Dear Shape Shifter 

Your skin slides like silk, spills sweet like wine

Sheets of gold, folded

Your stretch marks merely shadows

Indicating what once was solid

And though you frown at your reflection

Reality knows the truth

That you are only gazing down

At a mirror that kneels before you

So shift your perception

Reclaim your rightful throne

Lift the weeping child from your seat

Begin to feel at home

This body cannot breathe

Unless you reap the tears you’ve sown

Only you have watered this garden

Only you have seen it grow

 

Flashbacks

You got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy issues you got daddy iss-

The door slammed shut. Or did it gracefully close? Did he close it? Did he slam it? I don’t recall memories and words as well as I do emotions. The past will always exist to me in blurs but I have learned that my emotions are crystal clear and crisp as day. I am an empath, a feeler, a ponderer, an action without words type of girl. So when I say he slammed my great-grandmother’s front door shut as I silently stood at the top of those steps, he may not have actually slammed it. But it felt like he did.

My father is a shadow figure in all of my memories. I don’t recall his face, his voice, or his touch. I don’t recall thinking about him that much. My father was a shadow, even when he was present in my life. It was easy to ignore him, to forget him, but I was quickly reminded of him every time I looked at my reflection. A fusion of two, a collision of pasts, a merging of lives so different they couldn’t last. Was I a product of love or lust? Am I a carefully forged mistake? Or am I merely a reminder of my mother’s fate? I am her mistake, her destiny.

After that door slammed shut, nothing changed. My father remained a shadow and out of herself, my mother created a false oasis for us to reside in…until she found God.

What Keeps Me Alive At 2am 

Her poetry resides in her pain

And what a dangerous place that is to live 

She can only make sense of everything 

When she’s aching from within

Joy brings writers-block

But when she cries, prose flows like tears from her pen

And those wounding words that haunt her mind 

Have now become her very best friends

 
Bitter kisses transform into songs that ascend from the tip of her trembling tongue 

Brutal thoughts leave bruises on her intellect and loneliness leaves scars on her lungs 

Her poetry resides in her pain 

And sadness invites a comforting calm 

Enthralled by her light, a short lived haiku 

No one notices when she’s gone