so annoying.  I never get any sleep.  She sleeps just fine with it though.

I get used to seeing the gutter just hanging there now. So used to it in fact, that I don’t even try to fix it anymore.  I just let it sort of…hang there and drip dirty rain water.  When I come home from work, that’s the first thing I see.  The fucking gutter.  Again.  Why should I fix it if it just keeps falling off every time it rains?  Plus, it’s old and I’m moving out of here again…very soon.  I couldn’t care less.

She gets mad at me a lot when I leave.  I hate to see her so upset but I just can’t stand living in that damn house.  Living with her.  The paint is chipping off of the walls, the ceiling leaks salt water, the wooden floors are almost unrecognizable because of termites, and there are so many pests!  Rats, mice, roaches, water beetles, bedbugs.  The bedbugs are the worst.  They keep me awake at night, biting at the flesh on my ankles.  Every morning we wake up with fresh blood stains on our sheets.  She doesn’t wash them.  Trust me, I have tried washing them myself before but she screamed at me and had a bad nervous breakdown.  It was scary.  She was throwing shit around and smashing plates…she even pulled a razor blade out on me.  All of the neighbors came knocking to see if we were okay and they almost called the police, but I begged them to just give us some space. I didn’t want to go through that again.  So I just leave the sheets alone now.

She tells me that whenever I leave, the sheets still smell like me and that’s why she won’t wash them.  She says, I’m the only one who helps her to dream at night.  So the scent is just a temporary replacement while I’m gone.  She tells me she likes to wrap herself up in them, blood stains and all, and inhale me until she’s fast asleep.  Then she cries and, by habit, I gently kiss away her tears.  They taste bitter.

I find it funny.  How poetic she can make her paranoia sound.  She speaks in sonnets whenever I’m around and scribbles in her journal all damn day.  She sends me text messages in haiku’s and always writes some stupid inspirational quote on the bathroom mirror every morning.  I adored it at first, because I thought she was really changing.  But now I know it’s just a facade, and she just loves giving advice she’ll never take.

It’s annoying.  Because I know she writes about me and she thinks her poems will make me stay.

She thinks this is temporary.  But I’m not coming back this time.

I don’t feel guilty anymore when she cries about how much she’s attached to me.  She’s just manipulating me again, making me think she’ll finally let me fix up the house when we both know damn well it’s gonna stay in the same condition I left it in.  Plus, seeing blood on the sheets every morning makes me gag.  I will never understand why she tries so desperately to normalize this insane way of living.

Fuck this place, fuck her, I’m leaving.





puddles of pity

I have had enough of drowning in this puddle of self-pity!

The illusion of an ocean of salty tears seeping into my lungs has made me unaware of my reality.

I am choking on my own lies and manipulative tendencies, but somehow placing the blame on this imaginary puddle surrounding me.  Blaming my friends, my family, the boy who didn’t text me back, the girl who called me fat, the federal loans, my bad knees, my flat feet, the weed, my father who walked away from me, God.

My reality: is that this puddle of pity is a figment of my imagination and all I really need to do is lift my fucking face up to heaven and

breathe.  breathe.  and breathe.

The anxiety will persist…yet I will continue to exist.

My mind has twisted the word therapist into such a mangled mass that I repulse at the mention of it.  Therapy wasn’t going to solve my problems.  Therapy wasn’t going to stop this spell of self loathing.  Therapy wasn’t going to and never will fix me.

Why?  Because I’m the one who broke me.  Nobody else.  Nothing else.  Me.

See.  I went in thinking that another human being or a prescription was going to be my panacea.  Just like I thought that falling in love and throwing myself at the first person who says I’m pretty would somehow cure me.

How can someone else heal me if I can’t even deal with me?  If I can’t even be real with me?  If I can’t even think because I’ve made this decision to voluntarily sink into these invisible






There will be days when you look into the mirror

and hate your reflection so much, so violently

that the glass breaks.

It is your choice, whether to clean up the shattered pieces with your bare hands

vigilantly, and gently with care


so not to hurt yourself.

Or to close your eyes, in fear of that reflection

attempting to quickly grab the shards of what you cannot see,

so you can hurry and throw them away.

You carelessly slice open your skin in the process,

not even noticing the pain until you begin


and bleeding



until your body is as empty as the void in your mind.

At least then, you would feel a bit lighter.



To all my girls who give too much and receive too little

Do not feel guilty.

Do not be too hard on yourself for giving pieces of you to those who did not deserve it.

You willingly gave them a privilege they could not otherwise afford.

You bestowed upon them a blessing that they should not have received, no matter how many times they confessed their sins to the Lord.

But because of your grace, they now have your image resting behind their face.

And because of the rawness of your soul, they will reap what you sowed within them.  You’ve made them whole.

Your words are engraved somewhere in the cloudy abyss of their memories.

And one day your voice will emerge from the dust, harmonizing with the voices of those they have broken, reminding them of what they live for.

Do not feel guilty.


Later you will discover that because of your vulnerability, your legacy lives.

And because of you, they now live too.